The Routledge International Handbook of Indigenous Resilience [1 ed.] 9780367499853, 9780367499723, 9781003048428

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
List of figures
List of maps
List of tables
List of contributors
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Part I From the past to the future
1 Ireland, first colony of the British Empire: a Celtic story of Indigenous resistance, resilience, and cultural renewal
2 Resistance, resilience, and social welfare: understanding the historical intersections of US federal Indian policies and the helping professions
3 Indigeneity and resilience in Afroindigenous communities in Colombia
4 The Eagle, the Condor, and who I am among all my relations
Part II Pillars of Indigeneity
5 Indigenous Māori notions of spirit and spirituality as enablers of resilience and flourishing in Aotearoa New Zealand
6 Ri qach’ab’äl ja ri ruk’ux ri qawinaq, chaqa’ ri qawinaq ja ri ruk’ux ri qach’ab’äl: Linguistic resilience in Guatemala
7 Exploring the role of sexuality and identity across the Pacific: navigating traditional and contemporary meanings and practices
8 Pashtun community Indigenous resilience to changing socio-cultural and political challenges
9 Moko Kauae: a symbol of Indigenous resistance and resilience
10 Reclaiming our voices: the power of storytelling in healing trauma
Part III The power in Indigenous identities
11 Family connectedness: an intricate web of support and aspect of Indigenous family resilience
12 Community and family support enhancing the resilience of US Indigenous women’s healthcare experiences: “they always took care of me”
13 Collective distress calls for collective wellbeing measures: the case of social support as a resilience‑enabling Afrocentric Indigenous pathway
14 The role of laughter in the resilience and wellbeing of Alaska Native elders
15 “In the telling and in the listening, humanity meets”: youth testimonials of resilience from yesterday and today
16 The time before us: land, matriarchy, and leadership in the face of change
Part IV The natural world
17 Sámi reindeer herding as resilient way of life
18 Reconnecting with the farmland: exploring Indigenous resilience of Atayal people in Taiwan
19 Earthquakes of Nepal: making the case for Indigenous resilience
20 Kū Kia‘i Aloha: how Maunakea and the battle to protect her birthed a decolonial pilina in an emerging generation of aloha ‘āina
21 Leading through collective resilience: creating an Indigenous mental health response to climate change
Part V Reframing the narrative: from problem to opportunity
22 Reframing disabilities: Indigenous learners in Canadian educational systems
23 Igniting the Warrior Spirit to address historical trauma among Indigenous people
24 The resiliency of Indigenous entrepreneurial settings in the South Pacific: notions of solesolevaki and wanbel in the case of Fiji and Papua New Guinea
25 Indy and the Monster: a story of Indigenous resilience during a global pandemic
Conclusion
Index

Citation preview

THE ROUTLEDGE INTERNATIONAL HANDBOOK OF INDIGENOUS RESILIENCE

This handbook provides a comprehensive and cutting-edge strengths-based resource on the subject of Indigenous resilience. Indigenous Peoples demonstrate considerable resilience despite the social, health, economic, and political disparities they experience within surrounding settler societies. This book considers Indigenous resilience in many forms: cultural, spiritual, and governance traditions remain in some communities and are being revitalized in others to reclaim aspects of their cultures that have been outlawed, suppressed, or undermined. It explores how Indigenous people advocate for social justice and work to shape settler societies in ways that create a more just, fair, and equitable world for all human and non-human beings. This book is divided into five sections: • • • • •

From the past to the future Pillars of Indigeneity The power in Indigenous identities The natural world Reframing the narrative: from problem to opportunity

Comprised of 25 newly commissioned chapters from Indigenous scholars, professionals, and community members from traditions around the world, this book will be a useful tool for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of manifestations of wellness and resilience. This handbook will be of particular interest to all scholars, students, and practitioners of social work, social care, and human services more broadly, as well as those working in sociology, development studies, and environmental sustainability. Hilary N. Weaver (Lakota) is a professor and associate dean for diversity, equity, and inclusion in the University at Buffalo School of Social Work, USA. She serves as president of the Indigenous and Tribal Social Work Educators’ Association, chair-elect of the Council on Social Work Education board of directors, and Global Indigenous Commissioner for the International Federation of Social Workers.

THE ROUTLEDGE INTERNATIONAL HANDBOOK OF INDIGENOUS RESILIENCE

Edited by Hilary N. Weaver

Cover image: © ‘The Native World’ by Robin Hill First published 2022 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 selection and editorial matter, Hilary N. Weaver; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Hilary N. Weaver to be identified as the author 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 A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-49985-3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-49972-3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-04842-8 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428 Typeset in Bembo by Apex CoVantage, LLC

This book is dedicated to All My Relations. I acknowledge the ancestors and all beings who came before. It is because of their resilience, perseverance, and foresight that Indigenous Peoples remain. I acknowledge all contemporary Indigenous Peoples, our allies, and the other beings in our shared world. It is because of their resilience and strength that Indigenous Peoples continue. I acknowledge the generations yet unborn who will inherit and continue in relationship with the natural world. It is because of them that resilience is crucial. Mitakuye Oyasin – All My Relations

CONTENTS

List of figures xi List of maps xii List of tables xiii List of contributors xiv Acknowledgmentsxx Introduction Hilary N. Weaver

1

PART I

From the past to the future

17

  1 Ireland, first colony of the British Empire: a Celtic story of Indigenous resistance, resilience, and cultural renewal Suzanne Jenkins

21

  2 Resistance, resilience, and social welfare: understanding the historical intersections of US federal Indian policies and the helping professions Heather R. Gough and Cutcha Risling Baldy

35

  3 Indigeneity and resilience in Afroindigenous communities in Colombia Stephen Nathan Haymes

50

  4 The Eagle, the Condor, and who I am among all my relations Angela R. Fernandez

65

vii

Contents PART II

Pillars of Indigeneity

77

  5 Indigenous Māori notions of spirit and spirituality as enablers of resilience and flourishing in Aotearoa New Zealand Natasha Tassell-Matamua, Nicole Lindsay, Te Rā Moriarty, and Deanna Haami   6 Ri qach’ab’äl ja ri ruk’ux ri qawinaq, chaqa’ ri qawinaq ja ri ruk’ux ri qach’ab’äl: Linguistic resilience in Guatemala Ingrid Sub Cuc

81

96

  7 Exploring the role of sexuality and identity across the Pacific: navigating traditional and contemporary meanings and practices Jioji Ravulo

108

  8 Pashtun community Indigenous resilience to changing socio-cultural and political challenges Zafar Khan and Zahid Ali Shah

121

  9 Moko Kauae: a symbol of Indigenous resistance and resilience Kelli Te Maihāroa

134

10 Reclaiming our voices: the power of storytelling in healing trauma Hilary N. Weaver

147

PART III

The power in Indigenous identities

161

11 Family connectedness: an intricate web of support and aspect of Indigenous family resilience Catherine E. McKinley and Jenn Lilly

165

12 Community and family support enhancing the resilience of US Indigenous women’s healthcare experiences: “they always took care of me” Jessica L. Liddell and Catherine E. McKinley 13 Collective distress calls for collective wellbeing measures: the case of social support as a resilience‑enabling Afrocentric Indigenous pathway Liesel Ebersöhn, Margaret Funke Omidire, and Motlalepule Ruth Mampane viii

180

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Contents

14 The role of laughter in the resilience and wellbeing of Alaska Native elders Jordan P. Lewis 15 “In the telling and in the listening, humanity meets”: youth testimonials of resilience from yesterday and today Kishan Lara-Cooper, Everett Colegrove III, Tescha Gensaw, Charlene Juan, and Gabel Ammon 16 The time before us: land, matriarchy, and leadership in the face of change Kapi’olani A. Laronal PART IV

208

222

238

The natural world

253

17 Sámi reindeer herding as resilient way of life Jan Erik Henriksen and Ida Hydle

257

18 Reconnecting with the farmland: exploring Indigenous resilience of Atayal people in Taiwan Chao-Kai Huang 19 Earthquakes of Nepal: making the case for Indigenous resilience Bala Raju Nikku, Bishwash Nepali, and Hemnath Khatiwada 20 Kū Kia‘i Aloha: how Maunakea and the battle to protect her birthed a decolonial pilina in an emerging generation of aloha ‘āina Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio 21 Leading through collective resilience: creating an Indigenous mental health response to climate change Kee J.E. Straits, Julii M. Green, Devon S. Isaacs, Melissa Tehee, and Margaret Smith PART V

271 285

300

314

Reframing the narrative: from problem to opportunity

331

22 Reframing disabilities: Indigenous learners in Canadian educational systems John Terry Ward

335

ix

Contents

23 Igniting the Warrior Spirit to address historical trauma among Indigenous people Tasha Seneca Keyes and Kenneth G. White Jr. 24 The resiliency of Indigenous entrepreneurial settings in the South Pacific: notions of solesolevaki and wanbel in the case of Fiji and Papua New Guinea Hennah Steven and Suliasi Vunibola

349

362

25 Indy and the Monster: a story of Indigenous resilience during a global pandemic379 Hilary N. Weaver Conclusion Hilary N. Weaver

393

Index397

x

FIGURES

5.1 Te Waioratanga project poster featuring kapa haka practitioner Aaron Hapuku with his daughter Kaahu 9.1 Photograph of Kelli Te Maihāroa, March 3, 2019 9.2 Photograph of Kelli Te Maihāroa with moko kauae, March 3, 2019 14.1 Photograph of Dr. Elizabeth Fleagle, Iñupiat, of Fairbanks, Alaska, USA 15.1 Diagram of resilience tools 21.1 Society of Indian Psychologists’ LINCC WEB Model to Elevate Resiliency 22.1 The 4Rs Framework

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89 143 144 209 235 327 343

MAPS

24.1 Map showing location of Fiji and Papua New Guinea in the South Pacific

xii

363

TABLES

13.1 Overview of the sample of participants 22.1 Canadian Indigenous population 23.1 Characteristics of Western Knowledge and Traditional Knowledge

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200 336 353

CONTRIBUTORS

Gabel Ammon (Tsnungwe/Hupa/Hopi) is from the village of Łe:lding. He attends Academy of the Redwoods in California and is an advocate for the revitalization of language and culture. Everett Colegrove III (Hupa/Yurok/Karuk) is from the village of Medildin. He attends Hoopa Valley High School in California and is actively involved in the culture and traditions of his people. Liesel Ebersöhn is a professor in educational psychology and director for the Centre for the Study of Resilience, University of Pretoria (South Africa) and Secretary General of the World Education Research Association. Through engagement in global education, poverty think tanks, panels, and boards, she is influential in Global South education development circles and actively supports education policy reform based on evidence of resilience-enabling transformation in Africa. https://orcid.org/0000-0002-2616-4973 Angela R. Fernandez (Menominee) is an assistant professor at the University of WisconsinMadison School of Nursing, USA. For the last two decades, she has worked with Indigenous, Latinx, and other diverse communities in social work and public health practice, research, and teaching within healthcare, education, and community-based organizations across national and international settings. https://orcid.org/0000-0001-9066-7367 Tescha Gensaw (Yurok/Tolowa/Hupa) is 12 years old and in the sixth grade in California. She is a wrestler, Yurok language student, and gatherer. Heather R. Gough is an assistant professor at Texas State University School of Social Work (USA). As an attorney and social worker, her work centers on decolonizing social welfare and legal systems. She is a Semitic woman, granddaughter, daughter, auntie, partner, and mother to two wonderful, vivacious children. Julii M. Green (African American and Eastern Band Cherokee) is an associate professor in the clinical psychology PsyD department at CSPP/Alliant International University in California,

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Contributors

USA. She also serves as the co-chair of the department’s diversity, equity, and inclusion committee. https://orcid.org/0000-0002-8400-8397 Deanna Haami (Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Te Arawa) is a Ph.D. (psychology) student at Massey University in Palmerston North, Aotearoa New Zealand. https:// orcid.org/0000-0002-5635-1681 Stephen Nathan Haymes is a Vincent de Paul Associate Professor of Educational Philosophy and Theory and Global South Studies in the College of Education and an affiliated faculty member in the Departments of International Studies and Peace, Justice and Conflict Studies at DePaul University, Illinois, USA. He is also a Distinguished Professor of the Universidades Territoriales de Paz and serves on the International Ethics Commission of the Colombian human rights non-governmental organization Comisión Intereclesial de Justicia y Paz. Jan Erik Henriksen (Sámi) is a professor in social work at UiT The Arctic University of Norway. He is the leader of Indigenous Voices, a research group at the UiT. Henriksen was academically responsible for the fourth International Indigenous Voices in Social Work conference (IIVISWC) in Alta in 2017, and he is member of IIVISWC international committee. Chao-Kai Huang (MSW) is a research assistant in the Department of Social Work at National Taiwan University. His research interests focus on the wellbeing of Indigenous people with an emphasis on resilience, health disparities, culturally appropriate care, and gender and sexuality. He will embark on a Ph.D. journey in the School of Social Work at Arizona State University (USA) in autumn 2021. https://orcid.org/0000-0002-9924-1589 Ida Hydle is adjunct professor at the Norwegian Arctic University, UiT. She has a Ph.D. in medicine and in social anthropology and is a member of the research group Indigenous Voices at UiT. Devon S. Isaacs is a member of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma and a Doctoral student at Utah State University, USA. She is a Ford Predoctoral Fellow and Association of American Colleges and Universities K. Patricia Cross awardee. https://orcid.org/ 000-0002-7766-488X Suzanne Jenkins works as a psychologist and social worker in private practice. She recently retired as a lecturing academic and researcher at the University of Notre Dame Australia. Charlene Juan (Hupa) attends Ferndale High School in Washington and is from Hoopa, California. She is a leader and organizer of healthy lifestyle and prevention activities for Indigenous youth. Tasha Seneca Keyes (Seneca) is an assistant professor at the University of Utah in the College of Social Work, USA. She engages in community-based research that supports communities to become trauma-informed, and she is a member of the Trauma-Informed Utah research committee. https://orcid.org/0000-0001-8921-2234 Zafar Khan is a faculty member in the Sociology Department, University of Peshawar, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan with expertise on Pashtun tribal culture, radicalization, and terrorism. He has conducted research on cultural distortions and their radicalizing effects, cultural violence in Pashtun society, and research under the thematic research grants of the Higher Education Commission of Pakistan. https://orcid.org/0000-0003-2494-4324

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Contributors

Hemnath Khatiwada is a journalist and the Chairperson of Human Rights and Community Development Resource Centre (HRCDRC), Rasuwa, Nepal. He has been involved in the land rights movements and disaster reconstruction in Nepal for the last two decades. Kishan Lara-Cooper (Yurok/Hupa/Karuk) is the co-editor of Ka’m-t’em: A Journey toward Healing and a distinguished professor and chair of the Child Development Department at Humboldt State University, California, USA, where she teaches courses in child development, language development, history, social and cultural considerations, and instructional practices in American Indian education. Kapi’olani A. Laronal (Haida, Tsimshian [Eagle Clan], Native Hawaiian, and Filipino) is the owner and founder of Indigenous Life Coach & Consultant, Co., USA. She is a diversity consultant and certified life coach. Kapi’olani specializes in leadership, performance, and wellness coaching for tribal organizations, businesses, and individuals. Jordan P. Lewis (Unangax/Aleut) is a professor in the University of Minnesota Medical School, Duluth campus and Associate Director of the Memory Keepers Medical Discovery Team, USA. https://orcid.org/0000-0001-8915-8004 Jessica L. Liddell is an assistant professor in the University of Montana School of Social Work in Missoula, Montana, USA. Her work focuses on pregnancy and childbirth, reproductive justice issues, community engagement, and making healthcare systems more equitable. Her current research explores the sexual and reproductive health experiences of Indigenous women. https://orcid.org/0000-0003-4114-3174 Jenn Lilly is an assistant professor at the Fordham University Graduate School of Social Service in New York, USA. 0000-0002-2485-943X Nicole Lindsay is a lecturer and research officer for the Centre for Indigenous Psychologies situated within the School of Psychology at Massey University, Aotearoa New Zealand. Her research interests include Indigenous psychologies, spirituality, near-death experiences and environmental psychology. https://orcid.org/0000-0003-1176-8448 Kelli Te Maihāroa (Waitaha, Ngāti Rārua Ātiawa) is a principal lecturer for Capable Māori, undergraduate tribal program and doctoral mentor at the Otago Polytechnic, Aotearoa New Zealand. Motlalepule Ruth Mampane is an associate professor and head of the department of Educational Psychology, University of Pretoria. In her role as a council member of WERA, she represents the interests of the Education Association of South Africa internationally. Through her responsibilities as Executive Council member of Umalusi, the national council of quality assurance in further education and training, she holds the portfolio of research chairperson represented by several universities in South Africa. ttps:// orcid.org/0000-0002-9853-2077 Catherine E. McKinley is an associate professor at the Tulane University School of Social Work in New Orleans, Louisiana, USA. She approaches work on resilience using the Indigenous-based Framework of Historical Oppression, Resilience, and Transcendence (FHORT), which identifies culturally relevant risk, promotive, and protective factors related to xvi

Contributors

wellness across community, family, and individual levels from a relational perspective. https:// orcid.org/0000-0002-1770-5088 Te Rā Moriarty (Ngāti Toa, Ngāti Koata, Ngāti Kahungunu, Rangitāne) is an assistant lecturer at Te Pūtahi a Toi  – School of Māori Knowledge at Massey University in Palmerston North, Aotearoa New Zealand. https://orcid.org/0000-0001-6488-7702 Bishwash Nepali is a sociologist, currently working as the Programme Coordinator of the Community Self Reliance Centre (CSRC) and also an honorary Treasurer of Human Rights and Community Development Resource Centre (HRCDRC), Rasuwa, Nepal. He has been involved in community development and land rights movements in Nepal for the last two decades. Bala Raju Nikku, Ph.D. is currently serving as associate professor of social work in the Faculty of Education and Social Work, Thompson Rivers University (TRU), Kamloops, British Columbia, Canada. He serves as the Co-chair of the Canada Asia Research Collective and a member of the Human Rights Committee of the TRU faculty association (TRUFA). In the past, he served on the executive boards of the International Association of Schools of Social Work (IASSW) and Asian and Pacific Association for Social Work Education (APASWE). https://orcid.org/0000-0003-0843-480X Margaret Funke Omidire is an associate professor in the department of educational psychology, University of Pretoria. She is Chair of the Ethics Committee, Faculty of Education, and incoming Chair, Education Association of South Africa. As editor of a multinational book on evidence-based strategies for teachers using multiple languages for learning, she champions knowledge generation honoring linguistic diversity. https:// orcid.org/0000-0002-5784-7734 Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio is a Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) wāhine artist/ activist/scholar born and raised in Pālolo Valley, O‘ahu. She  is an assistant professor of Indigenous and Native Hawaiian Politics at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. Her book Remembering our Intimacies: Mo‘olelo, Aloha ‘Āina, and Ea is forthcoming with University of Minnesota Press in Fall 2021. Jioji Ravulo is Professor and Chair of Social Work and Policy Studies in the Sydney School of Education and Social Work at The University of Sydney, Australia. His work strives to deconstruct and challenge dominant discourses to be meaningfully and sustainably inclusive of cultural diversity and its differences. https://orcid.org/0000-0001-5195-7513 Cutcha Risling Baldy (Hupa, Karuk, and Yurok, and enrolled in the Hoopa Valley Tribe) is an Associate Professor and Department Chair of Native American Studies at Humboldt State University in California, USA. She is the volunteer Executive Director of the Native Women’s Collective, a non-profit organization that supports the continued revitalization of Native American arts and culture. Zahid Ali Shah is an independent research scholar with an MA degree in Sociology with distinction, from the department of sociology, University of Peshawar and an MS  degree in Anthropology from Quaid-i-Azam University, Islamabad, Pakistan. He was a visiting lecturer in the department of sociology, Post-Graduate College Timergara Dir Lower, Khyber xvii

Contributors

Pakhtunkhwa Pakistan from September  2018 through April  2021. His research focuses on Pakhtun resistance, identity, colonial constructions and post-colonial representations. https:// orcid.org/0000-0001-5593-9662 Margaret Smith, Psy.D., is the Director of Training and Professor for The Chicago School of Professional Psychology at Xavier University of Louisiana, USA. She received her doctorate from The Chicago School of Professional Psychology in Chicago and completed a clinical internship at Loyola University in Chicago, Illinois, USA. Her research and professional interests include competency development, training, mentoring, Indigenous rights, and the impact of surveillance on social justice activists. 0https:// orcid.org/000-0002-2653-8525 Hennah Steven is a lecturer and head of the department for humanities in the School of Humanities, Education and Theology (SoHET) at the Pacific Adventist University, Papua New Guinea. She serves as chair of the department management committee and member of the SoHET management committee. https://orcid.org/0000-0001-6000-0115 Kee J.E. Straits (Quechua) is the CEO of TLC Transformations, LLC, an Indigenous-owned business that provides culturally centered consulting, evaluation, and research services to urban Native, tribal, and other underserved communities in New Mexico. She also serves as President of the Board of Directors for the Native Health Initiative, Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA. https://orcid.org/0000-0002-5936-8390 Ingrid Sub Cuc (Kaqchikel/Q’eqchi) is a Ph.D. student in the Department of Native American Studies at the University of California, Davis, USA. Her work, passion, and interest are at the intersection of Indigenous identity, health, and language. She is a public speaker, advocate, warrior, leader, academic and healer focusing on initiatives of community reconciliation and Indigenous rights. Natasha Tassell-Matamua (Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Makea kei Rarotonga) is an associate professor and Director of the Centre for Indigenous Psychologies, in the School of Psychology at Massey University, Aotearoa New Zealand. Her teaching and research are in Indigenous psychologies, with a focus on ecopsychology and spirituality. She is known for her research on near-death experiences. https://orcid.org/0000-0002-1644-3821 Melissa Tehee, J.D., Ph.D., (Cherokee  Nation citizen) is an associate professor at Utah State University, USA, in the Department of Psychology. She is director of the American Indian Support Project, purposed with training Native Psychologists. She also directs the Tohi lab, focused on the wellbeing of Indigenous peoples. https://orcid.org/0000-0002-7921-3281 Suliasi Vunibola is an Indigenous Fijian and a lecturer in human geography at the University of Canterbury, Christchurch, Aotearoa (New Zealand). John Terry Ward (Algonquin, Huron-Wendat, French-Canadian, and Métis) is a Ph.D. candidate in the Faculty of Education at the University of Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. He works in the Government of Canada as an Indigenous policy advisor and is co-developing a national strategy for Indigenous federal employees with disabilities. https:// orcid.org/0000-0002-3655-4377 xviii

Contributors

Kenneth G. White Jr. is a Diné (Navajo) from White Cone, Arizona, USA. He holds an MSW from Arizona State University. He has over 30 years of professional experience working with Indian tribes and urban Indian programs, and is the founder of the Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma. His primary interest is developing services and systems to address historical trauma from an Indigenous holistic healing perspective. https:// orcid. org/0000-0002-2577-6804

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge all those whose hard work, dedication, and patience made this book possible. Dr. Janine Hunt-Jackson, Megan Bailey, and Jaime Nixon served as peer reviewers and offered feedback and guidance to authors and to me during the editorial process. Dr. Christine Flynn Saulnier and Dr. Lacey M. Sloan offered guidance, editorial support, and continuous affirmation throughout all stages of the book project from conceptualization to actualization. Many people, as well as non-human beings, have informed how I think about things, ultimately shaping this book project. I am grateful for these shaping influences, both recognized and unrecognized. I offer particular thanks to my children Iris/Awenhiyoh and Wanblee/Hadwanoyendos. They are our next generation and the reason that Indigenous resilience remains crucial.

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INTRODUCTION Hilary N. Weaver

Indigenous Peoples continue today with distinct cultures and communities. This, despite predictions of our imminent demise that began in the early stages of contact with foreign explorers and settler societies. We remain despite concerted efforts at our eradication, both physically and culturally, perpetrated by many strong and prosperous nations. We are not relics, remnants, or historical artifacts. We are vibrant, contemporary Peoples, yet our stories and experiences are rarely portrayed in ways that highlight our resilience, our strengths, and the nuances of our experiences. Beliefs about Indigenous Peoples are shaped by who tells our stories and whether they are told at all. Public narratives are influenced by various factors, including who has access to information and communication opportunities such as publishing. Contemporary Indigenous people are often invisible in public narratives and our strengths remain unrecognized. The material in this book is offered to help rebalance and reclaim content on Indigenous Peoples; content that is often limited in terms of its presence, breadth, depth, and accurate contemporary portrayals of resilience. This book provides a range of content rarely found elsewhere. While some of the contributors regularly participate in academic and scholarly spaces, many others do not have previous experience sharing their voices in print or have not published their work in English. This book is an opportunity to bring these voices forward. It is an opportunity to share stories of beauty and strength that counterbalance the stereotypes, deficits, and omissions of Indigenous perspectives. I find myself in a position of great honor and privilege editing this volume. I am Lakota and have spent my career working to ensure that social workers and other helping professionals recognize the importance of our clients’ cultures and incorporate it in our work. One of the few Lakota words I remember my mother using when I was a child was iyeska. She used it to refer to me as a person of mixed heritage, destined to be a bridge or interpreter between Indigenous people and mainstream society. She believed that I was fated to participate in both worlds and held a responsibility for communicating about Indigenous people, cultures, values, and beliefs with those who come from other backgrounds. As a social work academic, it is a role that I continue to inhabit and one that has informed my work on this book project. It is my responsibility to bring forward this information to a wider audience and do my best to ensure

1

DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-1

Hilary N. Weaver

that our voices are communicated clearly, accurately, and respectfully. The intent of this book is to share, inform, highlight, and celebrate Indigenous resilience.

An overview of Indigenous Peoples An examination of Indigenous resilience must begin with an understanding of what it means to be Indigenous. The United Nations estimates there are more than 370 million Indigenous people residing in 70 countries from the Arctic to the South Pacific (United Nations, 2021). Indigenous Peoples are descended from the original inhabitants of their territories and maintain unique social, cultural, economic, and political characteristics, remaining distinct from the colonial societies that now surround them (United Nations, 2021). The term Indigenous Peoples is used within this volume to refer to the societies, tribes, or nations of people descended from the original inhabitants of the land. Inherent rights of sovereignty are vested within these collective entities. Accordingly, Indigenous Peoples often retain their own social and governing structures independent of settler societies. The term Indigenous people (without capitalization) is used in this volume when referring to multiple individuals rather than the collectivity. There is no formalized, agreed upon definition of Indigenous Peoples. While nation-states have pushed for precise definitions to facilitate administrative control and limit legal obligations, international Indigenous organizations have emphasized subjective approaches based on selfidentification. The result of these competing interests is more of a description than a definition. The working description of Indigenous Peoples developed and used by the United Nations is based on: a) historical continuity, b) longstanding connections to territories, c) colonized conditions and d) nondominant status in societies. It also highlights a subjective dimension by stressing a) the intention of preserving Indigenous ethnic identity, b) self-determination and c) self-identification. This working definition remains widely used by scholars, international organizations and Indigenous Peoples themselves as it gives a general sense of who Indigenous Peoples are but stops short of providing a definitive conceptualization. (Samson & Gigoux, 2017, p. 36) It is noteworthy that marginalization and vulnerability are almost always key descriptors in identifying Indigenous Peoples. Indeed, an advisory group working toward the development of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples noted three principles for identifying Indigenous Peoples, including “a state of subjugation, marginalization, dispossession, exclusion, or discrimination because these people have different cultures, ways of life or mode of production than the national hegemonic or dominant model” (Samson & Gigoux, 2017, p. 33). Since being subjected to colonization is a common factor shared by most Indigenous groups, it is not surprising that vulnerability has become, at least from outside perspectives, a defining characteristic. Grouping large numbers of disparate people under one label, particularly one that presumes vulnerability, can be problematic. On the other hand, Indigenous Peoples are often oriented toward collective identities and have turned the umbrella label Indigenous Peoples to their advantage in ways that challenge vulnerability as a defining characteristic. While vulnerability exists, it is balanced by strength. Samson and Gigoux (2017) note that by adopting the label Indigenous Peoples, this collective of nations from around the world has raised their voices 2

Introduction

strategically in the international arena. “The collective voices of colonized people . . . [have] come together, transcending their own colonized contexts and experiences, in order to learn, share, plan, organize and struggle collectively for self-determination on the global and local stages” (p. 34). Clearly, resilience is also a central element of what it means to be Indigenous.

Identity, mobility, and borders The cultures of Indigenous Peoples are shaped by our traditional territories – whether that be oceans, plains, mountains, or deserts. Our connections with the natural world shape our belief systems. For example, sacred mountains define the territories of many Indigenous Peoples, including the Hopi and Navajo of the Southwestern United States. Sacred mountains are home to the Kachina spirits that guide and support the people. Being away from traditional territories can have negative psychological and emotional consequences for traditional people (GriffinPierce, 1997). Although Indigenous cultures are shaped by traditional territories, Indigenous people should not be assumed to be stationary. Some Indigenous Peoples have migrated and adapted to new surroundings. For example, Polynesians sailed thousands of miles, creating a diaspora across the South Pacific (Case, 2015). Some Indigenous Peoples have experienced forced displacements and relocations, often at the hands of settler governments. For example, in the United States, the Indian Removal Act forcibly displaced Indigenous Peoples from the Southeastern part of the country (Venables, 2004). Indigenous Peoples have also been displaced by extralegal encroachments of settlers. For example, miners and squatters streamed onto the Great Sioux Reservation in the 1870s, even though the US government declared the land was protected in perpetuity under the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014). More recently, some Indigenous people in the United States have relocated from their traditional territories because of social policies such as the 1956 Indian Relocation Act that encouraged Native Americans to leave their reservations and move to urban areas (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014). Additionally, Indigenous people sometimes leave their home territories to pursue education or employment opportunities in other regions. For example, subsequent chapters describe how Pashtun people from Pakistan and Tamang people from Nepal work abroad and send remittances to family members back home. These various circumstances have led to situations where people whose identities are shaped by their traditional territories are living elsewhere. The authors in this book explore the nuances of contemporary Indigenous resilience for people who live on and off their traditional territories, in urban and rural areas, and in diaspora such as communities of Indigenous Africans in Columbia and Indigenous Pacific Islanders in Australia. Other chapters tell stories of return such as young Indigenous Atayal people who had migrated to cities for education and employment returning to their mountain homelands to rebuild communities and restore traditional farming after a devastating earthquake. For many, Indigenous identity persists, regardless of location. Sometimes, even when staying in place, Indigenous territories are disrupted. In many instances, boundaries and national lines of settler states have crossed us. For example, the Jay Treaty that established the boundary between Canada and the United States divided Indigenous territories, communities, and families, leaving some subject to Canadian policies and laws and others subject to policies and laws of the United States. This somewhat arbitrary division came with life-altering consequences for generations of people like the Haudenosaunee. Likewise, dividing the African continent into nation-states had significant consequences. Unlike Indigenous Peoples whose identities and territorial boundaries are traditionally shaped by their natural 3

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surroundings, European colonial powers created new nations without regard to the natural world. New states necessarily brought under their authority disparate peoples with different ways of life and languages to whom national identity was often meaningless. Governments attempted to tackle this in part by promoting policies that made the assertion of ethnic difference a source of conflict. Tribal loyalties and non-modern forms of livelihood were seen as antagonistic to nation building, and, as a result, some states – Tanzania for example  – refused to recognize ethnicity as a legitimate category of policy or public discourse. . . . As history of civil war, coups d’état and genocide in Africa make clear, nation building along European lines has often been catastrophic. (Samson & Gigoux, 2017, p. 31)

Our differences and commonalities Indigenous Peoples around the world are members of distinct societies. Even within a single settler state such as Australia or Nepal, there are many different Indigenous Peoples who do not necessarily share a common culture, language, or social structure. There are also differences in when, how much, and the nature of colonial contact. Some Indigenous Peoples, like those in Canada, have borne the brunt of colonial societies for centuries, others remain relatively uncontacted like some tribal groups in Brazil, and others have experienced multiple colonial experiences such as groups in Central Asia who have had their territories occupied by other Central Asians, the British, and the Russians before emergence of contemporary settler states. There are also commonalities among Indigenous Peoples. Although our colonizers vary, having our territories claimed by outsiders who established their own governments on top of ours is a common experience. We typically find ourselves minorities within our own traditional territories or displaced to regions that colonists initially deemed less valuable. Our cultures and traditions were considered inferior. We often experienced multiple concerted attempts at eradication and assimilation. Sometimes assimilation efforts were remarkably similar across national contexts. For example, education was used as a tool to disrupt cultural and language transmission in many places including Australia, the Russian Federation, Scandinavia, Canada, and the United States (Smith, n.d.). Indigenous Peoples recognize and maintain relationships with various non-human entities and spirits including animals, waters, mountains, stones, and thunder beings (Pexa, 2019). Our interactions are guided by respectful, reciprocal relationships with these relatives. While settler societies typically treat parts of the natural world as resources to be controlled, Indigenous Peoples traditionally maintain relationships with all elements of the natural world. They are relatives that we interact with and respond to, treating them with respect rather than as commodities to be exploited (Wildcat, 2009). One of the most distinguishing characteristics of Indigenous Peoples is a strong desire to remain distinct from surrounding societies while maintaining traditions and values. Indigenous Peoples also have the right to citizenship and participation in settler states, as noted in the United Nations Declaration on Indigenous Peoples (United Nations, 2008). Willingness to participate in settler states varies significantly among both groups and individuals. For example, the Haudenosaunee (a Confederacy of six Indigenous Nations in the United States and Canada) continue to assert their nationhood through acts such as issuing their own passports. Many of

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Introduction

their citizens refuse to participate in what they deem to be interference in foreign governments like voting or responding to the census for the settler states that encompass them. Settler states typically do not recognize Indigenous Peoples as remaining fully independent and many treaties or legal agreements define their relationships. For example, settler states often assumed legal obligations to provide educational and health services in exchange for land cessions. Around the world, however, most Indigenous Peoples indicate that settler states continue to fail in fulfilling their legal obligations. The following chapters provide numerous examples. These include the failure of Nepal to provide adequate and humane disaster relief services for Tamang people displaced by earthquakes and the failure of the United States and Canada to build adequate health infrastructure and basic services like access to clean water, compounding pre-existing health disparities during the global COVID-19 pandemic. While all Indigenous Peoples have been impacted by colonization, we have many perspectives and diverse experiences. In this edited volume, Indigenous voices are brought to the forefront. Many of the authors write from their own perspectives and experiences, often sharing personal or family examples to illustrate expressions of resilience across a variety of contexts. These narratives are frequently expressed in the “first person,” describing our experiences, our families, our communities, our struggles, and our resilience. In this way, readers are brought in as guests, directly exposed to Indigenous truths and realities. Just as we have many different experiences with colonization and its manifestations, we also have many different understandings of decolonization and nuances of resilience. There is not one truth, but rather many facets to our experiences.

Colonization Colonization involves the appropriation of lands, regardless of occupancy. It is facilitated by objectification, dehumanization, and exploitation of people and territories. Indigenous Peoples were presumed deficient and uncivilized since their ways of life were different than those of explorers and settlers. Colonization is supported by assertions of superiority in terms of race, gender, economics, and culture. Ideals of racial superiority were espoused by European powers who extended their empires and conquests around the world. The racial beliefs that infused colonization continue to manifest in expressions of white supremacy. Other conquests accomplished by non-white colonial powers (for example, Imperial Japan during World War II) also claimed legitimacy for their actions based on their racial superiority over the peoples that they invaded (Pang-Yuan, 2018). Gender-based superiority in the form of patriarchy has also been a hallmark of colonization. Hierarchical relationships, where men were viewed as superior to women, and gender was perceived to be a binary construct were deemed “normal.” Different expressions of gender and sexuality along a spectrum without rigid categorization was considered unacceptable and immoral; a family should be led by a man who wielded authority over a wife and their biological children. Colonial structures emphasized heteronormativity and strict, limited ideas of appropriate family composition (Wilson, 2018). Colonizers sought to replace existing cultures with their own models, priorities, and ways of thinking. Cultures are grounded in belief systems, ways of knowing, values, relationships, and spirituality. For colonization to be effective, these underlying components of culture must be altered. Belief systems and spirituality were undermined by missionary traditions that emphasized the superiority of colonizing religions. In many cases, the colonizing religion has been Christianity. Indeed, colonization in the Americas was spurred on by papal bulls, edicts issued

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by the Pope that supposedly conferred legitimacy on European occupation of the Americas (Samson & Gigoux, 2017). These Christian-based documents and belief systems undergirded the Doctrine of Discovery, a 17th century principle loosely agreed upon by European colonial powers that the European nation that “discovered” a territory or people had the sole right to dispossess Indigenous Peoples of their land (Wilsey, 2017) and Manifest Destiny, a belief that settlers had a right and duty to expand across territories occupied by Indigenous Peoples (Greenberg, 2016). Christianity, although a monumental force in colonization, is not the only world religion that has claimed superiority and forced its beliefs on original populations that already had their own spiritual traditions. For example, Muslims spread Islam across much of Africa, supplanting many Indigenous spiritual traditions, long before colonization by Christian Europeans (Gooding, 2019). Colonization is grounded in systems of exploitation, and as such, extraction of resources and enslavement of human beings become tools to support its economic foundations. Indeed, while preliminary reflections on colonization typically bring to mind a nation-state seeking to extend its territories through invasion and occupation, in fact, non-state actors like corporations have played significant roles in colonization. For example, the Hudson Bay Company in Canada and the Dutch East Indies company in Indonesia sought financial gain as they developed corporate bases and exploited territories and Peoples as a precursor or alternative to extension of settler societies occupying these areas. Economic forces, most notably capitalism, are a primary pillar that drives and supports colonization. A complete understanding of colonization requires examining the role of other non-state actors. In addition to roles played by large corporations, as noted previously, other types of non-state actors supported colonial purposes and subverted Indigenous beliefs and practices. Religious organizations were some of the most significant non-state actors in advancing colonization. Indeed, many Christian denominations felt a moral obligation to convert others to their beliefs and practices. This predisposition led many churches to engage in missionary work and run boarding schools designed to assimilate Indigenous Peoples (Morrison, 2016). There are other non-state actors who, like missionaries, have strongly held beliefs (often religious, political, or a mixture of both) whose members can become so driven and radicalized that they use violence to advance their interests. Nation-states sometimes align themselves with these extremist groups to promote their own interests. At times, gaining control over Indigenous Peoples and their resources is one of their motivations, while other times, Indigenous Peoples just happen to be in the path of competing forces. Terrorist groups have received funding and sanction from colonial governments when it suits their interests. For example, as described later in this book, both the United States and Saudi Arabia supported armed fighters to repel Russian forces in Central Asia, home to the Pashtun Indigenous Peoples. In some places, colonial powers have withdrawn their occupations, such as the French leaving Vietnam and the British leaving the Indian subcontinent. Even in such instances, colonial powers leave an ongoing legacy. This is clear in countries like South Africa, where tensions and disparities remain between the descendants of settlers and those Indigenous to the land, long after the original occupying forces have withdrawn. The underlying values that legitimated colonization continue to inform societal institutions and are self-perpetuating. For colonization to fully succeed, the original inhabitants must be eradicated or incorporated; thus, many colonial societal structures prioritized assimilation as an outcome. Sometimes, this was seen as benevolent and was promoted by people who saw themselves as helping Indigenous people. As Indigenous people became relegated to the lowest rungs of colonial societies, well-intended reformers and some Indigenous leaders of mixed heritage believed that uplifting 6

Introduction

Indigenous people from their impoverished state and achieving equality could only happen by eliminating the safeguards that supported Indigenous people. For example, in Latin America, revolutionary movements for independence were informed by liberal ideas of progress, equality, and freedom. In this context, the new republican order sought to eradicate institutions and laws, including the safeguards and limited rights that Indians had during the colonial period, in order to achieve the equality of the Indians. As a result, Indigenous Peoples were transformed into citizens and, in the process their Indigenous status was abolished.  .  .  . Most Indigenous Peoples were transformed into landless peasants as they were deprived of their territories and resources. (Samson & Gigoux, 2017, p. 23) Particularly insidious and destructive is internalized colonization. Generations of colonization have often led Indigenous Peoples to absorb beliefs and practices that devalue Indigenous cultures. “Colonization decultured us. Euroamerican values of materialism, patriarchy, and individualism have been embraced by most of our people and have broken down any semblance of traditional governance in our communities” (Alfred, 2005, p. 84).

Decolonization as Indigenous resilience Inequities are perpetuated by colonial structures, which, in turn, are supported by a colonial mindset. Both these structures and mindset are insidious, invisible, and accepted as normal in settler societies. Decolonization requires recognizing and taking active steps to challenge, reform, and redress colonial structures and ways of thinking – necessary steps toward promoting equity. Rejecting a colonial mindset involves undertaking a journey from awareness to transformation. Members of both settler and Indigenous societies continue to be affected by colonization and both must go through decolonial processes. The challenges are significant. As noted by Mohawk scholar Taiaiake Alfred, Given the nearly complete absence of these indigenous forms of social and political organization in our communities today, the situation we face is indeed daunting. The one thing that is certain is that people who believe that we are going to be led out of our colonial reality by the colonial surrogate organizations that we have running our communities today are not looking at our situation honestly. (Alfred, 2005, p. 187) Alfred (2005) calls for a courageous way of being in the world; for Indigenous Peoples to work to change the balance of political and economic power, thereby creating social and physical space for freedom to reemerge. “Wasase is an ethical and political vision, the real demonstration of our resolve to survive as Onkwehonwe [original people] and do what we must to force the Settlers to acknowledge our existence and the integrity of our connection to the land” (p. 19). Resilience in colonial contexts takes many forms. The fact that resilience exists in no way indicates that colonialism has not done harm. Indeed, resilience is often formed in a crucible of trauma. Resilience co-exists with examples of significant damage. The working definitions that continue to be widely used include vulnerability and marginalization as defining characteristics of Indigenous Peoples. Such definitions fail to recognize the resilience inherent in Indigenous survival. Indeed, as Indigenous Peoples develop partnerships across international boundaries to 7

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advance their interests, although not often explicitly named, resilience is apparent. As noted earlier, that damage and trauma is often presumed to be representative of Indigenous Peoples and colonial experiences. Damage and trauma, however, are only part of our story. Resilience completes this complicated picture. Resilience is an ability to resist, persevere, survive, and grow despite significant challenges. Indeed, resilience is evident not just in individuals but in the ability of communities, Peoples, and the natural world to successfully grapple with adversity. That being said, resilience can also be multifaceted and nuanced. The experiences of individuals, communities, and the world are not as simple as good or bad, success or failure, resilient or devastated.

Major themes and concepts The reoccurring themes of duality and balance; interconnections between past, present, and future; and culture as continuous and ever-evolving are woven throughout this edited volume. The phrases Original Instructions, Traditional Teachings, and traditional Indigenous Knowledge are also frequently used. While individual authors often elaborate on their meaning within specific contexts, a basic overview of these concepts is offered here to provide a foundation for subsequent content.

Duality and balance Balance is often emphasized as central to Indigenous wellbeing. The Medicine Wheel is a conceptual framework and powerful symbol for many North American Indigenous people that illustrates balance, among other things. Although there are different versions, at its most basic it is a circle divided into quadrants. Typically, the quadrants include the colors black, white, red, and yellow, although sometimes black is replaced by blue. The Medicine Wheel has many different layers of meaning and many different interpretations, all related to balance among the different elements. The Medicine Wheel reminds us that our wellbeing consists of a balance among Mind, Body, Spirit, and Heart. It also depicts the balance among different life stages (infancy, youth, adulthood, elderhood) and different types of people from around the world. Traditional Indigenous societies retain balance with different roles and gender expressions, all considered not only normal but essential to community and societal wellbeing. Balance implies that there must be difference, not solely uniformity or sameness. Indeed, many Indigenous traditions are grounded in stories and beliefs about duality. The Haudenosaunee Creation narrative describes twins, one who creates great beauty in the world and the other who causes destruction and chaos (Mohawk, 2005). While their characters and actions are often over-simplified and referred to in terms of good and evil, the descriptors creativity and chaos have a more nuanced and synergistic relationship than simply oppositional forces or beings. That is the way it is with balance. Darkness and light balance each other, as do sorrow and gladness, trauma and resilience. Different facets of balance emerge in this book. The content shares Indigenous Knowledges, histories, and practices, yet not all is shared. As the authors note, some Traditional Knowledge has been lost, some things have been reclaimed, and other things have been hidden. Many practices are protected by not sharing information in public or written forms. Some Indigenous Knowledge must remain private and available only within certain contexts and to certain people. Other things could be shared but rarely become public because Knowledge Holders do not typically deliver workshops, speak at conferences, or publish in English-language academic publications. This book seeks a thoughtful balance of sharing content that is appropriate to be 8

Introduction

shared but that is not often easily accessible beyond members of specific communities or regions of the world. As iyeska, the interpreter or bridge, it is a great privilege to be able to use my networks to encourage sharing of content that depicts a wide array of expressions of resilience in Indigenous Peoples. The authors live on six continents and share examples of resilience from many different Indigenous contexts. Indeed, most of the authors are Indigenous themselves and write with firsthand experiences about communities where they live and work. Other authors are non-Indigenous but have a long-term commitment to Indigenous communities, thus earning trust, access, and permission to share examples of resilience. This book contains examples that we chose to share. While it is beyond the scope of any one publication to include content from all Indigenous contexts, this book strives to present a broad spectrum of representation. Although this is a publication in English, (a colonial language), I deliberately sought to include authors who primarily speak and write in other languages. I also worked to ensure that North American content did not obscure other voices. I tried to reach beyond academia to include content from others grounded in Indigenous communities who are not familiar with publishing. In these ways, I sought to compile rich and diverse perspectives of Indigenous resilience beyond those that typically find their way into publications. While some selectivity remains – for example, not all people are privileged with the time to be able to write – I worked to go beyond typical academic writers in compiling this volume. Through these efforts, I sought to achieve balance.

The past, present, and future are interconnected Indigenous thinking and conceptualizations of time are not necessarily linear. There is a sense of relationship and interconnection between the past, present, and future. Each informs and has implications for the others. This is illustrated by the Native American concept of the Seven Generations. Ancestors were conscious of and deliberately planned for the needs and cultural continuity of the generations that exist today. We must do the same for coming generations so that our cultures, languages, spiritual traditions, and the natural world can be healthy and vibrant for generations yet to be born. A sense of connection to ancestors and their ongoing relevance for the day-to-day lives of contemporary Indigenous Peoples is the foundation for Historical Trauma Theory (Yellow Horse Brave Heart, 2011). Colonial brutality, massacres, and devastation caused by diseases are not perceived as distant, historical artifacts, but rather factors that continue to shape our existence and wellbeing. The past informs the present and the future in interactive, circular, mutually reinforcing ways. These connections are apparent throughout these chapters. Our contemporary existence is grounded in the experiences and gifts of our ancestors. Our contemporary actions must be guided by our responsibilities for and duties to future generations. This sense of connection, relationship, and time differs from settler societies’ ideas about progress. By and large, Indigenous Peoples are not invested in a hierarchical belief that we are moving toward a future that will be an inherent improvement over the past. Conversely, there is not a sense that the past was backward and lesser-than. This does not, however, mean that Indigenous Peoples are inherently stuck in the past or focused on a return “back to the blanket” that idealizes history and dismisses potential. Rather than a simplistic, linear sense of progress, there is importance placed on retaining core cultural values and beliefs while adapting to contemporary circumstances. It is not that we are not headed into the future, but that we chose to do so while remaining true to our Indigenous values rather than setting them aside in the name of progress to adapt, integrate, and assimilate into settler societies (essentially losing us to 9

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become them). We do not accept that adapting to and participating in someone else’s society at the expense of our own is a mark of progress or a superior way to live. Just because we do not choose a future defined by settler society priorities does not mean that we are not future oriented. There is more than one path to the future – and for many Indigenous Peoples, it remains highly synergistic with the past.

Culture: continuity and change Culture has always been a balance between continuity and change. That is the way it has always been, the way it is now, and how it will be in the future. Culture has never been static. It is living, breathing, and ever changing. Indigenous Peoples are often stereotyped as historical artifacts by members of settler societies. They expect that we will remain frozen in time, and when we do not meet these expectations, we are invisible. There is a presumption that our authenticity is defined by past practices, and thus, we cannot truly follow our traditions and live in a contemporary world. Indeed, assimilation into settler societies was perceived to be the only logical and inevitable conclusion in the face of colonization. These chapters dispute that assertion and provide numerous examples of how Indigenous cultures continue and are expressed in our contemporary, shared world. We need not choose between being relegated to historical artifacts or becoming completely immersed in settler societies. We are empowered to define our contemporary cultures. Grappling with tensions between continuity and change do not inherently diminish Indigeneity. Adapting in culturally congruent ways is part of cultural vibrancy. Indeed, the Native Americans of the Great Plains region of the United States are noted for (some would say defined by) their use of horses. The Comanche became known as the Lords of the Southern Plains, noted for their skillful riding, although their original access to horses came from the Spanish colonizers. Likewise, Native Americans of the Southwestern United States are known for their talents in creating distinctive silver jewelry, but silversmithing was a new technology acquired in the mid-1800s.

Original Instructions, Traditional Teachings, and Traditional Indigenous Knowledge The terms Original Instructions and Traditional Teachings often refer to specific guidance about living in relationship with other beings and aspects of the natural world. These teachings were received by our ancestors in ancient times. This guidance has typically been passed down orally across generations and may also be represented in physical forms such as ceremonial items. For example, strings of wampum beads can serve as pneumonic devices to accompany recitations. Different Indigenous Peoples received their own Original Instructions. Many have to do with maintaining or restoring balance and wellbeing within an individual, community, or the world. Traditional Indigenous Knowledge is the science and wisdom that Indigenous Peoples have accumulated living in their territories in relation with other beings over generations. Original Instructions and Traditional Teachings are believed to be fundamental and perpetually relevant despite changing times. They provide guidance for all aspects of living. While the oral format of these teachings continues, now some Traditional Teachings are shared in written or video formats. For example, the edited collection Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Sustainable Future (Nelson, 2008) contains essays based on content from Indigenous speakers 10

Introduction

at Bioneer conferences, a forum dedicated to cultural survival and ecological renewal. As noted in Nelson’s preface, Original Instructions remind us that it’s not people who are smart. The real intelligence dwells throughout the natural world and in the vast mystery of the universe that’s beyond our human comprehension. Humility is our constant companion. The Original Instructions celebrate our interdependence and interconnection with the diversity of life and one another. (p. xxii) There are many Traditional Teachings among the different Indigenous Peoples. While they often share a common foundation of providing guidance, they are rooted in specific cultural contexts and vary in expression. One concept rooted in Haudenosaunee Traditional Teachings is that of the Good Mind. This concept is referenced later, so is briefly described here as one example of a Traditional Teaching. The Peacemaker came to the Haudenosaunee, five nations that had been at war with each other. He guided them to bury their weapons of war under the Great Tree of Peace and they joined together in a confederacy of friendship that continues today. This historical event reminds us that awareness of our thoughts and intentions allows us to be more kind and loving, resulting in peace. This state of awareness is the Good Mind. As Onondaga elder Frieda Jacques noted, “while we actively become more aware of our thoughts, especially those that have a kind and loving intent; we naturally allow ourselves to become spiritually in tune with the Creator’s wishes. This allows us to use our talents to fulfill our purpose on earth” (Ganondagan, 2021).

Reclamations and transformations Indigenous Peoples often demonstrate resilience through tandem processes of reclaiming and transforming. We reclaim many Indigenous beliefs, values, and practices that have diminished or been hidden to protect them against loss. Reclaiming our heritage and the legacies left by our ancestors is a powerful demonstration of resilience. Further, we transform traditional practices, keeping them relevant for contemporary circumstances. An Indigenous elder from British Columbia noted: It may seem that many of our traditions and songs are lost, but we have nothing to worry about. They’re just put away for now, stored in our collective memory, our land. It’s going to be our children, he said, who’ll bring them back. And, over the years, I’ve seen it happen. I’d take our boys and girls out to different parts of our Ha’huulthii and some of them would bring back our forgotten songs, our traditions, our knowledge – whatever gifts the Creator would choose to share with them. (Raygorodetsky, 2017, p. 256) Reclaiming our Indigenous Knowledge and practices is happening on all levels from the micro to the macro, from personal practices to national structures and policies. Reclaiming constitutes acts of resilience, resistance, and transformation. We reclaim, not just for ourselves. We do this for future generations, all beings, and our shared world. As the Seven Generations teaching described earlier reminds us, we have a duty to plan ahead to support and protect generations yet to come. We reclaim for them. Our Original Instructions remind us that humans are one type of being. We have responsibilities and relationships that connect us with other 11

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beings. We reclaim for them. We are also fully conscious that while Indigenous Peoples may have custodial responsibilities for the world, we share this space with other human beings from diverse societies and value systems. We reclaim not to impose our ways on others, mirroring what colonial societies have done, but to share and support using the gifts that we have received. It is said that in the time of the Sixth Fire we will go looking for much of what was stolen or lost, and we will recover those songs, medicine bundles, and seeds. Then we will come into the time of the Seventh Fire. In that time it is said we will make the choice between a scorched path and a path that is green. The essential part of following that green path is how we return to living here on this land. (LaDuke, 2019, p. xv) While Indigenous Knowledges and practices may not have been at the forefront in many places in recent generations, that does not mean that they no longer exist. Many Traditional Teachings remind us that our Indigenous Knowledge is still here, will never be lost, and will always be available to those who seek it in a good way. “Traditional knowledge bubbles up from the deep well of ancestral wisdom embedded within the Indigenous peoples’ traditional territories, nourishing the long-term, intimate, and sacred relationship between Indigenous peoples and their land, water, air, and the cosmos” (Raygorodetsky, 2017, p. 256). Restoring food sovereignty and rematriating (restoring) our seeds are examples of how Indigenous Knowledge and practices are being reclaimed. This is true both literally and figuratively. In your own life, water that seed planted deep inside the earth that is your own body, a tiny seed that sings an achingly beautiful song of remembrance, resistance, resilience, redemption, and reconciliation. This powerful seed song is what kept our grandmothers upright, what whispered them to get up amidst the sorrow to do what needed to be done to tend the earth and feed the children. It was these melodies that guided our grandfathers under the sea of stars as they made their way into new lands to protect the young. This map is written in the seeds and the stars and the waters and the Earth. This seed song is now your heart beating fiercely in promise to uphold the agreements to feed the sacred hungers of time. (White, 2019, p. 197) During the global COVID-19 pandemic, many Indigenous people stepped forward and offered leadership. They emphasized that we have what we need to move forward. Some offered step-by-step, practical instructions that reflect our Original Instructions. Dr. Rodney Haring, a Seneca social worker and cancer researcher, offered tangible ways to nurture our wellbeing during these difficult times. He recommended that we say one or two words in our own language daily. Reconnecting in even in the smallest ways is important and is a step toward keeping our cultures alive. We can dance or play lacrosse. We do this for the Seven Generations. We do this for cultural resiliency. Dr. Haring told us we must find the courage to move on and shape our health for future generations. He referred to this as “being respectfully persistent.” As we create health within ourselves, we can bring it forward to share with our families and communities. We can bring laughter, wellness, and dancing during the hard times of the pandemic. Share a smile, share a wave. We find new ways to have socially distant gatherings during summer. We are finding new ways to do ceremonies, maybe outside or individually. We can share wellness, happiness, and peace with other nations and neighbors, including those beyond Indigenous communities. This is an expression of real truth and reconciliation. We must act with peace and 12

Introduction

courage, and share this with others. There is duality in our being. Sometimes, we get caught in ruminating, but we must find and embrace courage. We must be aware of our cultural resilience and put it forward every day, even in small ways. Our actions can be full of hope, vision, and intent. Every day, move forward with a Good Mind (Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, 2020; Haring, 2020). Indigenous Peoples are contemporary nations and communities constantly responding to an ever-changing world. Trauma adds fuel to our fire. We are not passive. The grief and anguish buried beneath the soil of intergenerational trauma are only half our stories told. COVID-19 has given recall to examine the pervasive injustice of western power and privilege. Our people are dying at disproportionate rates not only from the direct respiratory effects of this virus, but as a result of a failed system that is inherently racist. We see our people; our mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, children, and young people in great peril because of systemic health inequities and economic exclusion. (Mataira, Morelli, & Spenser, 2020, p. 1) We build culturally grounded institutions, informed by our recognition of the nuances of colonization and resilience. We must recognize and claim “our vitality in light of perceived impending dooms” (Mihesuah, 2019, p. 300). Guided by our Original Instructions and Traditional Knowledge, we strive to meet our needs as contemporary people. We know that colonization is not just about taking land. We must understand how the economics of capitalism have replaced Indigenous systems and how colonial belief systems have supplanted our understandings of gender, sexuality, and relationships to people, land, other beings, and the cosmos. Resilience and reclaiming are not just about us being in charge. We must do more than just have tribal governments modeled on states and elected governments that replicate patriarchy. Some authors of the following chapters frame resurgence and transformation in terms of Indigenous nationalism, while others articulate it in terms of patriotism. In Chapter 20, the author notes that the phrase Aloha Aina can be translated as patriotism, but she goes on to describe how Indigenous Peoples tend to define patriotism differently than most members of colonial settler societies. In this case, the author emphasizes the need for “disassembling some of the imported and imposed colonial assumptions, such as the alignment of nationhood and patriarchy.” For Indigenous Peoples, reclaiming is not just about politics but about relationship. For us, land is a relative, not a possession. The hard life experiences that we have can be transformed, just as composting food scraps results in creation of nourishing soil. As Nephi Craig, a Diné and White Mountain Apache chef, noted, “Don’t transmit pain. . . . Transform it.” (Mihesuah, 2019, p. 317). This transformation requires an active – not a passive – response.

The temporal context for this handbook Although released in 2021, the initial development, content solicitation, and decisions about topics for inclusion in this volume happened prior to the start of the global COVID-19 pandemic. Most chapter proposals were submitted and approved in the fall of 2019, with full chapters expected in the spring 2020. The pandemic spread rapidly around the world before the submission deadline. That same spring, the United States was rocked by protests over police killings of unarmed African Americans. Violence and looting ensued in many places, sometimes fueled by long-standing frustrations with racial injustice but often just a cover for destruction 13

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and greed. In the United States, instability growing from racial injustice and COVID-19 were deemed two simultaneous pandemics. Before completion of the book, a violent insurrection took place at the US Capitol, shaking the complacency of many privileged Americans not used to such threats. Likewise, a variety of problems erupted or continued around the world that shaped the lives of chapter authors, including political instability, natural disasters, and violence against Indigenous people. As COVID-19 and other challenges gripped the world, some authors who had planned to contribute chapters to this volume withdrew to meet personal, familial, community, and changing work responsibilities. Others stepped forward and added new elements to what they had initially planned to write. With some international borders closed, travel restricted within countries, and communities on lockdown due to COVID-19, some authors had difficulty accessing data or information related to their research. This caused delays or changes in how they approached their chapters as they negotiated how to move forward amidst new and ongoing crises. All authors found themselves juggling priorities, yet many persisted in writing their chapters. Indeed, this volume became an example of Indigenous resilience and collectivism. We draw our strength from others. Even when some of us cannot move forward and rise to overcome challenges, others can do so on our behalf. Some find important roles in communicating and sharing information. These stories of resilience are indelibly shaped by the challenging times in which they were written and compiled.

Overview of the book The book is divided into five parts of interrelated chapters. Part 1, From the past to the future, provides examples from Ireland and the United States that illuminate how our ancestors gave us the strength to endure. We are still here, thanks to the gifts and forethought of our ancestors. We have survived and continue to survive the onslaught of colonization drawing on the many strengths that nourish our resilience. Chapters in this section highlight Indigenous continuity and transcendent identities rooted in Africa and the Americas that persist in spite of being crossed by colonial borders or relocating from home territories, either voluntarily or involuntarily. Part 2, Pillars of Indigeneity, provides examples of expressions of identity and wellbeing grounded in the South Pacific and New Zealand. Language and storytelling can sustain Indigenous cultures and values while serving as mechanisms to transmit Indigenous identity across generations. Examples from Central Asia, Guatemala, and the United States illustrate how our words reflect and sustain our cultures. Part 3 builds on this content and explores The Power in Indigenous Identities. This section highlights the collective values of Indigenous societies, exploring how Indigenous families and communities care for each other in the United States, as well as in Southern Africa. Regardless of difficult circumstances, Indigenous Peoples rely on our collective strength. Gender and age also play significant roles in Indigenous identities. Chapters highlight the persistence and power of women’s leadership in Canadian and Hawaiian Indigenous cultures. The voices of youth and the humor of elders illustrate resilience among Native Americans of the United States. Indigenous connections with The natural world are explored in Part 4. The relationship that Sámi people of Norway maintain with the natural world through reindeer herding and that the Atayal people from the Daan River region of Taiwan maintain with the soil and spirits through natural farming remind readers that these other beings are our relatives, not resources. Chapters on earthquakes in Nepal, climate change, and activism at Mauna Kea remind us that 14

Introduction

our Mother Earth is hurting. As we live in relationship with the natural world, we also have a responsibility to care for and protect Her. By and large, most people in the world remain oblivious to the continued presence or circumstances of Indigenous Peoples. When we are noticed, we are typically viewed from a deficit perspective, depicted as backward, exploited, to be pitied, or a barrier to progress. Part 5 challenges those beliefs. Indeed, we are Reframing the narrative. Indigenous Peoples refuse to be defined by problems. We will build opportunities. Chapters in this section examine the experiences of Indigenous people with disabilities in Canada and how Native Americans in the United States are drawing on the Warrior Spirit to heal from trauma. Examples from Fiji and Papua New Guinea demonstrate how traditional Indigenous values inform entrepreneurial endeavors and economic development. The final chapter examines how Indigenous Peoples in various parts of the world, although often depicted as among the most vulnerable, have risen to the challenges presented by the global COVID-19 pandemic. The book concludes with a summary and a look toward the future for Indigenous Peoples, both within our homelands and within diaspora. I invite readers to read these narratives with an open mind and an eagerness to understand more of the resilience and diverse experiences of Indigenous Peoples. As eloquent Cheyenne elder and eminent historian Henrietta Mann reminds us, we come from great people who have an enduring presence on these lands. We carry unending responsibilities and stewardship for the Earth. These are things that coming generations must know (Circle of Notable Native American Scholars, 2021). The Indigenous people and allies who contributed to this book bring voices and perspectives that inform and inspire us to continue moving forward. They remind us of continuity and transformation – both defining characteristics of the Indigenous experience. They remind us that we remain, unable to be snuffed out by the brutalities of colonization. As Oromo activist Ebasa Sarka, an East African living in the United States, reminds us, we remain, although some are displaced halfway around the world and others are tempted by the presumed ease, comfort, promised success and safety that accompanies assimilating to mainstream society (Sarka, personal communication). Indeed, some of us are reclaiming and transforming ourselves as we choose to undergo processes of internal decolonization. I invite readers to listen to and learn from our narratives.

References Alfred, T. (2005). Wasase: Indigenous pathways of action and freedom. Peterborough, Canada: Broadview Press. Case, E. (2015). I Kahiki Ke Ola: In Kahiki there is life: Ancestral memories and migrations in the new pacific (Doctoral Thesis). Retrieved from http://researcharchive.vuw.ac.nz/xmlui/bitstream/handle/10063/4880/ thesis.pdf?sequence=1 Center for Indigenous Cancer Research. (2020, April 3). Cancer and COVID: Indigenous virtual fireside chat. Webinar. Retrieved from www.roswellpark.org/CICRfiresidechat. Circle of Notable Native American Scholars. (2021). Retrieved from https://youtu.be/n8f32aN6uWs Dunbar-Ortiz, R. (2014). An indigenous peoples’ history of the United States. Boston: Beacon Press. Ganondagan. (2021). Good minds. Retrieved February  10, 2021, from https://ganondagan.org/learn/ good-mind Gooding, P. (2019). Islam in the interior of precolonial East Africa: Evidence from Lake Tanganyika. Journal of African History, 60(2), 191–208. Greenberg, J. H. (2016). The doctrine of discovery as a doctrine of domination. Journal of the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture, 10(2), 236–244. Griffin-Pierce, T. (1997). “When I am lonely the mountains call me”: The impact of sacred geography on Navajo psychological wellbeing. American Indian Alaska Native Mental Health Research, 7(3), 1–10. Haring, R. (2020, December 4). Indigenous health: Creating peace, courage and cultural resilience. Indigenous Health Conference. University of Toronto, Toronto.

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Hilary N. Weaver LaDuke, W. (2019). Forward: In praise of seeds and hope. In D. A. Mihesuah & E. Hoover (Eds.), Indigenous food sovereignty in the United States: Restoring cultural knowledge, protecting environments, and regaining health (pp. xiii–xvi). Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Mataira, P., Morelli, P.,  & Spenser, M. (2020). Indigenous communities and COVID-19: Impact and implications. Journal of Indigenous Social Development, 9(3), 1–3. Mihesuah, D. A. (2019). Nephi Craig: Life in second sight. In D. A. Mihesuah & E. Hoover (Eds.), Indigenous food sovereignty in the United States: Restoring cultural knowledge, protecting environments, and regaining health (pp. 300–319). Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Mohawk, J. (2005). Iroquois creation story: John Arthur Gibson and J.N.B. Hewitt’s myth of the Earth Grasper. Buffalo, NY: Mohawk Publications. Morrison, T. (2016). The misrepresentation of Christianity caused by colonialism: The Canadian experience. International Journal of Religion and Spirituality in Society, 6(4), 23–36. Nelson, M. K. (Ed.). (2008). Original instructions: Indigenous teachings for a sustainable future. Rochester, VT: Bear & Company. Pang-Yuan, C. (2018). The great flowing river: A  memoir of China, from Manchuria to Taiwan. New York: Columbia Press. Pexa, C. (2019). Rewriting the Dakhota Oyate: Translated nation. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Raygorodetsky, G. (2017). The archipelago of hope: Wisdom and resilience from the edge of climate change. New York: Pegasus Books. Samson, C., & Gigoux, C. (2017). Indigenous peoples and colonialism: Global perspectives. Cambridge: Polity Press. Smith, A. (no date). Indigenous peoples and boarding schools: A  comparative study. Retrieved from www. un.org/esa/socdev/unpfii/documents/IPS_Boarding_Schools.pdf United Nations. (2008). Declaration on the rights of indigenous peoples. Retrieved from www.un.org/develop ment/desa/indigenouspeoples/wp-content/uploads/sites/19/2018/11/UNDRIP_E_web.pdf United Nations. (2021). Retrieved from www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/ Venables, R. W. (2004). American Indian history: Five centuries of conflict and coexistence. Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Publishing. White, R. (2019). Planting sacred seeds in a modern world. In D. A. Mihesuah & E. Hoover (Eds.), Indigenous food sovereignty in the United States: Restoring cultural knowledge, protecting environments, and regaining health (pp. 186–197). Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Wildcat, D. R. (2009). Red alert! Saving the planet with indigenous knowledge. Golden, CO: Fulcrum Publishing. Wilsey, J. D. (2017). “Our country is destined to be the great nation of futurity”: John L. O’Sullivan’s manifest destiny and Christian nationalism, 1837–1846. Religions, 8(4), 68–85. Wilson, A. (2018). Skirting the issues: Indigenous myths, misses, and misogyny. In K. Anderson, M. Campbell,  & C. Belcourt (Eds.), Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered indigenous sisters. Edmonton, Alberta: University of Alberta Press. Yellow Horse Brave Heart, M. (2011). Historical trauma among indigenous peoples of the Americas: Concepts, research, and clinical considerations. Journal of Psychoactive Drugs, 43, 282–290.

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PART I

From the past to the future

In Part 1, authors explore resilience across time and space, beginning with historical examples from Ireland and the United States. Seven Generations Teachings tell us that we continue as Indigenous People because of the strength of our ancestors and the plans they made for our continuity. Chapter  1 and Chapter  2 delve into the circumstances that Indigenous ancestors endured so that we can persist. Knowing our history is crucial to understanding our contemporary circumstances. Indigenous Peoples have survived, despite extraordinary colonial forces – yet our resilience and continuity often remain invisible. The dual reality of colonial assaults and resilient continuity are apparent as we examine these histories. Chapter 3 and Chapter 4 explore contemporary challenges for the descendants of enslaved and displaced Indigenous Peoples and examine our interconnections, posing the question, who are we among all our relations? Readers are invited to explore the connections that Indigenous Peoples share across territories and externally imposed boundaries. Continuity across time and place manifests in transcendent identities, despite crossing or being crossed by borders.

Colonial exploitation and transformations Authors in Part 1 describe how policies became a primary mechanism for implementing colonization. Teachers, social workers, medical professionals, and philanthropically minded individuals often had good intentions, but typically viewed Indigenous Peoples through their own paternalistic or idealistic lenses. The practices and policies they implemented facilitated socialization and assimilation in attempts to make Indigenous Peoples more governable and less distinct from the larger society. Likewise, religious doctrine, most often enacted through Christian churches, became a primary tool of colonization. The authors describe how the helping professions and social welfare policies played instrumental roles in governmental agendas of colonization, land expropriation, and assimilation. Expanding empires and exploiting human and natural resources became key characteristics of colonization, and with expansionism came cooptation of Indigenous institutions. The authors call our attention to the patriarchal, capitalistic underpinnings of colonization. Resource exploitation and slave labor became inherent in colonial exploitation as capitalist priorities led to subjugation of both territories and Peoples. DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-2

From the past to the future

As empires spread across the globe, they attacked cultural belief systems, co-opted traditional systems to serve their own priorities, and moved people – yet did not fully succeed in annihilating the Original Peoples. For example, the British Empire expanded around the world, facilitated by exploitive labor and slavery, often moving populations according to their need for a labor supply. As England assumed power over Ireland, it ruled through a puppet government, something later replicated in other locations, and co-opted Indigenous institutions, a mechanism also echoed in subsequent parts of the book.

When cultures interact Socialization and change are not necessarily unidirectional. When people from different cultures interact, there can be mutual influence. During the early stages of colonization, colonists were often absorbed into existing societies. This was the case in Ireland, as English settlers learned Gaelic and followed Irish customs; that is, until a tipping point came in the balance of power. Indeed, while the Church ultimately became a tool of colonization around the world, the author of Chapter 1 argues that, initially in Ireland, the Church was an ally, becoming transformed or Indigenized in the process. All too often, colonization resulted in Indigenous erasure, a form of denial and invisibility, even though cultures persisted in unseen ways. Historically, some Indigenous Peoples experienced formal, legal processes of termination, while others remained unrecognized or were presumed to have ceased to exist. In all such instances, Indigenous people are without rights and settler states see no need for promises to be kept or for treaties to be fulfilled. Being seen and recognized as contemporary Peoples has significant implications for possession of lands and rights, while being unrecognized supports dispossession. In contemporary times, Indigenous People must often fight for recognition, asserting that they still exist and must be recognized.

Transcendent identities The authors explore Indigeneity across different times and contexts. They offer reflections on Indigenous identity from both personal and outsider perspectives. Identity is multifaceted, always consisting of multiple dimensions. As an example, the author of Chapter 4 explores how someone can carry responsibility and privilege while being part of a marginalized group. As we define ourselves, Indigeneity is often characterized by our desire to remain autonomous and not be incorporated into another society, although this does not necessarily mean remaining in isolation. The authors remind us that colonization tips the balance of power and how we define ourselves is not always respected. Others define or ignore us, according to their standards, priorities, and agendas. Indeed, successful dispossession and subjugation of Indigenous Peoples required defining us as pagan, barbarian, lesser-than members of colonial societies, and sometimes as subhuman. These definitions legitimate violence. We continue to be affected by these legacies of history: laws that categorized us, defined us, have seen us, or not seen us. The authors in Part 1 describe how contemporary Indigenous Peoples may espouse identities that transcend colonial boundaries. Indigenous Peoples remaining in their traditional territories often had their lands crossed by borders not of their making, have experienced dispossession as other societies attempted or succeeded in supplanting them, and at times have been transported to “new worlds.” The authors remind us that regardless of displacement, our ancestors continue to watch over and protect us. We find ways to maintain connections, even under the guise of the colonizer’s institutions.

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From the past to the future

We are asked to reflect on what it means to be Indigenous in the face of colonial definitions of territories and boundaries. Further, the authors help us contemplate what it means to have heritage from multiple Indigenous Peoples, or Indigenous and non-Indigenous heritage. These multiple facets of Indigenous identity result in additive or transcendent identities. We have truly received gifts from our ancestors that enable us to endure and build pathways forward from the past to the future. We do this within the context of our relational existence, connected with relatives from the Four Directions. We maintain relationships between humans and spirits, those who are living and ancestors, all beings, and across nations. Solidarity with our relatives is central to our existence. Relationships provide foundations for identity, health, and wellbeing. We fulfill prophecies of re-establishing connections, as illustrated by Indigenous Peoples of North America and South America reaffirm their relationship. We maintain our connections to land and to each other, as well as across generations past, present, and future. The land defines and shapes Indigenous identity and is a Being, in and of itself. We affirm our affective attachment to the natural world and the spirits that inhabit it. These spiritual connections enable our political viability as Peoples. Recognizing this strength, colonization attacked our collective structures and connections to land. Collective societies and collectively held lands are buffers against assimilation, something troublesome for settlers who want to commodify, exploit, and privatize according to their ideas of development and progress. Indigenous values of collectivism and collective identity rights resurface in contemporary times in examples such as Celtic communism in Ireland and tribal humanitarian zones in Colombia. The authors pose questions such as what is Indigeneity? and ask whether it exists only in contrast to a non-Indigenous other. We are asked to reflect on who is Indigenous (or tribal) as we consider the experiences of Celts and displaced Africans. We are led through an examination of the nature of Indigeneity. Is it transportable, and if so, what does it look like when not on your land, or even on your continent? In Part 1, the authors introduce ideas that will be echoed later, such as the roles of institutions like the Church and educational systems in promoting conformity and assimilation. Most centrally, these authors chart the course of the reader by emphasizing themes of continuity, reclaiming, moving forward, and strength as key facets of Indigenous resilience.

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1 IRELAND, FIRST COLONY OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE A Celtic story of Indigenous resistance, resilience, and cultural renewal Suzanne Jenkins Introduction Geologically, Ireland is older than many other European countries (Somerville-Large, 1992) and can be described as “a geological accident forged between two continents and then frozen, dunked between warm seas, lifted in part to the heights of the Himalayas, covered with lush tropical swamps, blistering deserts and vast expanses of molten rock, then again buried under ice and finally thawed out” (Mallory, 2015, p. 13). Ireland’s history is no less turbulent. The Celts are believed to have arrived in Ireland over the course of several centuries (Kruta, 2015). The homelands of the earliest Celts are thought to be Scotland, the Isle of Man, and Wales. Populations previously inhabiting the Isle of Man Basin were forced westwards because of rising sea levels after the last ice age (Mallory, 2015). Celtic peoples did not refer to themselves as “Celtic.” Rather, they thought of themselves as belonging to different tribes (Matthews, 1989). A learned class comprising druids (who acted as priests, teachers, and judges) and bards and poets (who were professional storytellers, verse-makers, music composers, and historians) integrated the island into a single cultural system (Mac Cana, 2011). Extending beyond tribal affiliations, Ireland was divided into five provinces, Connacht (west), Ulster (north), Leinster (east) and Munster (south), with Meath as a separate province at the center of the island. These provinces were more important than regional political divisions such as counties. “They were part of a cultural cosmology, a way of partitioning the world in which each province was imbued not only with a directional significance but also a conceptual characteristic” (Mallory, 2015, p. 293). This concept of a national consciousness is presumed to be prehistoric, dating back to time immemorial; a sacred time when the natural world and human cultural traditions originated, forging new beginnings that continue to resonate in the spiritual life of the Irish. Ancient Celtic wisdom, embracing divinity in all living things – animals, rivers, hills, lakes, oceans, rocks, and sky – continues to offer a vibrant legacy that informs our world today (Matthews, 1989; Matthews, 1991; O’Donohue, 1997).

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DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-3

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Celtic spirituality A shamanic spiritual system emerged in Ireland by the first century BC. The word shaman originates from the Alta mountain regions of Siberia, Russia. It is only one of a number of words used by various cultures to denote someone who can “shapeshift” into various states of being. The word shaman can be translated as meaning to burn up, to set on fire. This refers to the ability of the shaman to work with the energy of heat (Matthews, 1991). One of the ancient meanings of the word shaman is “one who knows.” The shaman was a “seer,” able to perceive, navigate, and negotiate energies usually unseen. One of the central aspects of the Celtic world was the idea of “shapeshifting.” A person’s essence or soul was not limited to its regular shape. Souls had fluidity and energy that was not caged within any fixed form. In Celtic tradition, there was an interflow between soul and matter, and between time and eternity (O’Donohue, 1997). The Celts believed in various divine presences. Lugh was the god most venerated. He was god of light and giftedness and was also known as “The Shining One.” The Earth goddess was Anu. Negativity and darkness were also acknowledged to have divine origins. Trees, wells, and rivers were special places of divine presence. They were seen as threshold places or gateways between different worlds. The underworld was not considered dark, but rather full of spirit. The Celts had an intuitive spirituality informed by mindful attention to landscape. A rural farming people, they lived within a landscape that was alive. Landscape provided a narrative where nothing was lost or forgotten. Each field had its own name, and each place had its own life and history. The Irish landscape is full of memory, with traces of ancient civilization and sacred places full of presence (Matthews, 1989, 1991; O’Donohue, 1997). The mystery of the Irish landscape can be best understood through the stories and legends of different places. The Celtic tradition was primarily an oral tradition. Stories, poems, and prayers lived for centuries in the voice of the people. They were learned by heart and kept in memory. Language was regarded as having the power to cause events and divine future events. Chants and spells could reverse a negative destiny to one who was wholesome and full of promise (O’Donohue, 1997).

Celtic communism Ellis (1985) offers a comprehensive account of early Celtic society in Ireland, which he defines as “Celtic Communism”. He describes how land occupied by an Irish clan belonged to the community, with boundaries defined by natural features. Although it was a stratified society, where sections of land were appropriated by the ruler and the civil service class, their elevated position depended on the quality of work they delivered for the common good of that society. Each clansman received a piece of land to work and develop. A large section of fertile clan territory was retained as “common land” for everyone’s use. A further section of land was retained for the maintenance of the poor, the old, and anyone who could not contribute to the common wealth. Clan members with individual plots paid taxes for the upkeep of the community, the support of the poor, the aged, and orphaned children. There was no absolute ownership of the land. In ancient Irish society, there were six basic social categories. A person could rise from the lowest social category to the highest and vice-versa. At the bottom of the scale, “non-freemen,” were convicts who had committed actions resulting in [suspension of] civil rights, cessation of pensions, prohibition to practise in professions or be employed in the civil service. . . . Offenders were not excluded from 22

Ireland, colony of the British Empire

society but were placed in a position where they were made to contribute to its welfare. (Ellis, 1985, p. 17) Full citizenship status could be restored after their sentence was completed. Above the “non-freemen” were “freemen,” who did not own land but could hire their labor out to others or graze their cattle on common land. The next social grade was made up of “free clansmen” who worked their own land, paid taxes to the community, and defended the clan during war or social upheaval. Free clansmen, the bulk of the community, had voting rights and could stand for and elect local assemblies to administer clan affairs. Above the free clansmen were the civil servants, elected by the people to carry out the administrative work of local assemblies. This work included road and bridge maintenance; supervising hospitals, orphanages, and poor homes; police duties; maintaining the public mill and public hostel; repairing public fishing nets; ensuring farmers were supplied; reallocating any surplus of stock; and, in times of war, organizing the army in the role of quartermaster general (Ellis, 1985). The next social strata consisted of professional classes: druids, bards, brehons (jurors), ollamhs (chief jurors), and doctors. Anyone with aptitude could undertake the strenuous training required for these roles. The function of the druids was as ministers of the Celtic religion, which had a doctrine of immortality. They believed constant exchange of souls takes place between two worlds, that of the living and that of the dead. Death brings a soul to the second world, where in turn, a soul is dispatched to this world. The druids were philosophers and scientists with extensive knowledge of physics and astronomy. They were also historians and educators who ran schools and higher education (Ellis, 1985). The highest social grade in Celtic society was that of chief. There were clan chiefs, provincial chiefs or kings, and the overall ruler of Ireland, the High King. The law provided for no hereditary rule; rather, every chief – including the High King – was elected to office. Women in Celtic Ireland could be elected to any position, including chief. When they married, they retained sole control of all possessions they contributed to the marital partnership. One of the most progressive aspects of Irish society was its attitude toward medicine. Laws governed duties toward the sick. Those sick or injured were assured treatment, and their dependents were looked after. Physicians were expected to train at least four medical students in the “direct method,” through observation, and ensure they attained high standards of clinical knowledge. Physicians were required to study and maintain knowledge of modern techniques and practice, so a periodic grant was awarded to enable them to devote themselves entirely to study (Ellis, 1985). Hospitality was shown to travelers, and each clan had a public hostel with a full-time manager responsible for the upkeep of roads leading to the hostel. The manager ensured a light was kept burning all night to welcome guests (Ellis, 1985; O’Donohue, 1997). Although the Irish literary tradition was an oral one (Kruta, 2015), the Latin alphabet and script were adapted to Irish and became known as “Gaelic Script.” Thus, the Irish language became the third written language of Europe after Greek and Latin (Ellis, 1985). Celtic lifeways began to change with the introduction of Christianity in the fifth century (Ellis, citing Montgomery, 1889). Initially, the early Church in Ireland adopted the traditional customs, ceremonies, and interpretations of the Celtic world and became known as the Celtic Church. For a time, it remained independent of Rome. The greatest challenge to the Celtic way of life, however, was the Roman Church’s ecclesiastical laws that challenged the principle of common land (clan) ownership. While Ireland was not colonized by the Roman Empire, the legacy of control by the Roman Church in Ireland has been substantial. The English King 23

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Henry II was tasked by the English Pope Adrian IV to invade Ireland and reform the Irish Church. The growing power and global influence of the Roman Church, coupled with the influence of the Norse invasion in Britain, led to the imposition of feudalism in Ireland. Major military attacks by the Vikings led to attempts to reorganize Irish society (Binchy, 1976). The need to defend their territory and resources led to greater militarization of clan society, with greater and greater powers co-opted by clan chiefs. The defining event, however, which signaled the beginning of the end of a flourishing Celtic society was the Anglo-Norman invasion (1167–1171). Despite the impact of this event on Celtic society and culture as an established entity, there remained a persistence of the Irish way of life, based on Celtic cultural norms (Ellis, 1985; Matthews, 1989, 1991; O’Donohue, 1997).

Colonization and settlement The Celtic Christian Church, which had previously tolerated traditional Celtic laws and customs, was centralized under the Roman Church system. One of the Irish Church’s most zealous reformers was Maelmaedoc O’Morgain, born in Armagh in 1095. Maelmaedoc focused on extending episcopal jurisdiction over Ireland by uniting the Church in 36 dioceses under the primacy of Armagh. The acceptance of the Pope’s commission by the English hierarchy to invade Ireland was an acceptance of the Pope’s right to dispose of Ireland and its people as he wished, recognizing his feudal lordship in the world. When Adrian IV issued the commission in 1156, Henry was too pre-occupied with rebellion elsewhere to invade. In May 1167, in response to Dermot MacMurrough’s (the King of Leinster) request for help to reclaim his kingdom following a local dispute, the Anglo-Norman invasion of Ireland began. Treaties were entered into reluctantly between the English Crown and most of the Irish kings. The colonization and feudalization of Ireland, however, was to be no easy task. It would take more than five centuries to destroy the Celtic way of life (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). Following the Anglo-Norman invasion, the Church hierarchy convened a council of bishops during the winter of 1171–1172 at Cashel under the guidance of Christian of Lismore, the principal figure in the hierarchy following the death of Maelmaedoc. Curtis (1923), cited in Ellis (1985), comments that the Irish Church: was now to make the final rapprochement with Rome coincide with the extinction of native Ireland. . . . As well as purely ecclesiastical matters, such as the observation of marriage, baptisms, and masses, some of the decrees attacked the Irish social system bringing laws in line with feudalism. (p. 31) In October  1175, it was agreed that the High King of Ireland would continue in that position under the English king’s lordship, if he paid annual tribute to Henry. In May 1177, Henry made his 11-year-old son, John, Lord of Ireland with the blessing of Pope Alexander III. John centralized English rule in Dublin with the area surrounding Dublin known as “The English Pale.” The feudal system was followed, but by the 16th century, colonists were almost all absorbed within Irish culture. Only a few towns within the Pale did not speak Irish. Irish laws and customs prevailed virtually undisturbed in the territories of the Irish chiefs. It was the invasions of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I that led to the end of Celtic order in Ireland. In 1542, Henry VIII declared himself King of Ireland, and Ireland became a kingdom ruled by the English monarchy.

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Ireland, colony of the British Empire

The Normans had driven the ruling elite from the lands they conquered and had retained most of the inhabitants as tenants and cultivators. They had not systematically executed noncombatants, but this now changed. Massacres were justified by assertions that the Irish were uncivilized, worshiped images, and were open idolaters, murderers, and thieves (Canny, 1973; Coogan, 1996). By declaring the Irish to be pagan  .  .  . the English were decreeing that they were culpable since their heathenism was owing not to a lack of opportunity but rather to the fact that their system of government was antithetical to Christianity. Once it was established that the Irish were pagans, the first logical step had been taken towards declaring them barbarians. (Canny, 1973, p. 586) Conceptualizing the Irish as barbarians, far behind the English on the ladder of development, enabled English colonizers to reduce them to servitude, and if they resisted, to dispossess and kill them. This ideology was subsequently applied to colonized Peoples throughout the British Empire, justifying the African slave trade, and the colonization of First Nations Peoples in North America. The events of 1565–1576 in Ireland have a significance in the general history of colonization that transcends English and Irish history. The involvement in Irish colonization of men who afterwards ventured to the New World suggests that their years in Ireland were years of apprenticeship. (Canny, 1973, p. 595) Colonists in North America used the same pretexts for the colonization and extermination of First Nation Peoples. In all corners of the British Empire, Indigenous Peoples “were accused of being idle, lazy, dirty and licentious . . . the English went to great lengths to establish the inferiority of others so as to provide justification for acts of aggression . . . (and) moral respectability for colonization” (Canny, 1973, pp. 596–598). Changes in religious affiliation within the English monarchy led to religious divisions within Ireland beyond the Indigenous/colonizer divide. When Henry VIII broke with Rome and established the Church of England in the 1530s, a division was established between Catholics and Protestants in Ireland. The English Queen Mary, Henry’s daughter, ruled as a Catholic monarch, while her successor Elizabeth I – also Henry’s daughter, and Mary’s half-sister – was Protestant. James I and James II were Catholic kings. James II was replaced by Protestant King William. This led to a series of changing loyalties and alliances both within, and between, the Celtic nobility and the colonizers. During the reign of Queen Mary (1553–1558), the English established English colonial settlements that drove the Irish off their lands. The province of Ulster, however, retained the old Celtic social system and so became the center of national opposition to the conquest. In 1595, the chiefs of Tyrone and Tyrconnel (Donegal) led an alliance of northern Irish clans against the English. Twenty thousand troops under Lord Lieutenant Essex could not quell this spirited rebellion. Essex was recalled to London in disgrace and was replaced by Lord Mountjoy, whose policy was to massacre the Ulster Irish. The resulting depopulation made the plantation of Ulster possible. Queen Elizabeth I died in 1603 and was followed by James I, the Celtic king from Scotland. James proved to be an enthusiastic colonist, much to the disappointment of the Irish, who

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thought a Celtic king might have been sympathetic to their cause. In 1607, the chiefs of Tyrone and Tyrconnel fled from Ulster. Six Ulster counties – Donegal, Derry (known at this time as Coleraine), Tyrone, Armagh, Cavan, and Fermanagh – were confiscated. Colonists came primarily from Scotland and many were Scottish Gaelic speakers. Apart from their Presbyterian religion, they had few cultural differences from the native Irish, thus laying a strong foundation for alliances. In 1639, Charles I, who succeeded his father James I, planned to invade Scotland following a rebellion of Presbyterians against the established Anglican Church of England. An army was raised mainly from the Irish; however, the relationship between Charles and his parliament became strained and the army disbanded. These recruits became the nucleus of an insurgent army aiming to take advantage of the political turmoil in England to evict the colonists from Ireland. On October 23, 1641, the rebellious Irish rose under the leadership of Phelim O’Neil. The frequency of intermarriage, coupled with the persecution of the Presbyterians by the Establishment, led many colonists to join the Irish in an attempt to rid themselves of English rule. When civil war broke out in England, attempts to suppress the uprising were paused. In 1649, Oliver Cromwell arrived in Ireland to crush the rebellion (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). Petty, a statistician at the time, estimated that: out of a total population of 1,448,000 some 616,000 perished by the sword, famine and plague. Of this number 504,000 were native Irish while 112,000 were colonists. A  further 40,000 decided to leave Ireland  .  .  . in addition there was the extensive deportation of 100,000 Irish who were sold as slaves to the West Indies and other colonies. By one terrific blow the remains of the communistic clan system which had shown vitality for more than a millennium, was now destroyed, root, branch and bole. (quoted in Ellis, 1985, pp. 43–44) At a meeting held on January 30, 1652, plans were drawn up for a “final solution.” The Act for the Settlement of Ireland (1652) was passed by the English Parliament on August 12, 1652. Their solution involved the populations of the provinces of Ulster, Munster, and Leinster being driven west of the River Shannon, into Connaught and County Clare, and being retained there by a line of military forts (Ellis, 1985). Connacht was chosen as a native reserve mainly for security reasons. Those who were moved were penned in between the sea and the River Shannon. Following restoration of the Stuart monarchy, James II promoted Catholicism in England, but this caused great opposition, and in 1688, seven members of the English Parliament invited William of Orange from the Netherlands, husband of James’ Protestant daughter, to become king in England. James allied his kingdom to Louis XIV and made England a semidependency of France. Concerned about the strength of France, and Louis’ determination to dominate Europe, the Emperor of Germany, the King of Spain, William of Orange, and Pope Innocent XI entered into the Treaty of Augsburg in 1686, leading to the strange situation that William, a Protestant king, was supported by the Catholic Pope and the Catholic Kingdom of Spain to overthrow the Catholic King of England (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). James had granted Acts  – passed in the Dublin Parliament  – allowing religious freedoms, but William established the Episcopalian Anglican Church as the only legal church and effectively banned Catholics and Presbyterians from joining leading 250,000 Protestant Ulstermen to migrate to North America between 1717 and 1776. It may have appeared to some that the communistic clan system had been destroyed by the mid-1600s, but Irish resistance, resilience, and cultural traditions had not disappeared. The attempt to crush the Catholic and majority Protestant (Presbyterian) religions united them 26

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against Anglican persecution. Some of the great Irish democratic, republican, nationalist, and cultural leaders were from this Presbyterian group. Like Cromwell’s soldiers in the 1650s, many of William’s colonists sent to occupy confiscated lands were absorbed into an Irish-speaking Celtic society (Ellis, 1985). The quest for spiritual enlightenment, shamanic vision, and the veneration of ancestral lore remained an important part of Celtic tradition, as did music, dance, sport, and other quintessential activities. Culture was maintained and “as an example of spontaneous desire among a conquered people for education, an illegal education system grew up known as the Hedge Schools” (Ellis, 1985, p. 58). For centuries before the Anglo-Norman conquest, the reputation of Irish educational facilities attracted students from across Europe. For the Irish poor, sheltering their teachers maintained aspects of their ancient civilization, despite increasing cultural imperialism. So successful were the Hedge Schools (so-called because it was easy to hide behind a hedge to avoid detection) that some graduates gained admission to universities such as Salamanca.

Resistance, rebellion, and the Influence of religion By 1778, 5% of Irish land remained in Catholic ownership. The wretched condition of the Irish people in the 18th century occurred because of “absentee” landlords (Ellis, 1985). The population had risen, standards of living had dropped and competition for property had pushed up rents to impossible figures. Trade restrictions, lack of mineral wealth, capitalists investing their money in more favourable enterprises, condemned the Irish people to live on what little they could grow in what land they could obtain. The potato, introduced to Ireland in the 16th century, now became the only source of sustenance for the people. (Ellis, 1985, p. 58) The Irish rebelled against their dire conditions and a nationalist or religious conflict took on the character of a class war. In Ulster particularly, pro-republican sentiment was fueled by earlier migration to the North American colonies, which at this time were fighting for independence from England. Multiple radical organizations turned their attention to achieving reform, including the Volunteers of Dublin who developed a quasi-“Independent Kingdom of Ireland,” loyal to the English monarch (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). Institutions such as the Bank of Ireland and independent postal, legal, and customs systems were evidence of an independent state. The Volunteers pressed for a universal franchise in elections and removal of Penal Laws that forced Catholics and Protestant dissenters (Presbyterians) to accept the English (Anglican) state-established church. Their leaders, however, such as Henry Flood and Henry Gratton, had largely achieved their personal ambitions – a fairly independent Ireland, ruled by the aristocracy, and a capitalist class free from English trade restrictions that had crippled the development of Ireland. The parliament location in Dublin concentrated wealth there and allowed arts, commerce, and social life to flourish, leading to a Catholic middle class (Coogan, 1996). Foundations for the eventual partition of Ireland were laid during the 18th century. The rise of capitalism was uneven, with more rapid growth in the north because of the system of land tenure. Religious disunity made partition feasible. Catholics and the dissenting Presbyterians had suffered jointly under the Penal Laws and united to fight the landowning classes. Such an alliance made the Establishment uneasy. In 1795, a movement called the Orange boys, after William of Orange, became known as the Orange Order, initially a strictly Anglican movement. It would be several years before Presbyterians were admitted (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). 27

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In 1791, Theobald Wolf Tone, a Protestant barrister from Dublin, published An Argument on Behalf of the Catholics of Ireland and was invited to Belfast by the city’s Presbyterian liberals. Two weeks later, the Belfast Society of United Irishmen was established, followed by a Dublin branch. The United Irishmen were the “first major Irish radical and anti-imperialist movement, a movement which was both nationalist and internationalist, working with like movements in Scotland, England and other European countries” (Ellis, 1985, p. 70). A manifesto to “the Friends of Freedom in Ireland” was written by Wolf Tone in 1791 and distributed throughout the country. This manifesto was regarded by many as an Irish declaration of the “Rights of Man.” Connolly, quoted in Ellis (1985), comments, “It would be hard to find in modern Socialist literature anything more broadly international in its scope and aims, more definitely of a class character in its methods, or more avowedly democratic in its nature” (p. 73). Such a declaration was reminiscent of the principles of Celtic communism. The United Irishmen sought to establish a radical Irish republic and appealed to France, a country at war with England, for military aid. A French fleet of 14,000 troops was dispatched, but storms scattered the ships and none could land (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). Wolf Tone was captured in battle and condemned to death. He wounded himself in his cell and died November 10, 1798. In January 1801, the English parliament passed the Act of Union making Ireland part of the United Kingdom. The Orange Order were “vociferous anti-Unionists . . . while . . . the Catholic Hierarchy were for the union and saw rule from Westminster as a way of achieving status for the Church in Ireland” (Ellis, 1985, p. 83). Plans for a further uprising were dashed when several leaders were arrested and executed. Learning from past alliances between Presbyterians and Catholics, the Establishment granted a Royal Bounty to poor Presbyterian clergy if they were not seditious or disloyal. The Anglican Orange Order also opened its ranks to all nonCatholics. These measures led to the former anti-Unionists becoming the strongest Unionist element in Ireland. The Union between Ireland and England brought no improvement in the living conditions of ordinary Irish people. For the mass of Irish people, the most serious life-and-death issue was land tenure. Famines occurred in 1817 and 1821–1822 – not because of a shortage of food, but because food was exported to England while Irish people were starving (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). The emancipation movement was led by Daniel O’Connell, who had fought against the United Irishmen. In 1823, O’Connell formed the Catholic Association and called on Catholic clergy for support. Although, as a Catholic, he could not hold a parliamentary seat, he stood for election and won by 2,057 votes to 982. The British Establishment, recognizing the danger in this situation, introduced the Catholic Emancipation Bill which became law in 1829. O’Connell’s equation of Catholicism and Nationalism estranged Presbyterians. O’Connell was a landlord and self-declared anti-land reformer, and, although he was a fluent speaker of Gaelic, Ellis (1985) describes him as the “greatest enemy of the language” (p. 100). At this time, an estimated four million Irish people spoke Gaelic, even though the Hedge Schools now focused on reading in English, Latin, and Greek. This change, focused on the common colonial policy of assimilation through education, had a devastating effect on the continued use of the traditional language, and offered an early indication of what was to come when the National Education system was established in 1845. British authorities wished the education system to act as an agent of civilisation, socialisation, assimilation, politicisation, and the reproduction of colonial values with a view to making Ireland more governable. . . . It was also a product of the endeavours of the various 28

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religious denominations within Ireland to use schools to imbue the upcoming generation with their particular religious beliefs and ensure the survival of their faith. (Walsh, 2016, pp. 8–9) In 1845, a blight infected the Irish potato crop, the basic food of peasants and workers. The years of the “Great Hunger” (1845–1852) had begun. In 1841, the population of Ireland was 8,175,1242. According to Census Committee’s estimates, it would have reached nine million in 1851 through natural increase. Instead, there was a 2.5 million decrease in the population, one million of which had emigrated. The horror of these years lives on through film, song, poetry, and other cultural means of expression. The term “famine” is increasingly replaced by the description “genocide through starvation.” there was no need for people to starve . . . the food was there. . . . During all the famine years, Ireland was producing sufficient food, wool and flax to feed and clothe not nine but nineteen million people . . . but the peasants were forced to sell their produce to pay their rents to the landlords. (Ellis, 1985, p. 111) Against this background of suffering, the Young Ireland movement formed, leading to the 1848 rebellion. Its leader, James Fintan Lalor, called for an agrarian revolution to establish an Irish Republic. Alarmed by calls for rebellion, Lord Russell, the English Prime Minister, sent an emissary to Rome and Pope Pius I instructed Irish priests to persuade people not to fight. Lalor was arrested with most of the Young Irelander leaders, many of whom were transported to Australia. In 1849, a parliamentary Act reduced the number of colonist landowners and established a large Irish landlord class from the hated former estate agents known as “middle men.” This significant change in landownership led to Fenianism (an Irish republican organization founded in the United States) becoming a mass movement. Fenians, also known as the Irish Republican Brotherhood, came into being on March 17, 1858, and established links with the First International, an international organization aimed at uniting various left-wing socialist, communist, anarchist groups, and trade unions based on class struggle (Coogan, 1996; Ellis, 1985). The philosophies expressed by the Fenian leadership brought down the wrath of the Catholic Church, which considered the movement to be communist, something seen as evil, antiChristian, and echoed in the traditional principles of Celtic communism (Coogan, 1996). The Fenian movement, in alliance with the Irish National Land League, united a large section of Protestants and Catholics, farming peasants and urban workers, in its non-sectarian ambitions. These developments were also condemned by the Catholic Church. The Irish National Land League was formed in 1882 to promote sovereignty; after the 1885 election, it held the balance of power. In 1886, Prime Minister Gladstone, with Irish support, introduced a Home Rule for Ireland Bill (allowing an Irish parliament to be re-established in Dublin). This resulted in a mass defection of Ulster-based liberals into the Unionist Party. The Unionist Party, using scare tactics such as “Home Rule is Rome Rule,” provoked a series of sectarian riots against the Bill. Traveling to Ulster, Lord Randolph Churchill (Winston Churchill’s father) stated his intention to stop the Bill by “Playing the Orange Card” (McCann, 1980; Coogan, 1996, 2015). The Home Rule Bill was defeated by 30 votes (Ellis, 1985). The “Orange Card” had worked, and Gladstone’s government was swept from power at the following general election. The issue of religion had been manipulated for political gain. It also concealed the vested economic interests which since colonization had been contingent on the acquisition of Indigenous 29

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land and resources. Since the Act of Union in 1801, the industries of the north had been developed for the English imperial markets, so industrial leaders supported retaining the union with England. The less developed southern industries relied more on the home market, and industrialists there supported Home Rule so they could introduce protective measures to support increases in manufacturing. Capitalist interests in the north and south were thus divided. In 1922, Ireland was partitioned into North and South. The apparatus in the South to support this was the Catholic Church. In the North, it was the Orange machine that retained the power structure under the direction of the Unionists (McCann, 1980). In the North, the Unionist Party constructed a Protestant parliament and state, while in the South, the Dail – or Irish parliament – approved a “Catholic Constitution for a Catholic people” (Coogan, 1993). Explicit reference was given to the “special” role of the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland in the 1937 Constitution. According to Goodman (1998), “The Constitution claims authority from the Church and the Irish nation – and there remains some doubt which takes precedence, as the Church has actively involved itself in popular referenda” (p. 100). The more Catholic the South of Ireland became, the more repulsive a united-Ireland rhetoric was to Northern Protestants (McCann, 1980). In 1974, church-based organizations remained the strongest North-South social institutions. The start of 1976 saw an escalation of sectarian violence. In five days alone, 17 workers were murdered in South Armagh. The local Trades Council organized a work stoppage and demonstration. Factories, offices, shops, and pubs closed. On January 24, 1976, at a rally in Belfast, a Peoples’ Declaration in the form of a petition demanded an end to violence, sectarianism, intimidation, and discrimination, and an increase in jobs, housing, education, social services, and political freedom. This petition attracted almost 200,000 signatures. At the beginning of 1978, the trade union “A Better Life for All” campaign was launched, promoting class unity. This campaign showed the working class had the strength and motivation to fight sectarianism. Sadly, their leadership did not, and the campaign was effectively smothered under their bureaucracy. The level of solidarity across the sectarian divide, however, was recognized by both British and Irish establishments. At a meeting in 1986, between Margaret Thatcher, the British Prime Minister, and Garret FitzGerald, the Irish Taoiseach, Thatcher voiced fears that Northern Ireland could become a Marxist society, an outcome she described as more dangerous than terrorism. By 1990, campaigning and advocacy organizations established cross-border links. Unity around issues such as labor and trade union rights, environmental protection, and women’s rights emerged alongside greater North-South cultural interaction. In the South, Irish people “clawed back from the Church a number of freedoms in the area of personal morality” (Coogan, 2015, p. 4). Contraception became legal in 1980, divorce in 1996, same-sex marriage in 2015, and the abortion taboo was overcome in 2018. In 2018, a bill passed with all party support in the Irish Dail, making Ireland the first country in the world to divest from fossil fuels (Carrington, 2018). The vise-like hold of the Church over education is also cracking. In 2019, 90% of primary schools in the Republic of Ireland were Catholic. Access to them was primarily available to children from Catholic families who were given enrolment priority. Legislation to address what was commonly referred to as the “baptism barrier,” was enacted in October 2018 and is to be implemented during the 2021–2022 school year (O’ Brien, 2018). Institutional and clerical child sexual abuse, and the Magdalene homes scandal, among many others, have seriously undermined the authority of the Roman Catholic Church (Coogan, 2015). Coogan (2015) reports the Ryan Commission (2009) investigation found child abuse to be endemic and detailed physical, sexual, and emotional abuse suffered by children in institutions run by a range of Catholic religious orders. Settings included industrial and reformatory 30

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schools, children’s homes, hospitals, primary and secondary schools, day and residential special needs schools, and foster care. The Commission investigated 215 institutions for children, run by 18 religious orders. An estimated 42,000-plus children passed through these institutions (McGarry, 2019). The Magdalene network of homes and laundries were run by Catholic nuns to “reform” so-called fallen women who gave birth out of wedlock and were forced to give up their babies for adoption. The homes operated for more than 200 years from the 18th century to the late 20th century. An estimated 30,000 women were confined in harsh conditions and treated like slaves. Many were forced to work for many years without wages. In March 2017, a septic tank containing the skeletons of 800 babies was found at of one of these homes in County Galway. This was not an isolated finding (McLaughlin, 2017). Colonial history, combined with the influence of an authoritarian Church, produced what Coogan (2015) describes as “a mentality that might be compared with the condition known to modern psychology as ‘learned helplessness’ ” (p. 93). Coogan refers to the Catholic Church as “The other Irish colonial power” and suggests it was the power of the Church that ensured “no socialist lurch to the left occurred in the wake of the Irish revolution,” resulting in independence from British rule. The Church succeeded in exerting “influence in keeping Ireland’s gaze fixed on the hereafter, rather than the here and now,” making it seem “a miracle that the Irish had risen in revolt in the first place” (p. 93). Such a miracle, however, was born from Indigenous Celtic communism and was centuries in the making.

The renewal of Celtic communism: modern socialism and cultural identity Concern emerged in the 19th century about addressing poverty, workers’ rights and protections, and the resurgence of cultural identity. William Thompson (1775–1833) was a political and philosophical writer and reformer, critical of what he termed capitalist exploitation. Ellis (1985) quotes Connolly in recognizing Thompson as the “first Irish Socialist . . . and founding father of Scientific Socialism” (p. 86). Thompson sought to restructure society, replacing capitalism with cooperative socialism (Connolly, 2008; Dooley, 1996: Ellis, 1985). Building on Thompson’s work, James Connolly, a signatory to the Easter Rising Proclamation (which declared an Independent Irish Republic), founded the Irish Socialist Republican Party in 1896. Connolly’s party sought to establish a Worker’s Republic in Ireland. His manifesto called for “nationalisation of banks, transport, popular control of schools, free education to higher university level, pensions for the aged, infirmed, widows, orphans, free maintenance for children, graduated income tax, universal suffrage and a standard forty-five-hour week” (Ellis, 1985, pp. 173–174). By the end of the 1880s, most Irish towns had their own trade union councils. An Irish Trade Union Congress was established in 1895. The 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin, although crushed after six days of intense fighting, changed Ireland forever. The British government’s execution of 14 of its leaders (including Connolly) transformed them into national heroes. Although aspirations for a united socialist republic have yet to be realized, the text of their Proclamation of the Irish Republic continues to inspire. The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares its resolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and all of its parts, cherishing all of the children of the nation equally. (Coogan, 2015, p. 31) 31

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Celtic norms are reflected in the politics of agrarian rebellion through organizations like the United Irishmen, the Young Irelanders, and the Fenians; and men like Thompson, Wolf Tone, Emmet, and Connolly, among many others. Long before Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels wrote The Communist Manifesto (1948), ancient Indigenous Celtic society in Ireland embraced this philosophy within the structures of Celtic communism.

Celtic cultural resurgence Like many small nations almost destroyed by imperialism, Ireland experienced a national awakening, inspired by Standish James O’Grady’s 1879 publication, History of Ireland – Heroic Period (Ellis, 1985). O’Grady’s book, based on ancient Irish mythology, inspired an emerging literary movement and interest in Ireland’s Gaelic past. In 1893, William Butler Yeats published The Celtic Twilight, a collection of lore and reminiscences from the West of Ireland. This book gave the revival its nickname, Celtic Twilight. Also, in 1893, Conradh na Gaeilge (The Gaelic League) was founded by Douglas Hyde, Eugene O’Crowney, and Eoin MacNeil to encourage preservation of Irish culture in music, dance, language, and literature. The League encouraged female participation, and many women played prominent roles. The Literary Theatre, formed in 1899 by Yeats, Lady Isabella Gregory, and Edward Martyn, was renamed the Abbey Theatre in 1902. The Gaelic Athletic Association supported the growing popularity of Gaelic football first played in 1885, and the ancient Irish sport of hurling (Coogan, 1996, 2015). Through researching the ancient Irish, Standish James O’Grady became interested in Celtic communism and the development of communes. Many rebels and future political republican leaders met through this cultural revival. For example, most of the signatories of the Easter Rising Proclamation were members of the Gaelic League. Padraig Pearse, Thomas McDonagh, and Joseph Plunkett, renowned poets, were all executed in 1916 for their part in the Easter Rising. They understood destruction of Irish language and culture resulted from imperialism and capitalism, so they actively engaged in the ongoing struggle against cultural imperialism. Political activism and a renewed cultural identity were again embracing socialist philosophies and values (Coogan, 1996, 2015; Ellis, 1985).

Back to the future In the 1990s, a period of sustained economic growth known as the Celtic Tiger economy made Ireland one of the wealthiest countries in Europe. When it crashed spectacularly in 2008, Ireland faced economic ruin, becoming the largest debtor country in the world (Coogan, 2015; Kay, 2011). This led to a fundamental reckoning. Described by Coogan (2015) as betraying the vision of the Easter Rising, he notes the painful fact that “the number of people who have committed suicide in the seven or eight years since the financial crisis of 2007–8 is higher than the total of those killed in the thirty years of Northern Ireland’s ‘Troubles’ ” (p. 1). As Kay (2011) comments, the Irish suffer because of “the behaviour of a fairly small number of people, who have yet to be held accountable – bankers, politicians and priests – what happens to a nation when it loses its wealth, its faith in government, and its trust in religion?” (p. 3). After the initial shock and pain of severe economic dislocation and betrayal, the word “liberation” comes to mind! The processes of decolonization are clearly apparent. Ireland is liberating itself from what Coogan (1992) terms the “poverty of mind and pocket that is the product of two forms of colonialism, those emanating from London and Rome” (p. 7). The general election in the Irish Republic on February 8, 2020, delivered what Sheridan (2020) describes as a “glorious triumph for Irish democracy.” The two main political parties, 32

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Fine Gael and Fianna Fail, were challenged after 100 years of monopoly over the political landscape. Through embracing the principles of Celtic communism, “in this new dawn the sense that contributing towards world-class healthcare, childcare, housing and transport might be framed as a decent moral purpose for all citizens” (Sheridan, 2020). The Irish language is enjoying a renewal. According to Walsh and O’Rourke (2017), there is a growing commitment to the language outside of the Gaeltacht where Irish remains the predominate vernacular. Demand for gaelscoileanna (schools where lessons are taught in Irish) is also growing (O’hEaghra, 2018; Kelly, 2019). Irish music, dance, sport, and art continue to enjoy strong popular support. Indigenous Irish music is described by Valleley (2005) as central to Irish cultural life, while O’Giollain (2000) states that Gaelic revival has provided the means for authentic “gaelicization” of the modern Irish State. In 2017, more than 1,200 trained shamans were practicing in Ireland (de Brun, 2017). Ireland is a mystical island steeped in tradition and history. Our Celtic roots ensure our shamanism remains a living consciousness that teaches respect for the rest of creation and shows us new approaches to living. Today, Ireland stands at a crossroads. A stark choice is presented – maintain privileged elites, imperial materialism, and the destruction of our planet, or restore and strengthen Celtic Indigenous norms of balance, harmony, gratitude, and respect. Our embrace of our heritage has restored a quality to our lives that has been sorely missed. Through resistance, resilience, and cultural renewal, new and ancient approaches to living take us away from the imposition of linear timelines. This creates a sense of wonder as we extend our ability to pass beyond this three-dimensional world to a fourth dimension – another world in which the Celts have left so eloquent a testimony. The human journey remains a continuous act of transformation where the unknown, the negative, and the threatening may release the power of possibility.

References Binchy, D. (1976). Irish history and Irish law. Studia Hibernica, 16, 7–45. Canny, N. P. (1973, October). The ideology of English colonization: From Ireland to America. The William and Mary Quarterly, 30(4), 575–598. Content downloaded from 203.19.81.250 on Mon, 24 Jun 2019 04.22.52 UTC. Carrington, D. (2018, July 13 Friday). Ireland becomes world’s first country to divest from fossil fuels. The Guardian. Connolly, J. (2008). Socialism and the Irish Rebellion: Writings from James Connolly. St Peterbury: Red and Black Publishers. Coogan, T. P. (1992). Introduction. In T. Kelly (Photographs), P. Somerville-Large (Text), & S. Heaney (Poems) (Eds.), Ireland: The living landscape. West Cork: Roberts Rinehart Publishers. Coogan, T. P. (1993). De Valera. London: Hutchinson. Coogan, T. P. (1996). The troubles: Ireland’s ordeal 1966–1996 and the search for peace. London: Arrow Books. Coogan, T. P. (2015). 1916 The mornings after: From the courts martial to the Tribunals. London: Head of Zeus Ltd. De Brun, R. (2017, August 8 Tuesday). Shamanism. The Irish Examiner. Dooley, D. (1996). Equality in community: Sexual equality in the writings of William Thompson and Anna Doyle Wheeler. Cork: Cork University Press. Ellis, P. B. (1985). A history of the Irish working class. London: Pluto Press. Goodman, J. (1998). The republic of Ireland: Towards a cosmopolitan nationalism? In J. Anderson  & J. Goodman (Eds.), Dis/agreeing Ireland: Contexts, obstacles, hopes. London: Pluto Press. Kay, S. (2011). Celtic revival? The rise, fall and renewal of global Ireland. Plymouth, UK: Rowman & Littlefield Publishing, Inc. Kelly, O. (2019, September 3 Tuesday). Five new gaelscoileanna to open in greater Dublin. The Irish Times. Kruta, V. (2015). Celtic art. New York: Phaidon Press Limited.

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Suzanne Jenkins Mac Cana, P. (2011). The cult of the sacred Centre: Essays on Celtic ideology. Dublin: Institute for Advanced Studies. Mallory, J. P. (2015). The origins of the Irish. London: Thames & Hudson. Matthews, C. (1989). The Celtic tradition. Shaftesbury: Element Books Limited. Matthews, J. (1991). The Celtic Shaman: A handbook. Shaftesbury, Dorset: Element Books Limited. McCann, E. (1980). War and an Irish town. London: Pluto Press. McGarry, P. (2019, November 27 Monday). Ryan report statistics. The Irish Times. McLaughlin, K. (2017, March 27). Haunting images show everyday life in Magdalene laundries. Daily Mail. O’Brien, C. (2018, May 9 Wednesday). Baptism barrier to catholic schools to go next year. The Irish Times. O’Donohue, J. (1997). Anam Cara: Spiritual wisdom from the Celtic world. London: Bantam Books. O’Giollain, D. (2000). Locating Irish folklore: Tradition, modernity, identity. Cork: Cork University Press. O’hEaghra, C. (2018, March 13 Tuesday). More Gaelscoileanna must be opened to breathe life into Irish. The Irish Times. Sheridan, K. (2020, February 13 Wednesday). Electorate delivers glorious triumph for Irish democracy. The Irish Times. Somerville-Large, P. (1992). An Irish mosaic. In T. Kelly (Photographs), P. Somerville-Large (Text), & S. Heaney (Poems) (Eds.), Ireland: The living landscape. West Cork: Roberts Rinehart Publishers. Valleley, F. (2005, Spring). Authenticity to classicization: The course of revival in Irish traditional music. The Irish Review, 33, 51–69. Walsh, J., & O’Rourke, B. (2017, April 7 Friday). Census shows we must rethink our approach to Irish and the Gaeltacht. The Irish Times. Walsh, T. (2016). In B. Walsh (Ed.), Essays in the history of Irish education. Dublin: Palgrave Macmillan Limited. doi:10.10571978-1-137-51482-0_2

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2 RESISTANCE, RESILIENCE, AND SOCIAL WELFARE Understanding the historical intersections of US federal Indian policies and the helping professions Heather R. Gough and Cutcha Risling Baldy Introduction This chapter explores linkages between federal Indian policy and social welfare policy for Native Peoples in the United States, demonstrating how these policies have been intimately intertwined with goals of land dispossession and colonization. While many social agencies and social workers may think a critical understanding of this history is not relevant to modern practice, the helping and empowerment models that stem from this history continued to be framed in a colonized context that is often invisible to those who do not suffer under its weight. Understanding the historical intersections of federal Indian policies and the helping professions (such as social work, education, healthcare, and volunteer philanthropic work) grounds us not only in the realities of historical traumas that impact how clients and communities perceive helping professionals, but also pushes us to understand (and do something about) the ways contemporary professional practice embodies many of the same colonizing tendencies. As Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2013) notes in Decolonizing Methodologies, we must (re)write and (re)right history, so that we can center the resilience and strength of Indigenous Peoples who were not passive or conquered, but instead were resilient and complex Peoples who navigated, disrupted, intervened, and usurped historical, political, and legal agendas of genocide, removal, and assimilation. Each section briefly explores genocidal/assimilationist policies in the United States while weaving in narratives of Indigenous resistance  – reflecting both sides of the coin of oppression. We begin with the “pre-contact” period and first iterations of federal Indian law and policy that attempted to define tribal sovereignty through colonial fallacies, like the Doctrine of Discovery, to justify the removal and attempted genocide of Native Peoples. We address resistance and resurgence efforts, both those situated in these eras and contemporary examples that illustrate ongoing implications of these periods. We explore policy, law, and attempts at assimilation that informed policies such as Indian boarding schools and the Indian Health Service. In each historical section, we highlight resistance movements by tribes and individuals as they responded, resisted, and navigated colonizing policies. We end this chapter with discussion of some modern-day movements by Native Peoples as they continue to (re)claim and (re)indigenize social services in meaningful ways that value culture, history, and Native Knowledge(s). 35

DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-4

Heather R. Gough and Cutcha Risling Baldy

Pre-contact period Although few – if any – social work history textbooks begin pre-contact, healing, health, wellness, and social welfare policy existed on these lands well before contact with European Peoples and cultures. Indigenous Peoples developed (and continue to develop) sophisticated, complex, and varied systems of healing grounded in Indigenous Knowledge Systems, each with its own deep well of understanding of illness, medicine, wellbeing, and treatments (Weatherford, 1988). Although there are significant variations in healing practices between and often within tribes, common themes in Indigenous approaches to health include mental, physical, spiritual, and community health as relational and intertwined (Hart, 2010; Parrish, 2004; Murillo, 2004). Healing practices occurred in a multitude of settings, reflecting the diversity in social organization and environments including “nomadic hunting tribes, settled farming communities,” fishing-based tribes, “and dazzling civilizations within cities as large as any then on earth” (Wright, 1993, pp. 3–4). For many communities, storytelling and narratives are theoretical and ontological guides, including instruction on raising children; coping with stress, trauma, and family or community difficulties; creating a sense of identity and awareness of social connectivity to the whole; ethics of care and responsibility/accountability; and models of resilience. Tribal communities have various practices including: talking circles, the Medicine Wheel, meditative practices, running rituals, sweat lodge ceremonies, dances, music, games, and engagement with elders to promote wellbeing in spirit, body, and relationships with community (Gone, 2011; McCabe, 2008; Witko, 2006). While these systems were not immune from problems or utopian in nature, they were holistic, well-formed systems integrated into the social fabric of everyday life and consistent with the worldviews of the people (Parrish, 2004; Waldram, 2004). Many traditional and evolving notions of Indigenous healing have survived and continued to develop, although they have undeniably been impacted by federal policies designed to eradicate, assimilate, or marginalize Indigenous worldviews in the name of “civilizing the noble savage” (Shelton, 2001; Dixon & Roubideaux, 2001; Mills, 2004).

Contact–1828: from helping starving colonists to resisting removal The years prior to the American Revolutionary War were largely characterized by early colonists’ dependence on tribal agreements for supplies and instruction from tribal members as to how to obtain food in the new landscape (Pevar, 2004; Dunbar-Ortiz & Gilio-Whitaker, 2016). However, as colonist populations grew, so did their thirst for land and their belief in a God-given right of dominion over both land and “savage” or “uncivilized” Peoples. Increasing tensions between tribes and settlers resulted in brutal clashes that exploded during the Revolutionary War (Deloria & Wilkins, 1999). Upon establishment of the US government, federal policy was to treat Indian tribes as sovereign foreign nations with whom the government sought to encourage trade and avoid military conflict, a policy reflecting the relative strength of Indian militaries against the exhausted post-Revolutionary War state of the US Army (Pevar, 2004; Deloria & Wilkins, 1999). However, in a series of landmark legal cases, the Supreme Court chipped away at notions of tribal sovereignty, suggesting instead that tribal sovereignty implied a mere right of occupancy and status as domestic dependent nations, given that the Europeans had “discovered” the lands (see e.g., Johnson v. McIntosh, 1823; Cherokee Nation v. Georgia, 1831). Health and social service policies during this period reflect similar values regarding the “Indian Problem.” The US Army provided the first governmental health services to Indigenous Peoples in the early 1800s, largely as a matter of self-interest to curb infectious diseases near 36

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Army posts – diseases originally brought by settlers and foreign armies (Shelton, 2001). The government also provided funds to religious and philanthropic agencies for health and education of Indians to bring them the Gospel and “civilize” them, including funding under the 1819 Civilization Fund Act (Shelton, 2001; Deloria & Wilkins, 1999). Government officials clearly understood the link between health service provision and facilitating assimilation. In capitalizing on the eagerness of citizens to “help save” Indigenous people, the government used health and education services as an assimilative tool through exposure to European/Western culture in the course of service provision. Potentially lifesaving care for diseases, available only through federally funded religious and philanthropic groups, became linked to requirements for recipients to Anglicize their dress, behavior, language, and, unofficially, to adopt a subordinate/needy stance. We thus see the first explicit uses of Indian social welfare policy and service delivery as tools of colonization. And yet, Indigenous Peoples resisted. Indigenous nations continued to exercise their absolute sovereignty over the land and Peoples by navigating complex relationships with settler colonists. Native nations demonstrated that they fully intended to maintain their sovereign rights to protect their people, land, and ways of life  – ways that included deeply embedded and interdependent structures, behaviors, and cultural practices central to the wellbeing of the people. For example, the Mashpee Indians, having been displaced following King Philip’s War, settled on land provided by a reverend and organized themselves as a self-governing community. New England continued to try and pass laws that would govern the Mashpee, but they refused and instead petitioned the Crown directly, leading to official recognition of the Mashpee as a self-governing town in 1763 (Dahl, 2018, p. 161). Self-government allowed Tribal Nations to continue ways of life central to the integrated health and wellbeing of the people. In another example of resistance and resilience, written correspondence shows a frustration with Native Peoples who, despite ever-changing policies and laws that tried to disrupt their cultural and ceremonial practices, continued to maintain their cultural, spiritual, and epistemological traditions, including those related to health and wellbeing (Pevar, 2004; Nelson, 1978). In California, the Hoopa Valley Indian Reservation agents wrote that in 1875 almost all Indians on the reservation attended the World Renewal Ceremony (Nelson, 1978). In turn, the government agent enacted new and more restrictive policies that forced Hupa people into work and school attendance, and arrested those who spoke their language or left the reservation without permission (Nelson, 1978). The agent then proposed moving the Hupa off their land to another reservation. Hupa historian Byron Nelson writes that in protest, the Hupa “deserted the church and school, refused to sign vouchers, and would not gather to hear a visiting minister” (p. 110). An oft overlooked form of resistance that impacted tribal abilities to maintain the integrated psychosocial-political-economic and spiritual life so central to tribal health was the role of women in tribal communities. For many tribes, the inclusion of women and two-spirit/ transgendered individuals in positions of power and consultative roles maintained equitable representation and supported the development of practices and policies within the tribes that were critical to the health and welfare of all community members, as well as keeping women’s health and safety at the forefront of policy decision-making (Barrios & Egan, 2002; Weaver, 2009). Tribal Peoples emphasized the centrality of women in their governments and cultures despite ongoing attempts by law and policy to leave women out of treaty negotiations and leadership positions (Mann, 2006). For example, in 1757, Cherokee Chief Atagulkalu arrived in Charles Town, South Carolina for negotiations but was skeptical of working with the all-male European group (Mann, 2006). He is said to have turned to Governor William Henry Lyttleon and asked “But where are your women?” (Mann, 2006, pp. 120–121), as it seemed quite odd and unethical to exclude women from important decision-making and positions of power. 37

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While this tradition of egalitarianism and respect for women would face many challenges under patriarchal-colonization and forced governmental reorganization, women retained vital roles in knowledge/cultural transmission, revivance, and ethics of community care (McKinley, Lesesne, Temple, & Rodning, 2020).

1828–1887: removal and defiance When Andrew Jackson became US President in 1829, federal Indian policy shifted dramatically from “treaties between equals” to a policy of Indian removal. This generated explicit and surreptitious tribal resistance (Pevar, 2004). Driven to seize lands for westward expansion, Congress passed the Indian Removal Act of 1830. Many tribes fought the expropriation of tribal lands on the battlefield and in court. For example, see the Oceti Sakowin defeat of General Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn in 1877 (Estes, 2019). Diminished by disease and relentless westward expansion, Tribal Nations ceded vast tracts of land in exchange for federal promises of protection, respect for Indian sovereignty on the new land bases, and guarantees that the federal government would provide for the health, general welfare, and education of Indian Peoples (Wilkins  & Lomawaima, 2001). Under a series of Supreme Court cases, the Court held that the US government obligation to tribes extended beyond specific treaties to a broader duty to protect tribal lands, guarantee continued tribal sovereignty, and promote economic and social policies that support Indian survival and wellbeing, a legal construct in American jurisprudence that would become known as the trust doctrine (McCarthy, 2004; Pevar, 2004; see e.g., Seminole Nation v. U.S., 1942). As part of this trust doctrine, the federal government became obligated to provide for the health and wellbeing of Indian people, including the provision of healthcare and behavioral health services (Dixon & Roubideaux, 2001). Despite this duty, neglect and active malfeasance dominated federal Indian policy but continued to be met with widespread resistance by tribal communities and active efforts to preserve culturally embedded knowledge (Shelton, 2001). For example, in 1883, the federal government banned Sun Dances and made it a crime to practice traditional medicine – an Indian Offense punishable by a prison term of indeterminate length. Notably, many traditional healers promised local authorities they would stop practicing in order to secure their release from jail, then returned to their tribes and continued to provide treatment (Shelton, 2001). Healing practitioners, herbalists, and dancers passed on knowledge via stories, songs and surreptitious practice (see e.g., Barnhardt & Oscar Kawagley, 2005; Turner, 2003). In communities where cultural practices were done in secret or transmitted only through story rather than active engagement, later generations would rebuild the traditions. For example, in the Hoopa Valley Tribe of Northern California, tribal women are reconstituting the Flower Dance through interviews with elders and use of historical records. Brush Dances, Jump Dances, and White Deerskin Dances that have long been dormant are being reclaimed (Risling Baldy, 2018). Tribal cultures remained resilient, leading policymakers to choose another tactic. Guided by the slogan, “kill the Indian, save the man,” they forced Indigenous children into white-run boarding schools. Children were dislocated from family and tribe, from culture, language, ways of being and doing, and in many cases were exposed to various forms of abuse and neglect. These traumas took a severe toll across Tribal Nations (Adams, 1995). Of particular relevance to issues of health and wellbeing, boarding schools interrupted intergenerational knowledge transmission, including Traditional Knowledge about balance and health, parenting and healthy relationships, and community care-ethics, as well as specific knowledge about the healing arts. 38

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However, boarding schools experiences are as diverse as the students who attended them, with many unintended consequences. Gilbert (2010) writes about the Hopi students at Sherman Institute. For some, the school “provided an escape from poverty and disease on the reservation. Other Hopis considered Sherman Institute to be a military compound where school officials told the students how to behave, talk, work, and think” (p. xxviii). K. Tsianina Lomawaima’s interviews of Chilocco Indian School alumni illustrate how, in some cases, the policy of extermination of Indigenous identities through education backfired. There were “outcomes that policy did not foresee, for instance, that tribal and pan-Indian identity were reinforced, not diluted in Indian schools” (Lomawaima, 1995, p. 129). Some students met their spouses at Chilocco, created lasting connections across tribal communities, and connected with each other after boarding school (Lomawaima, 1995). In several instances, narratives and reflections shared by boarding school survivors focus on finding resilience in Native identity, stories, culture, and language (Million, 2013). Many children ran from the schools back to live in their communities or secretly passed on knowledge they had learned to younger siblings or, later, their own children. Knowledge regarding health and healing practices survived (see e.g., Greenfeld, 2001). Modern remedies and resistance also exist. Tribes are increasingly running their own schools and tribal colleges, developing curriculum, and training Indigenous people to become teachers within their local schools (Capozza, 1999; Castagno, Garcia, & Blalock, 2016; Brayboy & Maughn, 2009). Along these lines, Diné/ Navajo scholar Kathryn Manuelito (2005) describes how the Ramah Navajo Community School (Pine Hills) grounds experiential learning in Navajo cultural and epistemological values, has supported self-determination, and sees increasingly positive outcomes for the tribe’s youth.

1887–1934: assimilation and allotment Two themes characterized federal Indian policy between 1887 and 1934: the desire to take additional land from Indians for settlement by whites and the widely held belief “that the best way to help Indians overcome their poverty was by encouraging them to assimilate into White society” (Pevar, 2004, p. 8). In accordance with these goals, Congress passed the General Allotment Act of 1887 (the “Dawes Act”; 25 U.S.C. § 331 et seq.) which allocated reservation land to individual male heads of households to be held as private rather than communal property, with “excess” parcels sold to non-Indians (Shelton, 2001). Allotment was a patriarchal and capitalistic endeavor, tied to changing the social makeup of Indian societies, as well as familial and marital practices (Cahill, 2011). Privatizing property ran counter to collectivist norms and the conscious decision to allocate allotments to male heads of households was often in direct opposition to the values and beliefs of tribes who were matrilineal or egalitarian (Maul, 2000). While patriarchy undeniably impacted tribal life and women in particular, that is not to say women faded into the ether. In fact, women found new (and old) ways to anchor ontologies as the storm of colonization wreaked havoc on the seas of tribal social organization. Despite patriarchal allotment policies and, later, tribal-governmental reorganization that generally placed men in roles of power, Indigenous women continue(d) to play a critical role in the transmission of cultural, social, environmental, and socio-political knowledge, and providing leadership, even if only informally (Shoemaker, 1995; Maul, 2000; McKinley et al., 2020). To further counter the impacts of allotment, Indian people who worked for the Indian Service quickly learned how to maneuver this bureaucracy, challenge the policies set forth by the federal government, and even to continue living in traditional village sites well into the 1930s (Cahill, 2011). Other forms of resistance included political and social organization to work with 39

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Congress to find alternatives to allotment, refusing to sign acceptance notices for allotments, or physically resisting this change (Black, 2007). Deloria, Jr. (2010) writes that “most of the traditional Cherokees and Creeks fled to the hills of the Ozarks rather than touch the pen to indicate that they would accept their allotted lands” (p. 11). The Muscogee Creek were also vehemently against allotment and demanded that Congress respect the treaties, writing their own Constitution in the early 1890s to “solidify their nation against the United States” (Fixico, 1986, p. 7). Understanding the strength of tribal resistance, Congress responded by passing the Curtis Act, which provided for allotting tribal lands by force if necessary. With the growing popularity of psychiatry came the first formal behavioral health policy for Native Americans in the form of a locked psychiatric facility: the Canton (Hiawatha) Asylum for Insane Indians (Leahy, 2009). Falsely claiming there was an epidemic of “demented Indians” who would suffer needlessly on their reservations without federal intervention, “helping professionals” used Canton to falsely imprison over 400 men, women, and children until its closure in 1934 (Joinson, 2016). Records indicate that Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) agents who found Native persons to be politically unruly (e.g., resisters and advocates who sought to expose BIA malfeasance) were sent to Canton (Burch, 2014; Waldram, 2004 citing Angie Debo, 1940). While the Canton experience was undeniably oppressive and abusive, Indigenous Peoples fought back. There are numerous stories of escape, as well as documentation of families and tribes who lobbied for years for the release of loved ones (Burch, 2014). There are also powerful stories of cross-generational resistance such as those found in the story of Potawatomi healer O-Zoush-Quah and her children, who fought the Canton administration at every turn by sneaking in her medicine feather bundle, sharing stories in Potawatomi, refusing to have her hair cut, and general mayhem within the facility (e.g., breaking things, stealing the nurses’ keys, refusing to interact in English; Burch, 2021). Through these acts and the stories that would flow from them through the generations, Indigenous families found power in resistance and passed on instructions for survivance embodied in the narratives of survivors and their kin.

1934–1952: Indian reorganization and self-government With the advent of the Great Depression, a change in BIA management, and Congressional recognition that it had failed to uphold its trust obligation, a new era of federal Indian policy emerged. John Collier became Commissioner of Indian Affairs and revamped federal policy, pushing to adopt recommendations in the 1928 Meriam Report to improve the health and welfare of Indigenous Peoples (Pevar, 2004). For Native Americans, this New Deal period was profoundly defined by Collier’s leadership and, in particular, by the passage of the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934 (hereinafter “IRA”; 25 U.S.C. § 461 et seq.). Although grounded in paternalistic paradigms, the IRA sought to improve conditions by building on tribal selfdetermination and self-government, providing economic stimulus, and increasing tribal control over funds to improve the lives of tribal members (Wilkinson, 1987). During this period, tribal governments formalized or wrote constitutions, re-established governance structures, and created court systems and judicial codes (Tribal Court Clearinghouse, 2020; Pevar, 2012). This work laid the foundation for future generations to create over 400 tribal courts grounded in tribal values and knowledge (US Department of the Interior for Indian Affairs, 2020; Youngblood-Henderson & McCaslin, 2005). This has had profound implications for tribes in addressing behavioral health issues in ways consistent with tribal values. For example, in 1994, the Snohomish County Superior Court of Washington deferred sentencing two Tlingit youth from Alaska to the Tribal Court. The youth were charged with armed robbery. The Washington vs Roberts/Guthrie case was the first time a US court cooperated 40

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with a traditional tribal court on a felony case that occurred off tribal lands and included an assault by a Native on a non-Native person (Jacobs, 2006). The youth were sent to isolated sites in southwest Alaska and required to do physical work and spend time alone. “It was a rite of purification to cleanse the youth and allow time for inner reflection and a gentle form of punishment” (p. 109). After they returned, the tribal community held a public feast where the Elders determined whether they were satisfied with the outcome. Additional innovations include collaborative courts, wellness courts, and child welfare courts that operate on reservation lands or function as joint jurisdiction courts with state and county superior courts. Through this arrangement, tribal judges serve tribal members involved in nontribal court systems. In the documentary Tribal Justice by Anne Makepeace (2017), we follow Chief Judge Abby Abinanti of the Yurok Tribe and Claudette White, Chief Judge of the Quechan Tribe, as they devise and implement tribal wellness and family courts, diverting tribal members from US criminal justice and dependency (child welfare) courts. The difference in practice and outcomes is readily apparent, as tribal members are embraced by relationally based legal and psychosocial-spiritual interventions that honor their belonging in tribal communities and where every engagement reflects the nuanced ways tribal values influence interactions, decision-making, support, and hope (Makepeace, 2017).

1953–1968: termination and urban relocation Many policies set in motion by the Indian Reorganization Act lasted less than 20 years, truncated by a new administration that believed the “Indian Problem” could be addressed more simply through termination: termination of tribes, termination of Indian-specific programs, and assimilation into urban centers (Deloria & Lytle, 1983; Pevar, 2004). Termination policies had devastating consequences. For terminated tribes, loss of healthcare services, along with the total withdrawal of economic, social, and other basic programming support, delivered not only a psychological blow. Material consequences were often dire and contributed to record declines in physical and mental health. So how did the tribes respond? One example lies in the Klamath Tribe on the West Coast. Despite termination in 1961 and a concomitant dramatic rise in infant mortality and early deaths for adult tribal members, the Klamath tribe recognized that their sovereignty is inherent and exists whether recognized or not. The Klamath people continued cultural practices and collective engagement as a Tribal Nation (Klamath Tribes, 2020). They continued local practices of fishing and hunting on their remaining land. In 1986, after decades of litigation, the Klamath people reclaimed federal recognition and preservation of their treaties and lands (Klamath Tribes, 2020). Another point of resistance for Native families arose under the Indian Adoption Project of 1958. Congress ushered in what would be known later as the “Adoption Era,” promoting removal and adoption of Indian children to non-Native families. Social workers removed Native children on the basis of poverty, common childhood rashes, family members refusing to give up traditional healing practices, and on occasion, actual abuse/neglect (Woodard, 2011). By the end of the 1960s, 35% of all Native children had been removed from their homes (Kreisher, 2002). Native families fought Adoption Era policies by sending Native mothers to testify before Congress. This work resulted in the passage of the 1978 Indian Child Welfare Act. Individuals impacted by adoption have also formed groups to help repatriate and re-enculturate those separated (see e.g., First Nations Repatriation Institute, n.d.). In another example of helping professionals furthering federal goals of assimilation or termination, Indian Health Service doctors covertly sterilized Native women as a matter of routine 41

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practice – women would receive basic healthcare such as a C-section or other procedure and wake up to find they had been sterilized by IHS doctors without their knowledge or consent (Kuschell-Haworth, 1999). Spurred on by federal law under the Family Planning Services and Population Research Act of 1970 (Title X, PL 91–572), social workers, nurses, and physicians often coerced Native women to be sterilized by threatening their future healthcare or threatening removal of their children. Research also indicates that Indian Health Services “singled out full-blooded Indian women for sterilization procedures” (Native Voices, 2020). Native women began sharing their stories and – upon realizing the systemic nature of what was happening – began to organize and litigate for change. For example, now chief tribal judge on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, Judge Marie Sanchez, joined other Native women to form Women of All Red Nations and the National Women’s Health Network to fight for legislative changes to protect against forced sterilizations (Theobald, 2019). Native women also joined class action lawsuits to stop forced/coercive sterilization (see Madrigal v. Quilligan, 1981). Another point of resilience during this period was the response of Native Peoples to federal relocation programs that disrupted cultural connections by moving tribal members into urban centers (Wilkinson, 2005). While many experienced profound loss, poverty, and behavioral health issues associated with such dislocation (Saylors & Daliparthy, 2004), federal aims at destroying Native identity were not successful. Native scholars like Renya Ramirez (2007) have highlighted the ongoing resilience of tribal peoples in urban communities who created what Ramirez calls “Native hubs.” These spaces included healthcare centers, organizations, pow wows, school meetings, community centers, and dinners or gatherings that involve storytelling and memory sharing. Ramirez notes that “hubs, therefore, are moments when Native Americans can work toward self-determination or sovereignty in the absence of land-based form of government” (Ramirez, 2007, p. 3).

1968-present: tribal self-determination In the wake of the civil rights movement and activism within Native American communities against the draconian and unethical practices of the 1950s and early 1960s, federal Indian policy once again shifted dramatically. President Lyndon B. Johnson repudiated termination policies and announced a new era of federal support for Indian rights, self-determination, and preservation of culture (Pevar, 2004). As a result of decades-long advocacy by Native tribes, individuals, and social movements like the American Indian Movement and its high-profile occupations, marches, and legislative advocacy, Congress passed a number of laws protecting Tribal Nations. These ranged from resource and sacred site protection to civil rights legislation, gaming, and education policies, as well as passage of the Indian Child Welfare Act (1978), designed to protect Native American children from unwarranted removals and coercive adoptions (see e.g. Getches, Wilkinson, Williams,  & Fletcher, 2011; Goldberg, Washburn,  & Frickey, 2011; Indian Civil Rights Act, 25 U.S.C. 1301–1303, 1968). Tribes also pushed for healthcare reform through national collective lobbying efforts such as the National Indian Health Board (formed in 1972). As a result, Congress passed the Indian Self-determination and Education Assistance Act of 1975 (25 U.S.C. § 450 et seq., amended in 1988 and 1994), requiring federal agencies to allow tribal administration of a range of programs, including health and social services, and after 1994, mandated negotiated rule-making and consultation between the Department of Health and Human Services and tribal governments. Of particular relevance to tribal social service programs was the passage of the Indian Health Care Improvement Act of 1976 (25 U.S.C. §§ 1601–1680o, permanently reauthorized in 2010 under the Affordable Care Act). After years of advocacy by tribal members, Congress, under 42

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President Barack Obama, revised IHCIA and signed into law the Indian Health Care Improvement Reauthorization and Extension Act (IHCIREA), passed as part of the larger healthcare reform bill, the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act of 2010 (Pub. L. No. 111–148, § 10221, 124 Stat. 119, 935). Permanently authorizing appropriations for Indian healthcare, the new and improved IHCIREA increases authority for tribes to conduct their own health programs; expands the healthcare workforce via training, recruitment, and funding for a broader range of basic services; provides organizational reform to IHS; and provides funding and programs for dental and chronic diseases, including mandatory screening for diabetes when medically indicated (Somers, 2010). The IHCIREA also authorizes comprehensive behavioral health programs covering a wide range of problem areas across the continuum of care for behavioral health services (e.g., community education, home health, community-based counseling, outpatient and inpatient care, as well as prevention, intervention, and aftercare; IHCIREA, 2010). Now under the Affordable Care Act, tribal communities across the country can secure grants and use Medicaid funding for culturally grounded care, reflecting the methods and integrated social care concepts born out of intergenerational Tribal Knowledge. Another area of successful resistance emerged from Native mothers testifying to Congress about their loss of children through coercive adoption and child welfare practices. Out of that work came the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978 (ICWA). The ICWA requires caseworkers to make several considerations when handling an ICWA case, including: providing active efforts to the family (a higher standard than reasonable efforts under general child welfare law); placement preferences for tribal families; notifying the child’s tribe and the child’s parents of the child custody proceeding; and working actively to involve the child’s tribe and the child’s parents in the proceedings (About ICWA, n.d.). However, ongoing research on systemic bias in the child welfare system found Native families are still four times more likely to have their children removed and placed in foster care (Hill & Casey-Center, 2007; NICWA, 2018). For social work practitioners, this makes it even more critical to know and follow the law, collaborate with tribal social workers, and ensure that they do not further colonization within the child welfare sphere of practice. There continue to be ICWA challenges in courts across the nation, with some advancing to the Supreme Court. In one notable case, Adoptive Couple v. Baby Girl (570 U.S. 637 2013), the court removed a 3-year-old Cherokee girl from her biological father and reaffirmed a nonNative couple’s right to adopt her even though her father requested to overturn the adoption. The father, with support of the Cherokee Nation, fought the case for years but ultimately decided not to pursue it further as it would be harmful to his child to continually uproot her with each new court ruling (Gutierrez, Johnson, & News, 2013). On the day he was forced to hand over his child to the adoptive couple, he read a statement that said in part: “One day you will read about this time in your life. Never, ever for one second doubt how much I love you, how hard I fought for you or how much you mean to me” (Peralta, 2013). Subsequently, tribes across the nation rallied to push the BIA to revise and improve ICWA guidelines. Because of tribal advocacy and collaborations with the BIA, such as listening sessions and collaborative legal engagement, the BIA has now successfully defended multiple challenges to ICWA on behalf of and with the active guidance by tribal communities (Trowbridge, 2017). There have also been important ways Tribal Nations have intervened in ongoing federal and state laws and policies to (re)claim their own healing and justice modalities. Language learning programs abound and offer tangible ways to reconnect to culture, as well as reviving unique linguistic concepts that shape how one sees oneself, health, and wellbeing. For example, Okanagan 43

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author Jeanette Armstrong (2006) wrote the following about the use of Native languages and the ways they redefine a sense of belonging, responsibility, and ontology: When I introduce myself . . . in my own language . . . it tells them what my responsibilities are and what my goal is. It tells them what my connection is, how I need to conduct myself, what I need to carry with me, what I project, what I teach and what I think about, what I must do and what I can’t do. The way we talk about ourselves as Okanagan people is difficult to replicate in English. Our word for people, for humanity, for human beings, is difficult to say without talking about connection to the land. When we say the Okanagan word for ourselves, we are actually saying, “the ones who are dream and land together.” That is our original identity. Before anything else, we are the living, dreaming Earth pieces. (online publication) In addition to language revitalization, Native youth–focused intervention research has documented the importance of culture, cultural protocols, and cultural approaches to addressing ongoing issues of violence, substance abuse, and depression. For example, Native American cultural practices and community support can address self-esteem, poverty, school performance, and resilient adaptation in adverse situations (LaFromboise, Hoyt, Oliver, & Whitbeck, 2006). Fostering a connection to culture correlates with reduced suicide rates and ideation (Henson, Sabo, Trujillo,  & Teufel-Shone, 2017). Speaking a Native language is the leading protective factor against suicide among Native youth (Wexler & Gone, 2012). Additional research has also begun to focus on resilience and protective factors more generally for Native Peoples (see e.g., Smokowski, Evans, Cotter, & Webber, 2014; Henson et al., 2017). As a result of this research, often conducted by Native scholars, and through the efforts of generations of elders and youth who would not let culture die, Tribal Nations across the United States are developing innovative culture-based programs to support their communities, including a wide range of activities (see e.g., Friesen et  al., 2015). There are more examples than could possibly fit in this chapter; however, programs to explore further include: Bear River Band of the Rohnerville Rancheria’s Ts’ Denoni Youth Program; the Gedakina initiative for Indigenous families of New England; Two Feathers Native American Family Services Programming; Hawai‘i’s Hui ho’ola O Na Nahulu O Hawai‘i culturally based substance misuse program; the masterfully done video game Never Alone (Kisima Ingitchuga), created by Iñupiat elders, storytellers, and video game designers; the Pueblo Indian doctoral training project through the Leadership Institute at the Santa Fe Indian School; Indigenous-focused social work programs built through collaboration with local tribes such as Humboldt State University’s MSW program; and Indigenous coalitions to address violence against Native women such as the Sovereign Bodies Institute. Interventions must center Native culture and community, thereby disrupting colonial paradigms of “helping” and “social welfare.” Dr. Cutcha Risling Baldy provides trainings for social service agencies that emphasizes the importance of moving “Beyond Resilience.” Her work on Indigenous methodologies for community interventions focuses on identifying community strengths including: (1) extended family and kinship; (2) connections to land, place, and history; (3) Traditional Ecological Knowledge; (4) generational knowledge; and (5) retention and reclamation of traditional language and cultural practices. (Re)centering this historical resilience makes clear the instability of Federal Indian Law and policy as it relies on colonial fictions, which, as noted Standing Rock Sioux scholar Vine Deloria, Jr. (2006) so deftly explains, are “designed to make the arbitrary and whimsical behavior of the governing elite seem to have an 44

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aura of rationality and balance” (pp. 94–95). If Western history is “vested in [the] legacy [of] colonizers,” then we are here to center how Indigenous Peoples navigate a colonial history of violence through family/kinship, connections to land, generational knowledge and retention and reclamation of traditional language and cultural practices” (Smith, 1999, p. 7).

Conclusion At the heart of federal Indian policy has always been the “Indian Problem,” with federal government agencies and representatives perceiving Native people as a problem to be erased, tamed, assimilated, terminated, removed, underfunded, and criminalized. Notably, modern social work research and resulting practice recommendations still often frame Native communities through a lens of risk, illness, and problems rather than through their resilience and strengths. The history of federal Indian policy includes Tribal Nations and peoples navigating and resisting colonial legal fictions through formal negotiations, writing, speeches, marches, organizations, public demonstrations, and even armed resistance to continuing physical and legal encroachment. By examining the historical interplay between federal Indian law and policy and social welfare, we move to position community knowledge, survivance, and resilience at the forefront of progressive criticism of social services while grounding our historical analysis in how practitioners can better serve Indigenous Peoples and communities. Ultimately, we must work toward a generative knowledge that is community driven and based on culturally grounded feedback on interventions, materials, research, methods, data analysis, and social services. Our historical overview of US federal Indian policy demonstrates that throughout the violence of settler colonialism, Native Peoples built meaningful responses informed by Indigenous ways of knowing. As Native Peoples continue to navigate the ongoing structure of settler colonialism, the foregrounding of Indigenous frameworks for decolonization is a clearer path forward for helping professions who work with Indigenous communities.

References About ICWA NICWA. (n.d.). Retrieved March 20, 2020, from www.nicwa.org/about- icwa/ Adams, D. W. (1995). Education for extinction: American Indians and the boarding school experience, 1875–1928. Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas. Armstrong, J. (2006, December). Sharing one skin. Cultural Survival Quarterly Magazine. Retrieved November  5, 2020, from www.culturalsurvival.org/publications/cultural-survival-quarterly/sharingone-skin Barnhardt, R., & Oscar Kawagley, A. (2005). Indigenous knowledge systems and Alaska native ways of knowing. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 36(1), 8–23. Barrios, P. G., & Egan, M. (2002). Living in a bicultural world and finding the way home: Native women’s stories. Affilia, 17(2), 206–228. Bear River Band of the Rohnerville Rancheria’s Ts’ Denoni Youth Program. Retrieved from www. facebook.com/events/bear-river-band-of-the-rohnerville-rancheria-tribal-government/ts-denoniyouth-program-native-connections-identity-workshop/2164013530491914/ Black, J. E. (2007). Remembrances of removal: Native resistance to allotment and the unmasking of paternal benevolence. Southern Communication Journal, 72(2), 185–203. Brayboy, B. M. J., & Maughn, E. (2009). Indigenous knowledges and the story of the bean. Harvard Educational Review, 79(1), 1–21. Burch, S. (2014). “Dislocated histories”: The Canton Asylum for insane Indians. Women, Gender, and Families of Color, 2(2), 141–162. Burch, S. (2021). Committed: Remembering native kinship in and beyond institutions. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Cahill, C. D. (2011). Federal fathers and mothers: A social history of the United States Indian Service, 1869–1933. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press.

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Heather R. Gough and Cutcha Risling Baldy Capozza, K. L. (1999). Education innovation: Indian alternative schools on the rise. American Indian Report, 15(7), 24–25. Castagno, A. E., Garcia, D. R., & Blalock, N. (2016). Rethinking school choice: Educational options, control, and sovereignty in Indian Country. Journal of School Choice, 10(2), 227–248. Cherokee Nation v. Georgia, 30 U.S. 1 (1831). Dahl, A. (2018). Empire of the people: Settler colonialism and the foundations of modern democratic thought. Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas. Dawes Act: General Allotment Act, 25 U.S.C. § 331 et seq. (1887). Deloria Jr, V. (2006). Conquest masquerading as law. In F. Arrows (Ed.), Unlearning the language of conquest: Scholars expose anti-Indianism in America (pp. 91–107). Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Deloria Jr, V. (2010). Behind the trail of broken treaties: An Indian declaration of independence. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Deloria, V., & Lytle, C. M. (1983). American Indians, American justice. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Deloria, V., & Wilkins, D. E. (1999). Tribes, treaties and constitutional tribulations. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Dixon, M., & Roubideaux, Y. (2001). Introduction. In M. Dixon & Y. Roubideaux (Eds.), Promises to keep: Public health policy for American Indians and Alaska Natives in the 21st century (pp. i–ii). Washington, DC: American Public Health Association. Dunbar-Ortiz, R., & Gilio-Whitaker, D. (2016). “All the real Indians died off”: And 20 other myths about Native Americans. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Estes, N. (2019). Our history is the future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline, and the long tradition of Indigenous resistance. New York, NY: Verso. Family Planning Services and Population Research Act of 1970, Public Law 91–572. Title X of the Public Health Service Act, 42 U.S.C.300, et seq. And see Sterilization Regulations, Sterilization of persons in Federally Assisted Family Planning Projects, 42 CFR part 50, subpart B. First Nations Repatriation Institute (n.d.). Retrieved November  5, 2020, from www.utcourts.gov/ courts/juv/cip/icwa/2017/docs/Truth%20Healing%20in%20Indian%20Child%20Welfare%20ArticleSandy%20White%20Hawk.pdf Fixico, D. (1986). Termination and relocation. Federal Indian policy, 1945–1960. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Friesen, B. J., Cross, T. L., Jivanjee, P. Thirstrup, A., Bandurraga, A., Gowen, L. K., & Rountree, J. (2015). Meeting the transition needs of urban American Indian/Alaska Native youth through culturally based services. Journal of Behavioral Health Services, 42, 191–205. Gedakina, Inc. Retrieved from http://gedakina.org/ Getches, D. H., Wilkinson, C. F., Williams, R. A., & Fletcher, M. L. M. (2011). Cases and materials on federal Indian law (6th ed). Eagan, MN: West Publishers. Gilbert, M. S. (2010). Education beyond the mesas: Hopi students at Sherman Institute, 1902–1929. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Goldberg, C. E., Washburn, K. K., & Frickey, P. P. (2011). Indian law stories. Eagan, MN: West Publishers. Gone, J. P. (2011). The red road to wellness: Cultural reclamation in a native first nations community. American Journal of Community Psychology, 47(1/2), 187–202. Greenfeld, P. J. (2001). Escape from Albuquerque: An Apache memorate. American Indian Culture and Research Journal, 25(3), 47–71. Gutierrez, G., Johnson, M. A., & News, N. B. C. (2013, September 24). ‘Baby Veronica’ returned to adoptive parents after Oklahoma high court lifts order. Retrieved from www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/ baby-veronica-returned-adoptive-parents-after-oklahoma-high-court-lifts-flna4B11241648 Hart, M. A. (2010). Critical reflections on an Aboriginal approach to helping. In M. Gray, J. Coates & M. Yellow Bird (Eds.), Indigenous social work around the world (pp. 129–139). Abingdon, Oxfordshire: Ashgate. Hawai‘i’s Hui ho’ola O Na Nahulu O Hawai‘i. Retrieved from https://slideplayer.com/slide/6421920/ Henson, M., Sabo, S., Trujillo, A., & Teufel-Shone, N. (2017). Identifying protective factors to promote health in American Indian and Alaska Native adolescents: A literature review. The Journal of Primary Prevention, 38(1–2), 5–26. Hill, R. B. Casey-Center for the Study of Social Policy Alliance for Racial Equity in Child Welfare, Race Matters Consortium Westat. (2007). An analysis of racial/ethnic disproportionality and disparity at the national, state, and county levels. Seattle, WA: Casey Family Programs. Indian Civil Rights Act, 25 U.S.C. 1301–1303 (1968). Indian Child Welfare Act, 25 U.S.C. 1901 et seq. (1978).

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Resistance, resilience, and social welfare Indian Health Care Improvement Act, 25 U.S.C. 1601 et seq. (1976). Indian Health Care Improvement Act – Reauthorization and Extension: Passed under The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, Pub. L. No. 111–148, § 10221, 124 Stat. 119, 935 (2010) (Indian Health Care Improvement Act codified at 25 U.S.C. §§ 1601–1680o). Amended by Health Care and Education Reconciliation Act (Pub. L. No. 111–152, 124 Stat. 1029 (2010)). Indian Removal Act, 4 Stat. 411 (1830). Indian Reorganization Act, 25 U.S.C. § 461 et seq (1934). Indian Self-determination and Educational Assistance Act, 25 U.S.C. 450a-450n (1975). Jacobs, D. (Four Arrows) (2006). Unlearning the language of conquest: Scholars expose anti-Indianism in America. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Johnson v. McIntosh, 21 U.S. 543 (1823). Joinson, C. (2016). Vanished in Hiawatha: The story of the Canton Asylum for Insane Indians. Winnipeg, MB, Canada: Bison Books. Klamath Tribes. (2020). The Klamath Tribes history. Retrieved September 2, 2020, from https://klamathtribes.org/history/ Kreisher, K. (2002). Coming home: The lingering effects of the Indian adoption project. Children’s Voice. Retrieved December 2013, from www.cwla.org/articles/cv0203indianadopt.htm Kuschell-Haworth, H. T. (1999). Jumping through hoops: Traditional healers and the Indian health care improvement act. DePaul Journal of Health Care Law, 2(4), 843–860. LaFromboise, T. D., Hoyt, D. R., Oliver, L., & Whitbeck, L. B. (2006). Family, community, and school influences on resilience among American Indian adolescents in the upper Midwest. Journal of community psychology, 34(2), 193–209. Leahy, T. E. (2009). They called it madness: The Canton asylum for insane Indians 1899–1934. Baltimore, MD: Publish America. Lomawaima, K. T. (1995). They called it prairie light: The story of Chilocco Indian School. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Madrigal v. Quilligan, 639 F.2d 789 (9th Cir. 1981). Makepeace, A. (2017). Tribal justice. Film Information. Retrieved from www.makepeaceproductions.com/ tribaljustice/ Mann, B. A. (2006). Where are your women? Missing in action. In F. Arrows (Ed.), Unlearning the language of conquest: Scholars expose anti-Indianism in America (pp.  120–133). Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Manuelito, K. (2005). The role of education in American Indian self-determination: Lessons from the Ramah Navajo community school. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 36(1), 73–87. Maul, K. (2000). The role of women in native American societies. Munich, Germany: GRIN Verlag GmbH. McCabe, G. (2008). Mind, body, emotions and spirit: Reaching to the ancestors for healing. Counseling Psychology Quarterly, 21(2), 143–152. McCarthy, R. (2004). The Bureau of Indian Affairs and the federal trust obligation to American Indians. Brigham Young University Journal of Public Law, 19(1). McKinley, C., Lesesne, R., Temple, C., & Rodning, C. (2020). Family as the conduit to promote Indigenous women and men’s enculturation and wellness: “I wish I had learned earlier.” Journal of EvidenceBased Social Work, 17, 1–23. Million, D. (2013). Therapeutic nations: Healing in an age of indigenous human rights. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Mills, P. A. (2004). Urban trails: Joining and sustaining Yup’ik and Cup’ik healing with behavioral health treatment. In E. Nebelkopf & M. Phillips (Eds.), Healing and mental health for native Americans: Speaking in red (pp. 57–64). Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press. Murillo, L. (2004). Perspective on traditional health practices. In E. Nebelkopf & M. Phillips (Eds.), Healing and mental health for native Americans: Speaking in red (pp. 109–116). Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press. National Indian Child Welfare Association (NICWA). (2018). Setting the record straight: The Indian Child Welfare Act fact sheet. Retrieved May  1, 2020, from www.nicwa.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/ Setting-the-Record-Straight-2018.pdf Native Voices. (2020). 1976: Government admits unauthorized sterilization of Indian women. Retrieved on September 2, 2020, from www.nlm.nih.gov/nativevoices/timeline/543.html Nelson Jr, B. (1978). Our home forever. The Hupa Indians of northern California [1988 Reprint]. Howe Brothers, PO Box 6394, Salt Lake City, UT 84106, 1978.

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Heather R. Gough and Cutcha Risling Baldy Never Alone Video Game. Retrieved from http://neveralonegame.com Parrish, O. (2004). Healing the Kashaya way. In E. Nebelkopf & M. Phillips (Eds.), Healing and mental health for native Americans: Speaking in red (pp. 117–126). Altamira Press. Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, 124 Stat. 119 et seq (2010). Peralta, E. (2013, October 10). Baby Veronica’s biological dad, Cherokee nation drop legal fight. Retrieved from www.npr.org/sections/thetwoway/2013/10/10/231536228/baby-veronicas-biological-dad-cherokeenation-drop-legal-fight Pevar, S. L. (2004). The rights of Indians and Tribes: The authoritative ACLU guide to Indian and Tribal rights (3rd ed.). New York, NY: New York University Press. Pevar, S. L. (2012). The rights of Indians and Tribes (4th ed.). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Pueblo Indian doctoral training project through the Leadership Institute at the Santa Fe Indian School. Retrieved from https://asunow.asu.edu/content/asu-announces-pueblo-indian-doctoral-project Ramirez, R. (2007). Native hubs: Culture, community, and belonging in Silicon Valley and beyond. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Risling Baldy, C. (2018). We are dancing for you: Native feminisms and the revitalization of women’s coming-of-age ceremonies. Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Saylors, K., & Daliparthy, N. (2004). Aiming to balance: Native women healing in an urban behavioral health care clinic. In E. Nebelkopf & M. Phillips (Eds.), Healing and mental health for native Americans: Speaking in red (pp. 169–178). Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press. Seminole Nation v. U.S., 316 U.S. 286 (1942). Shelton, B. L. (2001). Legal and historical basis of Indian health care. In M. Dixon & Y. Roubideaux (Eds.), Promises to keep: Public health policy for American Indians and Alaska Natives in the 21st century (pp. 1–28). Washington, DC: American Public Health Association. Shoemaker, N. (1995). Negotiators of change: Historical perspectives on native America women. England, UK: Routledge. Smith, L. T. (2013). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. London, UK: Zed Books. Smokowski, P. R., Evans, C. B., Cotter, K. L.,  & Webber, K. C. (2014). Ethnic identity and mental health in American Indian youth: Examining mediation pathways through self-esteem, and future optimism. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 43(3), 343–355. Somers, S. (2010). Health care reform for native Americans: The long-awaited permanent reauthorization of the Indian health care improvement act. 44 Clearinghouse Review, 365. Sovereign Bodies Institute. Retrieved from www.sovereign-bodies.org/about Theobald, B. (2019, November 28). A 1970 law led to the mass sterilization of native American women: That history still matters. Time Magazine. Tribal Court Clearninghouse. (2020). Tribal courts. Retrieved November  5, 2020, from www.tribalinstitute.org/lists/justice.htm Trowbridge, S. (2017, January). Legal challenges to ICWA: An analysis of current case law. Child Law Practice – American Bar Association, 36(1), 6–10. Turner, N. (2003). Passing on the news: Women’s work, traditional knowledge and plant resource management in Indigenous societies of North-western North America. In P. L. Howard (Ed.), Women & plants: Gender relations in biodiversity management and conservation (pp. 133–149). London, UK: Zed Books. Two Feathers Native American Family Services. Retrieved from https://twofeathers.wpengine.com/ programs/youth-wellness/ US Department of the Interior for Indian Affairs. (2020, November). Tribal court systems. Retrieved November  5, 2020, from www.bia.gov/CFRCourts/tribal-justice-support-directorate#:~:text=Tribal%20 and%20CFR%20Courts,or%20through%20a%20traditional%20court. Waldram, J. B. (2004). Revenge of the Windigo: The construction of the mind and mental health of North American aboriginal peoples. Toronto, Canada: University of Toronto Press. Weatherford, J. (1988). Indian givers. New York, NY: Crown Publishers, Inc. Weaver, H. N. (2009). The colonial context of violence: Reflections on violence in the lives of native American women. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 24(9), 1552–1563. Wexler, L. M., & Gone, J. P. (2012). Culturally responsive suicide prevention in indigenous communities: Unexamined assumptions and new possibilities. American Journal of Public Health, 102(5), 800–806. Wilkins, D. E., & Lomawaima, K. T. (2001). Uneven ground: American Indian sovereignty and federal law. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Wilkinson, C. F. (1987). American Indians, time and the law: Native societies in a modern constitutional democracy. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

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Resistance, resilience, and social welfare Wilkinson, C. F. (2005). Blood struggle: The rise of modern Indian nations. New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company. Witko, T. M. (2006). An introduction to first nation’s people. In T. M. Witko (Ed.), Mental health care for urban Indians: Clinical insights from Native practitioners (pp. 3–16). Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. Woodard, S. (2011). Native Americans expose the adoption era and repair its devastation. Indian Country Today. Retrieved from https://indiancountrytoday.com/archive/native-americans-expose-the-adop tion-era-and-repair-its-devastation-Uinpv-VkFka0KeFfoMD4eQ Wright, R. (1993). Stolen continents: The new world through Indian eyes. London, UK: Penguin Books. Youngblood-Henderson, J. S., & McCaslin, W. D. (2005). Introduction: Exploring justice as healing. In W. D. McCaslin (Ed.), Justice as healing, indigenous ways: Writings on community peacemaking and restorative justice from the native law center (pp. 3–12). St. Paul, MN: Living Justice Press.

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3 INDIGENEITY AND RESILIENCE IN AFROINDIGENOUS COMMUNITIES IN COLOMBIA Stephen Nathan Haymes Introduction In writing this chapter on the resilience of Afroindigenous Peoples in the Americas, I explore the meaning of Indigeneity and its relevance for Afro-Colombian subsistence-based rainforest riverine communities of the Lower Atrato River Basin region on the Pacific coast of Colombia. This interest originated with my work with forcibly displaced communities, victims of the 52-year Colombian agrarian armed conflict. For more than a decade, as an African American born in the United States, I  have accompanied Afroindigenous communities in this region through my role as a Commissioner of the Comisión Internacional de Ética de la Verdad (International Ethics Commission of Truth-IECT). This commission was co-founded by the Comisión Intereclesial de Justicia y Paz – JyP (Interchurch Commission for Justice and Peace – JyP), a Colombian human rights non-governmental organization (NGO), and a network of 220 victim rights organizations called Movimiento Nacional de Víctimas de Crímenes de EstadoMOVICE (National Movement of Victims Against State Crimes-MOVICE), which includes Afroindigenous Peoples of the Lower Atrato. In 1991, Colombia recognized the ethno-cultural diversity of its population through a new constitution. In 1993, this constitution established Law 70, also referred to as the Law of black people (Ley de negritudes), recognizing the ancestral rights of Afroindigenous subsistence riverine communities to their “collective lands in accordance with their cultural identity and traditional production practices.” The “ethno-education” provision under the same law “guarantee the rights of these communities to an education that sustains, nurtures and advances their ancestral traditions and customs.” In 2005, the United Nations’ International Labor Organization (ILO), under Convention 169, recognized these communities as “tribal peoples’ having social, cultural and economic traditions different from other sectors of the national community, identifying with their ancestral territories and regulating themselves by their own norms, customs and traditions” (ILO, 2003). In conjunction with the ILO decision, in 2009, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACHR) ruled in favor of the petition to recognize Bijao Atrato Afrodescendant riverine rural communities as “Tribal Peoples.” The IACHR decision was based on Article 1.1. (1) ILO Convention on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, 1989 (No.169) and Article 32, “Tribal Peoples,” Organization of American States, which states, “Tribal Peoples are DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-5

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people who are “not indigenous to the region [they inhabit], but that share similar characteristics with Indigenous Peoples,” one of those characteristics being “identifying themselves with their ancestral territories” (IACHR, 2013, p. 113). In this chapter, I refer to Afrodescendant rural riverine communities in Colombia not as Tribal Peoples, but as Indigenous Peoples, and more specifically as Afroindigenous. Although these communities may not be Indigenous to this particular area, due to the enslavement of their African ancestors, they have had centuries of presence in the Lower Atrato region. Moreover, from the religious worldview they inherited from their enslaved African ancestors, they recognize the presence of primordial spiritual ancestors in the natural landscape prior to the arrival of their African ancestors (Haymes, 2018; Lusita, 2007).

Historical background The Afroindigenous subsistence riverine cultures and communities of the rainforest that this chapter focuses on reside in the Pacific Coastal Lowlands region of Colombia, South America. They live along three small tributaries in the Lower Atrato River Basin: Cacarica, Jiguamiandó, and Curvaradó in the Department of Chocó. The Pacific Coastal Lowlands also include Afroindigenous communities along the Naya River Basin that flows into the Pacific Ocean and divides the Departments of Cauca and Valle del Cauca. Geographically, the Pacific Coastal Lowlands region is the second most biodiverse region in the world, has the world’s highest levels of rainfall, and temperatures that vary between 77°F and 100°F, creating a climate with near 90% humidity. The physical geography of the Pacific Lowlands covers 72,356 square miles of fluvial-marine plains, floodplains, steep and narrow valleys, and mountain cliffs. The Pacific Coastal Lowlands are known for their floodplain swamps and dense, wet rainforest (West, 1957). Before the Spanish conquest and importation of African slaves, Indigenous Peoples of various Kunas and Ember-Waunnan ethnic groups inhabited the Upper and Middle Atrato River regions. During the Spanish colonial conquest, they were enslaved to labor in the gold mines of the Upper and Middle Atrato. The Kunas and Ember-Waunnan resisted by escaping deep into the dense wet tropical rainforest and establishing small villages along the tributaries of the Lower Atrato River, near the Panamanian border. Today, the Ember-Waunnan is the third largest Indigenous group, with an estimated population of 71,000, with 50% residing in the most northwestern part of the Department of Chocó along the tributaries of Lower Atrato near Panama (DANE, 2005; West, 1957). The Spanish colonies in the Caribbean and northern South America were among the major centers of African slavery in the “New World.” The Spanish arrived in Colombia (or New Granada, as it was called during the colonial period) in 1499, and Africans were imported into Colombia beginning in the 1520s. The Pacific Coastal Lowlands was the major gold mining region of the Spanish colonies. From the last quarter of the 16th century to the end of the colonial period in 1810, large numbers of enslaved Africans labored in the mines. As gold mining intensified, the development of a plantation economy complex in the region emerged, dividing African slaves between the mines, sugar cane plantations, and cattle ranches (West, 1957). The Lower Atrato River region’s dense humid tropical rainforest and swamp floodplains were a sanctuary for enslaved Africans fleeing bondage. Escaping deep into the rainforest and swamp floodplains, African-born runaways were referred to as “cimarrones” by their Spanish settler slave masters. The term “cimarrones” is problematic since its etymology means “wild” or “untamed,” or specifically a domesticated animal that has returned to the wild (Cimarron, n.d.). It is also related to the French “marron,” meaning that which has become wild again, a slave 51

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or animal who has returned to a wild state; and finally, the English word “maroon,” meaning an individual or community of escaped negro slave(s) of the Caribbean and the Americas or a descendant of escaped slaves (“Maroon” n.d. para 2; Palenque etymology history, n.d.). African-born captives escaping bondage founded settlements alongside the river branches of Lower Atrato that the Spanish in New Granada called “palenques.” The term “palenque” has been attributed to both the Indigenous and the Spanish. “Palenque” is also the name of an Indigenous people, also called “Guarine” of northern Venezuela, a part of New Granada (Palenque, n.d., para. 1; Palenque etymology history, n.d.). At the time of the Spanish conquest in the 16th century, the Guarine lived in fortified settlements surrounded by a wall made of wooden stakes or tree trunks used as enclosures. Because of the structure enclosing their settlements, the Spanish conflated the term “Palenque,” the name of a particular group, the Guarine, with the Spanish word, “emplizada” (in English “palisade” or “barricade”), meaning a fence of wooden stakes fixed in the ground, forming an enclosure or defense (Palenque, n.d. para. 1). Henceforward, the term “palenque” has been used in Latin America, and Colombia in particular, to describe the walled or barricaded settlements established by escaped enslaved Indigenous people and later African-born enslaved peoples in the Americas. Indigenous and African-born captives escaping slavery in the early colonial period in the Caribbean and the Americas gave their own names to the settlements they established. Africanborn escaped slaves, mostly Bantu-speaking peoples from Central and Southern Africa, captured by Portuguese slavers and sold to the Spanish, used the Kimbundu word kilombo (pronounced in Portuguese as quilombo) or the Ambundu word mocambo; the former meaning war camp, the latter meaning hideout, both used interchangeably to describe their African settlements (Kent, 1965). This history suggests that the great encounter in the “New World” was not simply a meeting of Europeans and Indigenous, but more significantly a meeting of Africans and Indigenous. The bond between Indigenous and Africans was forged in the cage of slavery and in the uprising against it. Members of racially mixed Afro-Amerindian settlements fought together, claimed each other, and united together for common goals – sometimes all at the same time. Whatever their tactics, the never-ending goal was freedom.

Sentipensante cosmologies and spiritual landscape The autonomous designs of African kilombos were conjoined with how enslaved Africans, perceived and established meaningful relations with the natural environment of the New World. Their perceptions of New World events were guided by west-central West African religious cosmologies that were intimately linked to the spiritual world; that is, to a hierarchy of otherworldly deities, ancestors, territorial, and lesser spirits who shaped life on Earth (Brown, 2000). Being captured, displaced, and implanted in a strange environment limited their understanding of the New World’s natural environment, but did not diminish their understanding of the natural world and their place in it. Their pre-existing land and territorial lifeways of west-central West African religious cosmologies were grounded in a language of truth that the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano calls sentipensante or “feeling-thinking, sensing-knowing” (1989, p. 121). Similarly, the African writer, Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí (1997) proposes the notion of “worldsense” and not “worldview” – the former associated with African ways of knowing, and the latter with Europe. The religious cosmologies guiding the freedom designs of African kilombos provided a way of explaining, predicting, and controlling events in the world around them. Enslaved Africans, specifically, the Bantu speaking west-central West African peoples of the kilombos, sought to 52

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balance and manipulate their relationship with the supernatural world through divination healing practices that necessitated indispensable connection with the natural world. The modes of feeling-thinking and sensing-knowing (sentipensante or worldsense) that characterized their religious culture facilitated their connection with the spiritual world that inhabited the natural landscapes of the rainforest in the New World. The Afroindigenous Peoples of the Lower Atrato River Basin region are the descendants of African-born slaves who escaped deep into the rainforest and formed kilombos, or AfroAmerindian simarans. That latter consisted originally of Kunas and Ember-Waunnan Peoples who had previously fled slavery, followed by runaway African slaves. Afroindigenous Peoples of the Lower Atrato inherited their slave ancestors’ practices of living with the land and with each other in a manner grounded in the feeling-thinking, sensing-thinking, or worldsensing cosmologies of their religious cultures. This religious culture shaped their living practices, including hunting, fishing, planting, and so on, which were grounded in spiritual perceptions of the natural landscape as sacred. Their Bantu ancestors understood that they cohabited the material landscape with “nature spirits” that had dwelled in the plants, trees, animals, rocks, mountains, and rivers of the rainforest long before their capture, displacement, and transplantation in the New World. The African-born inhabitants of the kilombos maintained and adapted their culture to the pre-existing spiritual landscape. Thus, the Afroindigenous Peoples of the Lower Atrato are the descendants of an Atlantic spiritual landscape rooted in West-Central Africa, where Kongo nature spirts, called simbi (or the plural bisimbi) became manifested in the rituals, mythology, folklore, and worldsense of their enslaved African ancestors (Brown, 2000, 2002). The versatility and adaptation of their (Afroindigenous) Bantu-Kongo ancestors’ simbi to the preexistent spiritual landscape of the Lower Atrato, suggest the fluidity of form and function of nature spirits, for nature spirits are both primordial ancestors emanating from the land of the dead and the incarnation or personification of those who once before peopled the land of the living. The significance of this is that the simbi did not require the remembrance of familial kin to have influence in the land of the living. The simbi or nature spirits were already existent in the spiritual landscape of the Lower Atrato River Basin long before the arrival of African captives to the New World. The spiritual predicament confronting the earliest African captives was the dispossession of their ritual practices and ancestral kin by the Atlantic institution of chattel slavery. The enslavement process not only rested on physical terror but on spiritual terror, or what Orlando Patterson (1982) refers to as “natal alienation.” The spiritual terror that characterized Atlantic slavery monopolized control of the symbols of social intercourse, which resulted in “social death,” that is, being stripped of ancestry, family tradition, a name and right to personal identity. The slave was a “genealogical isolate” (pp. 6–7). In spite of their spiritual predicament, the first displaced African captives and ancestors of Afroindigenous Peoples of the Lower Atrato were able to establish connections to the natural environment because the primordial inhabitants of the lands, the simbi, were already present. The religious significance of the simbi’s primordial existence enabled enslaved African new arrivals to reconcile their relationship to the land and to restore community. This was notwithstanding chattel slavery and its natal alienating ritual practices of familial and ancestral dispossession. Because the simbi inhabited the space between the land of the living and land of the dead, this enabled the Bantu-Kongo newcomers to presume the social function of familial ancestors. The simbi’s inhabitance of the spaces between the living and dead empowered enslaved Africans within the Bantu-Kongo spiritual lineage to mitigate the cataclysmic event of natal alienation and genealogical estrangement from “blood” related or consanguineous ancestors. They were able to mitigate their genealogical isolation and estrangement through the communal adoption 53

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of ancestors, in the form of simbi, and kindred river spirits, called nkisi and nkita (Brown, 2000, 2002). These spirits functioned similarly in regions of West and West-Central Africa. The nkisi were spirits of the north side of the Nzadi River, and the nkita were spirits analogous to the eastern province of Kongo. African slaves, and specifically African kilombos, used the simbi to construct a sense of place amidst their captivity and displacement. As territorial guardians of the physical and spiritual landscape, the simbi sanctioned and ensured the success of subsistence activities such as hunting, fishing, and planting activities. African captives’ spiritual bonding with the landscape of the Lower Atrato contributed to the perception of the Lower Atrato as an autonomous zone of freedom. Historically, that perception has and continues to contribute to the migration of Afro-Colombians from other regions to the Atrato. Throughout Colombia’s period of gradual slave emancipation, dating from 1821–1851, freed slaves – employed through systems of debt-peonage or bonded labor, and tenant farming or sharecropping – left the mining settlements, plantations, and cattle ranches, and migrated to vast areas of uninhabited lands in the rainforest along the river tributaries of the Lower Atrato, establishing free subsistence-based riverine agricultural-fishing settlements near African kilombos or Afro-Amerindian simarans (CAVIDA, 2002).

Contemporary social and political context Colombia has experienced a more than half-century–long agrarian armed conflict which resulted in massive population displacements. The Comisión histórica del conflicto y sus víctimas, an impartial commission of academics established during the Havana Peace dialogue to study the causes of armed conflict, described the struggle as an agrarian conflict, suggesting that the origin and major factor behind the conflict was land and its unequal distribution (2015). This conclusion is also reiterated in a 2017 report by the Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre, which states: Over the course of six decades, the conflict has been fueled by the impact of illegal drug trade as well as major economic interests and parties to the conflict trying to gain control over the land. Fighting has involved government security forces, left-wing guerrillas, right-wing paramilitary groups and organized crime syndicates. (2017, p. 25) Francis Deng, former UN Rapporteur on the Human Rights of Internally Displaced Persons (1994–2004), reported that displacement was integral to the so-called ‘counter-agrarian reform’ or ‘land-reform taking place at gunpoint,’ namely displacement ‘is often a tool for acquiring land for the benefit of large landowners, narco-traffickers, as well as private enterprises planning large-scale projects for the exploitation of natural resources. (Deng, 1999, para. 2) Three years after the signing of the peace agreement, ending the 52-year armed conflict, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) observed that during the latter half of 2019 Colombia continued to report the world’s highest number of internally displaced people, with close to eight million (2019, p. 30). The conflict had given rise to diverse efforts and organizations with the aim of protecting the life and rights of victims of the conflict. Among these is the Comisión Intereclesial de Justicia y 54

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Paz (JyP). JyP began in the late 1990s as a result of some individuals splitting from the Catholic Commission (CC) of the Colombian Catholic Church in response to the CC’s refusal to publicly denounce two joint military and paramilitary “counter-insurgency operations” that would mark the fate of the people of the Lower Atrato River Basin on the Pacific coast. These joint operations, “Operation Black September” and “Operation Genesis,” were instituted under the former President Álvaro Uribe administration’s “Democratic Security Strategy” (1996–2007), which militarized the Lower Atrato River Basin in efforts to eradicate the guerillas. The human rights abuses perpetrated by these two joint operations resulted in the forced displacement of 15,000 people and the murder and disappearance of 70 people under the pretext of clearing the area of guerrilla presence (IACHR, 2011). Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and the Inter-American Court complained that the Uribe administration’s strategy clandestinely targeted the rural civilian population, which consisted of mostly Afrodescendants, and encouraged paramilitarism and terror in the countryside, forcing rural communities from their lands. While continuing its Democratic Security Strategy, the Uribe administration sought to appeased international human rights complaints by establishing Law 97 (Justice, Truth and Peace Law) and the National Commission of Reconciliation and Reparation (IACHR, 2011, 2013; Amnesty International, 2009, 2013). The International Ethics Commission of Truth (IECT) was formed in 2003 in response to the failure of Law 975 (Justice, Truth, and Peace Law) and the National Commission of Reconciliation and Reparation (CNRR) to affirm the Right of Victims to Truth, Justice and Integral Reparations. The IECT was also formed in response to the Inter-American Court of Human Rights and MOVICE complaints that Law 975 and the CNRR were not functioning as mechanisms of justice, truth, and peace for victims of state crimes; rather, they were legal instruments of impunity to protect paramilitary actors accused of crimes. Indeed, Law 975 did not include Crimes Against Humanity nor the right of survival of Indigenous – specifically, Afroindigenous subsistence-based rainforest riverine – communities. In other words, Law 975 did not protect their legal claims under Colombian Law 70, 1993, which guarantees rights to their ancestral lands and an ethno-education provision guaranteeing their rights to an education that sustains, nurtures, and advances their ancestral traditions and customs (IACHR, 2011, p. 6; Jackson & Jackson, 1993). Also, Law 975 did not protect their rights as “tribal peoples” established under Convention 169 of the UN International Labor Organization (ILO) as “having social, cultural and economic traditions different from other sectors of the national community, identifying themselves with their ancestral territories, and regulating themselves by their own norms, customs, and traditions” (ILO, 2003; IACHR, 2011, p. 6; Jackson & Jackson, 2007). It is within this context that the IECT supported a new interpretation of Law 975 by affirming the Right of Victims to Truth, Justice and Integral Reparations in accordance to the socio-cultural characteristics of the different groups affected by the armed agrarian conflict. In 2005, JyP successfully petitioned the ILO under Convention 169 to recognize the rights of Afrodescendant communities in the Lower Atrato, as “tribal peoples” (ILO, 2003; IACHR, 2009). These legal measures enabled these communities to make a recognized claim to return to their ancestral lands and territories, which was understood by these communities as a peaceful act of civil resistance. Moreover, the Afroindigenous community civil resistance – or rather, “communal resilience” – is linked to the autochthonous practices of their ancestral subsistence lifeways in the humanitarian zones. By autochthonous practices, I am referring to practices of spiritual bonding with the land enabled by and inherited from the subsistence cultures of their displaced African slave ancestors. It is their ancestral subsistence cultures that enable the political viability of Afroindigenous people to struggle for and own land and territory. The motivating 55

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factor for their return in the midst of conflict and the source of their resilience was their spiritual and ancestral attachment to the land, the Earth, the soil, and each other. It is the autochthonous practices of their ancestral subsistence lifeways that spiritually attaches them to the landscape, calls for their return, and was the basis for forming of humanitarian zones that are reminiscence of the autonomous and self-determining zones of their forebears’ African kilombos or AfroAmerindian simarans.

Humanitarian zones as ancestral places of resilience and return Prior to my invitation to serve on the IECT, I was invited by the Afroindigenous Bijao riverine communities through JyP for an extended stay in 2007 as they returned to their lands after years of displacement. In the letter of invitation, the communities described themselves as engaged in a resistance process in the Lower Atrato River Basin. Citing my research on African American collective memory, they requested that I participate with community teachers and leaders in a conversation about their ethno-education proposal. They explained that their proposal was based on the principles and values of their civic organization: Comunidades de Autodeterminación, Vida y Dignidad de la Cacarica/Communities of Self-Determination, Life and Dignity of the Cacarica (CAVIDA). During my visit to the humanitarian zone settlements named Esperanza en Dios (Hope in God) and Nueva Vida (New Life), I learned their settlements were founded on what they described as their “project of life” and had five principles: Truth, Freedom, Justice, Solidarity, and Fraternity. These principles and CAVIDA were established during “Operation Genesis,” and their forced displacement to the paramilitary controlled town of Turbo, where their leaders were summarily executed. During this time, CAVIDA and the Afroindigenous Lower Atrato communities of Cacarica intentionally designed organizational processes for return to their ancestral lands and territories. CAVIDA, in collaboration with JyP, established protective strategies through international humanitarian law culminating in what the communities referred to as “humanitarian zone” settlement communities. They developed a multidimensional accompaniment strategy supported by JyP that facilitated their return. In 2000, during the height of the agrarian conflict, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights and the UN High Commission for Refugees legally recognized the Lower Atrato humanitarian zones (IACHR, 2013). This process of return and establishment of the Bijao Atrato humanitarian zone settlements was recounted in the documentary Bajo la Palma (Under the Palm). The following comments from the documentary (Botero & Botero, 2009) illustrate their affective attachments to their ancestral lands and territories to which they had returned with a commitment to realizing the foundational principles of CAVIDA in the midst of the conflict. This is the true land of our ancestors from which we sprung; from where our families have come. It is this very land where with my husband, we raised ourselves. (Elder woman from the humanitarian zone) From the earth you were chosen and to the land you will return. Because of this, we love the earth. (Middle-aged man from the humanitarian zone) We love the earth because we are made of the earth. (Elder man from the humanitarian zone)

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Their return required tremendous risk, regardless of their protective strategies, as they were returning to the epicenter of the Colombian conflict where paramilitarism created a reign of terror, social control, and forced land appropriation. The many abuses perpetrated by the paramilitaries resulted in the forced abandonment of huge tracts of land by local inhabitants. The lands were later appropriated by outside economic interests for illegal wood harvesting, cultivation of palm oil crops, coca crops, mining, drug trafficking, and deforestation of vast areas of land to raise livestock and grow illegal crops. These illicit activities and violence targeting the communities continued after their return (CAVIDA, 2002; Comisión histórica del conflicto y sus Víctimas, 2015). In its 2013 decision on Operation Genesis, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACHR) publicly declared that the Colombian Armed Forces colluded with paramilitaries in 1997 and was responsible for the violations against the communities. The IACHR stated that the forced displacements and what occurred within the communities must be understood in three ways, of cruelty to human life, of defiling human dignity, and destroying a human culture.  .  .  . Operation Genesis and the subsequent forced displacement constitute a systematic pattern coincidental with the appropriation of displaced communities’ collective property for economic investment projects and the formation of a model development destructive to the communities’ identities. (2011, p. 6) The IACHR ordered that the Colombian state publicly recognize its responsibilities and establish measures to correct the harms experienced by Afroindigenous Bijao Atrato victims and guarantee full restitution of their lands and territories. In 2016, after four years of peace dialogues in Havana, Cuba, the administration of then President Juan Manuel Santos and Colombia’s largest peasant-led guerilla movement, The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), reached an agreement to end their 52-year armed conflict. In response to the conclusion of the Historical Commission of the Colombian Armed Conflict that the unequal distribution of land was at the core of the conflict, land reform was a prerequisite to negotiating the other agenda items in the Havana Peace dialogues (CAVIDA, 2002; Comisión histórica del conflicto y sus Víctimas, 2015). Despite the peace agreement’s ratification by the Colombian Congress in 2017, international human rights organizations report continued forced mass displacement and targeting defenders of land and environment with threats and assassinations. The current Iván Duque administration, continued former President Santos’ direction of undercutting legal measures that were meant to guarantee the rights of Afroindigenous people to their ancestral lands and territories and to an ethno-education congruent with their cultural identity and traditional production practices which sustains, nurtures, and advances their ancestral traditions and customs.

Race, culture, Indigeneity, and the politics of difference Regardless of the successful petitioning of the IACHR based on ILO Convention 169, as “tribal peoples,” and the provisions under Colombian Law 70, including ethno-education, the Colombian state continues to undermine the rights of the Lower Atrato communities to their ancestral lands and territories and to sustain and nurture their traditions. Within the multicultural citizenship regimes in Latin America, including Colombia, peoples of African descent and

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Afro-Latinos are considered a racial group, while Indigenous people are considered an ethnic or cultural group. Hooker (2005; Wade, 1997) notes that Indigenous groups have attained more collective rights than Afro-Latinos, “in part because in Latin America’s new multicultural citizenship regimes are more amendable to demands made on the basis of cultural difference or ethnic identity than racial difference or discrimination” (p. 229). Similarly, Mark Anderson (2007), argues that in Latin America, “ethnicity and cultural difference [are commonly associated] with indigeneity and race and racism with blackness” (Anderson, 2007, p. 387). Anderson goes on to say that this “not only marginalizes most Afro-Latinos in Latin America from collective identity rights, but that regimes of cultural rights fail to address structural racism effecting indígenas and blacks” (Anderson, 2007, p. 387). Instead of seeing themselves through the Eurocentric paradigm or lens of blackness (Mbembe, 2017), I posit that the Afrodescendant or Afro-Amerindian peoples in Colombia see themselves in relation to the nature spirits of their ancestral landscape, to primordial spiritual ancestors, and as incarnations of those enslaved and freed African ancestors who once peopled the land of the living in the New World and the Lower Atrato. This identity has facilitated Afroindigenous resiliency by converging the past, present, and future when faced with the colonial interruption of their spiritual lineage to their ancestors. In reconceptualizing Indigeneity, Marisol de la Cadena and Orin Starn similarly indicate that “indigenism has never been a singular ideology, program, or movement, and its politics resist closure . . . it does not [possess] a unified much less predetermined trajectory [which] is historically inaccurate, conceptually flawed, and simplistic” (2007, p. 4). From this vantage point, de la Cadena and Starn suggest that a starting point for reconceptualizing Indigeneity is to “recognize that [it] emerges only within a larger social fields of difference and sameness; it acquires its ‘positive’ meaning not from some essential properties of its own, but through its relation to what it is not, to what it exceeds or lacks” (2007, p. 4; Pratt, 2007). De la Cadena and Starn add that this is not to suggest that the “indigenous condition is somehow derivative or without powerful visions and directions of its own.” Instead, they suggest that Indigenous cultural practices, institutions, and politics, “become such in articulation with what is not considered Indigenous within the particular social formation where they exist. Indigeneity . . . is at once historically contingent and encompassing of the nonindigenous – and thus never about untouched reality” (2007, p. 4; Pratt, 2007). In other words, the settler and the native are inextricably and relationally linked, meaning without a settler, there can be no native, and the converse is also true. In considering Afroindigenous resilience one must contemplate how Afroindigenous people figure into settler-native relations. The settler was a “slave master-settler” that promoted the natal alienating ritual practices of familial, ancestral, and land dispossession, and displacement of Africans to the New World. Related to this, Afroindigenous Peoples figure into the settler-native relations because the settler’s relationship to African slaves was one of colonial interruption; that is, disrupting spiritual lineage to ancestors and spiritual bonding with the land.

Indigeneity in different times and contexts Afroindigenous people in the New World are the descendants of Indigenous Peoples of the African continent. What made them Indigenous Africans was their sacred bonding to the land and spiritual lineage with ancestors before their displacement to the Americas. What later made and continues to make them “Indigenous Peoples” is their inheritance of simbi, or nature spirits, and the culture bestowed upon them from their enslaved ancestors (Saunders, 1982). Also inherited from their African ancestors was a different sense of time than that of the Eurocentric time of the settler/slave master in which the past, present, and future move in consecutive 58

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order. Indeed, the temporality of enslaved Africans was similar to the sacred sense of time of the Indigenous Peoples of the New World in which the past and future coexist in the present (Pratt, 2007). The settler/slave masters’ naming of people who were already here in the New World, prior to their arrival, as “Indigenous” was linked to his temporal narrative and rhetoric of progress, development improvement, and salvation that made Afroindigenous people appear to be outside of history. Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2007) comments that, the identity of “the native” is regarded as a complicated ambiguous and therefore troubling term even for those who live the realities and contradictions of being native, and a member of a colonized and minority community that still remembers other ways of being, of knowing and of relating to the world. (pp. 348–349) Smith concludes: What is troubling to the dominant cultural group about the definition of “native” is not what necessarily troubles the “native” community. The desires for “pure,” uncontaminated and simple definitions of the native by the settler is often a desire to continue to know and define the Other whereas the desire by the native to be selfdefining and self-naming can be read as a desire to be free, to escape definitions, to be complicated, to develop and change and be regarded as fully human. In between such desires, however, are multiple and shifting identities and hybridities with much more nuanced positions about what constitutes native identities, native communities and native knowledge in anti- and postcolonial times. (p. 349) Smith’s appeal for “more nuanced positions about what constitutes native identities, native communities and native knowledge” is also relevant to Afroindigenous Peoples in the Lower Atrato. Their self-naming and self-recognition are organized through the living practices of their ancestral subsistence lifeways, not by the Colombian state’s official language of multiculturalism. Beginning in the 1990s, resulting from constitutional reforms that allegedly guaranteed the cultural rights of Indigenous and Afrodescendant peoples, the official documents, policies, and public pronouncements of the Colombian governmental and state-centered institutions declared Colombia as a “multicultural nation.” Afroindigenous subsistence cultures and communities in the Lower Atrato are – and have been – reluctant to define their Indigenous identities through the rubric of the “multicultural nation.” The language of multiculturalism superimposes “race” or “Blackness,” and contributes to the diminishing or cancelling out of Indigenous identities of the Afroindigenous. Black skin categorically defines Afroindigeneity, and not the Indigeneity of their African ancestors and Africa. Assumed in the official Colombian language of multiculturalism is that “Blackness” is associated with Atlantic slavery, displaced African slaves, and their descendants in the New World. Both are perceived as genealogical isolates, stripped of ancestry, family tradition, a name, and the right to personal identity. As mentioned earlier, Orlando Patterson uses the terms “social death” and “natal alienation” to describe the enslaving practices of ancestral dispossession. This narrative is refused by Lower Atrato Afroindigenous people, as they do not refer to themselves as “Black” but rather as Afrodescendants; and in fact, Indigenous Peoples in the Lower Atrato warmly refer to them as the “Afros.” 59

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The provision to protect Afroindigenous cultural rights of Colombian Law 70 of 1993 refers to their land claims or entitlements as “collectively titled property,” not as ancestral lands and territories. This is problematic because “property” – a Western concept – suggests that land is commercially transferable and used productively to generate profits. This contrasts with Afroindigenous subsistence lifeways, in which the land is communally held and the elders allot land for family use in accordance with ancestral land-use practices. The understanding of land as property has meant that the Colombian government paradoxically supports, but simultaneously undermines, Law 70 through various coercive schemes to transform their “collectively titled property” into private landholdings for purposes of national economic development as evident in the Santos’ government document Towards a New Colombian Countryside: Comprehensive Rural Reform (2016). Both before and after this report, Afroindigenous subsistence cultures of the Lower Atrato petitioned the ILO and the IACHR as “Afrodescendents.” Together, the ILO and IACHR ruled in favor of the petitioners that the Colombian government officially recognize their rights as ancestral rights. The Tribal Peoples designation assigned to Afrodescendants in the Lower Atrato fails to capture the complexity of the term Indigenous or native and overlooks Afrodescendants’ sacred culture of natural spirits (or simbi) in which primordial ancestors of the land were already present in the natural landscape long before African slaves arrived in the Lower Atrato. This spiritual bonding with ancestral lands is maintained through practice, such as the ritual of La ombligada (navel). This is a ritual in which soon after birth, a portion of a baby’s umbilical cord is buried in the ground. The practice is believed to bond the child to their ancestral lands. The ritual is accompanied by filling the baby’s navel with some natural substance – for instance, a plant or ground bone of a particular animal from the territory – to transfer the properties of this particular plant or animal to the child (Arocho, 1999). The “tribal people” designation also does not fully capture the spiritual connection to the lands through relationship to the dead. An 80-year-old Afroindigenous women from the Lower Atrato explains: People belong to the land during life but also when they die. That is the reason why we believe the dead do not leave us. . . . We respect their memory because they are considered persons wandering in spirit through the community. That is why we consider the land sacred . . . they should be respected like living persons that continue here in our territories to accompany us through life. We do not conceive the idea that the dead have gone rather, they remain in spirit guarding the surroundings of the community . . . if the land where the dead is buried is desecrated and their remains are exhumed, their spirits disappear and their work to accompany and guard the community ends because their spirit does not have a stable place where it can support the community. (Lusita, personal communication, July 10, 2007) Moreover, the incarnation of family kin who once peopled the land of the living and now inhabit the Lower Atrato’s natural landscape guide the Afroindigenous people in their everyday communal practices of living linked to their ancestral subsistence lifeways. The autochthonous practices through which these communities self-define, self-name, and experience their worlds as Afroindigenous communities is linked to how they (re-)emerge through the everyday living practices of their ancestral subsistence lifeways. It is through the autochthonous practices of their subsistence lifeways that (re)activate and (re-)enable the affective attachment of the Afroindigenous Lower Atrato humanitarian zone settlement communities to their ancestral lands and territories. 60

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In the next section, I draw a connection between these reflexive autochthonous practices of living qua subsistence lifeways as a form of politics that (re)enable affective attachments that (re) activate their emergence as “ecological ethnicities” – or rather, as Afroecological ethnicities qua Afroindigenous rural communities.

Afroindigenous subsistence lifeways and politics The worldview of their subsistence-based life is best illustrated in the quote from an elder resident of the Afroindigenous Bijao Atrato community: “From our parents, we learned how to care for the land. It is from this land that we are nourished and that we sustain ourselves. And as always, our parents taught us to work the land, to plant our crops to plant our subsistence.” Clearly, land is not something that is possessed as property, but is something that one is in relationship with. This relationship to land is captured in the following phrases that were often used by residents during my accompaniment work in the humanitarian zones: “Esta es la tierra que me corresponde” (This is the land that corresponds to me) and “Esta es la tierra que nos sostiene” (This is the land that sustains us). The politics of subsistence associated with the Afroindigenous Lower Atrato humanitarian zone communities relates to their insistence on an autonomous existence (Haymes, 2018). It is associated with their communities’ autonomy from the development and growth politics of the consumer culture of Colombian state, a culture that rejects subsistence and aims to affectively detach the communities from the land. For the communities, then, “subsistence is resistance, is existence, is autonomy” (Bennholdt-Thomsen, 2016–2017, p. 22; Haymes, 2018). Subsistence politics is about activating a communal present and future in which the communities’ emergent capacities for an enduring autonomous existence is always nurtured and cared for through its affective attachment to the land. Subsistence and autonomy here are understood to be synonyms; for example, the English word subsistence has its etymological origins in Greek and Latin philosophy and means “that which exists by itself, through its own immanent strength” (p. 22). In this sense, the subsistence economic culture of Afroindigenous Lower Atrato humanitarian zone communities is both a political act and an act of resilience (Haymes, 2018). Subsistence is also an ecological principle that recognizes human beings as part of the living world and acknowledges the “principle of growth in nature, of emergence and of evanescence . . . [and] the maternal principle, of nurturing and caring. It refers to the rhythm of life” (p. 22). Decisions are made in accordance with a culture of conviviality “in which the principal value is with what is necessary to live well, for living well, satisfied, happy lives” (p. 22). The subsistence perspective is a politics from the bottom-up, from the majority, from civil society; it does not rest on decisions by centralized power, but can “change the world with taking power,” as John Holloway would say. To aim for subsistence rather than profit is the parameter for the cultural change we need today. (p. 22)

Afroindigenous resilience: relational adaptation and re-emergence in humanitarian zones The affective attachment to the land, Earth, and soil, and to each other, produces and is produced by a form of resilience that is inseparable and linked to these communities’ subsistence-based politics. The autochthonous practices of Lower Atrato riverine rainforest communities are a 61

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source of resilience, a source for self-definition and self-naming or living reflexive praxes that are intimately linked to their collective enunciation and existence as Afroindigenous communities. According to Peter Rogers (2016), the term resilience “has roots in the post-classical Latin resilientia – as ‘a fact of avoiding but also an action of rebounding from the classical Latin root” (p. 14). Rogers goes on to say that, “In the modern English, the literal definition is ‘The action or an act of rebounding or spring back; rebound, recoil’ ” (p. 14). This suggests that resilience involves subject–object relations. That is to say, to rebound, spring back, or recoil from something indicates that resilience is the capacity of a subject to withstand, endure, or survive, or resist trauma or pressure. Stated differently, resilience is the capacity of a subject to sustain its integrity from an external pressure (object) that attempts to diminish its wholeness. The classical liberal view of resilience assumes an individualist  – rather than a relational and socio-environmental  – conception of the subject (Chandler, 2014). This understanding of resilience is problematic because it minimizes the complexities involved in how Peoples, such as the Lower Atrato Afroindigenous riverine communities, assemble and reassemble their worlds through their living praxes, within their autochthonous practices qua subsistence-based life politics. Instead, I  suggest an understanding of resilience based on a relational embedded complex understanding of the subject. Resilience can be understood in terms of how human and beyond-human subjects, in relationship with each other, adapt in unplanned and dynamic ways to a world they co-create. Resilience is a (re) emergent and co-adaptive process between human and beyond-human communities that together co-create ancestral lands and territories. In sum, the autochthonous practices of subsistence lifeways of Afroindigenous Peoples is a living practice of resilience that enables a life politics of re-emergence and re-existence in relation to ancestral lands and territories.

Conclusion A relational, adaptive, co-creational perspective of resilience provides a framework for understanding the nature of the resilience of the forcibly displaced Afroindigenous riverine rainforest communities of the Lower Atrato. Their return to ancestral lands and subsistence-based life politics is an act of civil resistance and civil resilience. The Lower Atrato communities’ protective strategies of return to their ancestral lands and territories, including Comisión Intereclesial de Justicia y Paz (JyP) and CAVIDA’s multidimensional approach to accompaniment (i.e., humanitarian, judicial, political media, pedagogical, and environmental accompaniment) enabled these communities to activate their humanitarian zones as autonomous spaces through their subsistence lifeways and politics. The humanitarian zones they established were reminiscent of the kilombos founded by their enslaved ancestors and enabled them to regenerate and re-embed their communities’ ancestral lands, territories, and socio-natural worlds. The Lower Atrato Afroindigenous riverine rainforest communities’ subsistence ancestral autochthonous practices of living should be understood as part of their processes of relational adaptation and re-emergence of their socio-natural worlds and the (re)assemblage of their Afroindigenous worlds and inheritances from their enslaved African ancestors.

References Amnesty International. (2009, March). The Curvaradó and Jiguamiandó Humanitarian Zones: Communities in Resistance in Colombia. New York, NY: Amnesty International.

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Afroindigenous communities in Colombia Amnesty International. (2013, April). Elusive justice: The struggle for land and life in Curvaradó and Jiguamiandó, A report from ColombianLand.Org: Analysis on land restitution process in Colombia. New York, NY: Amnesty International. Anderson, M. (2007). When Afro ecomes (like) Indigenous: Garifuna and Afro-Indigenous politics in Honduras. Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology, 12(2), 385–413. Arocho, J. (1999). Ombligados de Ananse: Hilos ancestrales y modernos en el Pacífico colombiano. Bogotá: Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Bennholdt-Thomsen, V. (2016–2017). A subsistence perspective for the transition to a new civilization: An ecofeminist contribution to degrowth. Canadian Woman Studies/Les Cahiers de La Femme, 31(2), 20–26. Botero, L. F. (Producer)  & Botero, A. (Director). (2009). Bajo la Palma, Spain Generalitat de Catalunya. Bogotá: Comisión Intereclesial de Justicia y Paz. Brown, R. M. (2000, October 27–28). West-Central African nature spirits in South Carolina Lowcountry. Paper Presentation Southeastern Regional Seminar in African Studies (SERSAS) University of Tennessee, Knoxville, TN. Brown, R. M. (2002). “Walk in the Feenda”: West-Central African and the Forest in the South CarolinaGeorgia Lowcountry. In L. M. Heywood (Ed.), Central Africans and cultural transformations in the American diaspora. New York: Cambridge University Press. Chandler, D. (2014). Resilience: The governance of complexity. New York: Routledge. Cimarron. (n.d.). Online etymology dictionary. Retrieved December 14, 2020, from www.etymonline.com/ word/cimarron Comisión histórica del conflicto y sus víctimas. (2015). Contribución al entendimiento del conflict armado en Colombia. Bogotá: Le Monde Diplomatica. Comunidades de Autodeterminación, Vida y Dignidad de la Cacarica (CAVIDA). (2002). Somos Tierra De Esta Tierra: Memorias de una Resistencia civil. Cacarica, Chocó, Colombia: CAVIDA. de la Cadena, M., & Starn, O. (2007). Introduction. In de la Cadena & O. Starn (Eds.), Indigenous experience today. Oxford: Berg. Deng, F. M. (1999). Specific groups and individuals: Mass exoduses and displaced persons. Report of the Representative of the Secretary-General on Internally Displaced Persons Submitted in Accordance with Commission Resolution 1999/47, Addendum: Profiles in Displacement: Follow-Up Mission to Colombia, U.N. Doc. E/CN.4/2000/83/Add.1 (2000), para. 2. Departamento Administrativo Nacional de Estadistica (DANE). (2005). Análisis Regional de Los Principales Indicadores sociodemográfica de La Comunidad Afroocolombiana e Indígena a Partir de La Información del Censo General. Bogota, Colombia: DANE. Galeano, E. (1989). The book of embraces. New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company. Haymes, S. (2018). Constructing peace in the territories of Colombian ecological ethnicities. Social Alternatives, 37(4), 49–54. Hooker, J. (2005). Indigenous inclusion/Black exclusion: Race, ethnicity and multicultural citizenship in Latin America. Journal of Latin American Studies, 27, 285–310. Inter-American Commission of Human Rights (IACHR). (2009 December 21). Annual report of the InterAmerican Commission of Human Rights. Washington, DC: Organization of American States. Inter-American Commission of Human Rights (IACHR). (2011, July 25). Mario López et al._OperationGensis, Colombia. Report No. 64/11: Case12.573. Washington, DC: Organization of American States, p. 6. Inter-American Commission of Human Rights (IACHR). (2013, November  20). Case of the Afrodescendant communities displaced from the Cacarica River Basin (Operation Genesis) v. Colombia. Judgement. Washington, DC: Organization of American States. International Labor Organization (ILO). (2003). Convention on indigenous and tribal peoples, 1989 No.169: Article 1.1. (1). A manual. Geneva: International Labor Office. Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC). (2017, November 13). Thematic series: The invisible majority. Geneva: Norwegian Refugee Council. Jackson, N. L., & Jackson, P. (1993). Law 70 of Colombia: In recognition of the right of Afro-Colombians to collectively own and occupy the ancestral lands (N. L. Jackson  & P. Jackson, Trans.). Retrieved December  14, 2020, from http://www.benedict.edu/exec_admin/intnl_programs/other_files/bcintnl_programs- law_70_of_colombia-english.pdf on 7/03/2016. Kent, R. K. (1965). Palmares: An African state in Brazil. The Journal of African History, 6(6), 161–175.

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Stephen Nathan Haymes Lusita (personal communication, 2007, July 10). Maroon. (n.d.). Online etymology dictionary, para 2. Retrieved from www.etymonline.com/word/maroon# etymonline_v_9633 Mbembe, A. (2017). Critique of black reason (L. Dubois, Trans. and Intro.). Durham: Duke University Press. Oyěwùmí, O. (1997). The invention of women: Making an African sense of Western gender discourses. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Palenque. (n.d.). Encyclopedia Britannica. Retrieved December 14, 2020, from www.britannica.com/print/ article/439361 Palenque etymology history. (n.d.). Etymologeek.com. Retrieved December  14, 2020, from https://etymologeek.com/eng/Palenque Patterson, Orlando. (1982). Slavery and social death: A comparative study. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Peace Agreement Data Base: University of Edinburgh. (2016). Towards a new Colombian countryside: Comprehensive rural reform in final agreement to end the armed conflict and build a stable and lasting peace. Retrieved December 14, 2020, from https://www.peaceagreements.org/wview/1845/Final%20Agreement%20 to%20End%20the%20Armed%20Conflict%20and%20Build%20a%20Stable%20and%20Lasting%20 Peace Pratt, M. L. (2007). Afterword: Indigeneity today. In Marisol de la Candena & O. Starn (Eds.), Indigenous experience today. Oxford: Berg. Rogers, P. (2016). The etymology and genealogy of a contested concept. In D. Chandler & J. Coaffee (Eds.), The Routledge handbook of international resilience. New York: Routledge. Saunders, A. (1982). A social history of black slaves and freeman in Portugal 1441–1555. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smith, L. T. (2007). The native and the neoliberal down under: Neoliberalism and endangered authenticities. In Marisol de la Cadena & O. Starn (Eds.), Indigenous Experience today. Oxford: Berg. United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). (2019). Global trends: Forced displacement in 2019. New York, NY: United Nations. Wade, P. (1997). Race and ethnicity in Latin America. London: Pluto Press. West, R. C. (1957). The pacific lowlands of Colombia: A Negroid area of the American tropics. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press.

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4 THE EAGLE, THE CONDOR, AND WHO I AM AMONG ALL MY RELATIONS Angela R. Fernandez

Introduction I was born and raised in the Menominee Nation of Wisconsin. My name is Kenyukīw (Eagle Woman), and I am a member of the Bear (awāēhsaeh) Clan. My name, clan, family, and community values are at the root of my passion to support individuals, families, and communities on healing pathways through my career as a social work and public health researcher, educator, and practitioner. Like the Eagle who carries prayers to the Creator, I am compelled to use writing as one way to express prayers of love and gratitude for my people, with the goal of leaving behind a legacy of what it means to be a good ancestor. To do this work, I must start within. Throughout this chapter, I share how I have sought to understand my relationship and role in the North and South American Indigenous prophecy of the Eagle and the Condor (representing Indigenous Peoples of the North and South, respectively): that they would fly together to bring about healing and awakening of Indigenous Peoples of the Americas (Remle, n.d.). I open with an explanation of the importance of relationships for Indigenous Peoples, as the foundation for identity, health, and wellbeing. I  then share reflections of love and strength I have gained in flight as Kenyukīw (Eagle Woman), in the form of a keynote speech for postsecondary school graduates in my northern Indigenous Nation. Next, I share reflections on my journey in building relationships with the Condor, representing my relatives to the south (and beyond), with gratitude for their teachings about what it means to be an Indigenous person and a good relative. I close with a recognition of the complexities of being an Indigenous person in this world, embodying both privilege and oppression, as well as responsibility and relationship. This journey is one of understanding who I am among all my relations, through recognizing all of the complexity, privilege, and oppression I embody, while simultaneously resisting Indigenous erasure and embracing my existence with pride and resilience.

Relationships Across Indigenous cultures, relationships are central to identity, health, and wellbeing. Such relationships extend beyond interpersonal, familial, and communal relationships to include all our relatives, such as plants, animals, water, and lands. Relationality is a concept that highlights the importance of these relationships (Wilson, 2008) – one that binds Indigenous identity in 65

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equitable, intergenerational relationships through relational accountability, which requires us to fulfill obligations not only interpersonally but also with all of Creation. A relational perspective on wellbeing “assumes that the individual, family, community, and society are interconnected and inseparable” (McCubbin, McCubbin, Zhang, Kehl,  & Strom, 2013, p.  363). This perspective underscores the interdependent, relational connections between families (e.g., nuclear, extended, adopted), ancestors, community, society, culture, physical and natural environments, and the world (McCubbin et al., 2013). Connectedness results from relationality, and is defined as “the interrelated welfare of the individual, one’s family, one’s community, and the natural environment” (Mohatt, Fok, Burket, Henry, & Allen, 2011, p. 444). Connectedness to environment, community, ancestors and future generations, family, and spirit plays a central role the wellbeing of Indigenous children (Ullrich, 2019). For many Indigenous Peoples who migrate from rural settings or across other colonial borders, connectedness to original Indigenous lands is carried within, through creating spaces for ceremonial music and dance for children, adults, and elders (Senungetuk, 2017). The “land” or “environment” not only refers to geographically bound tribal lands, but also to a “socially determined sense of place” (Ullrich, 2019, p. 4), such as in the case of an urban Indigenous dance community (Johnson, 2013; Senungetuk, 2017). From my journey along the flight of the Eagle and Condor, I’ve been gifted teachings about the many ways that Indigenous Peoples navigate complexities of identity, and both find and build relationships with all of our relatives in all their forms. Together, we envision and build pathways of health for future generations.

The Eagle Early in the summer of 2020, I was humbled and honored to be asked to deliver a keynote address to 51 Menominee graduates, who ranged from those receiving technical diplomas to those completing graduate programs. The tribal education department director and her team had been working hard to organize a beautiful outdoor event adhering to public health safety guidelines in order to protect our community from COVID-19 while celebrating the educational achievement of our tribal members. Less than a week before the scheduled event, there was a spike in the number of cases on our reservation, so our community went into lockdown, and the director and her team postponed the event in order to prioritize the safety of graduates and their families. Four weeks later, on a windy, sunny, and cool August morning, I stood on stage at ‘s kew ‘nīmehetuaq – the pow wow grounds of the Menominee Nation – before a crowd of 2020 Menominee graduates, as their friends and families watched from their cars. The local radio station was broadcasting the graduation honoring ceremony, and my cousin was filming the ceremony to later upload to YouTube. I  couldn’t help but feel nervous  – this was the most meaningful and deeply personal speaking opportunity I’ve ever had. I saw it is a powerful way for me to share my love for my people in a public format. That morning, I prayed, put down my tobacco, and asked my ancestors and the spirits of the leaders of my people to join me as I delivered the keynote speech on the year’s chosen theme of “Strong, Resilient, Indigenous.” I stepped up to the stage, and began to speak: Pōsōh mīp netāēhnawēmākanak mesek māwaw new weyak mamāecetowak āēswihsiyan Kenyukīw Angela Fernandez Mōkoman eneq āēswihsiyan awāēhsāēh netōtāēm. (Hello to all of my relatives and everyone, my Menominee name is Eagle Woman and Angela Fernandez is my non-Menominee name, and I am Bear Clan.)

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Wāēwāēnen (thank you) to our leaders for their songs and words, to the organizers, the graduates, their families, and friends. Special thanks to a few graduates who shared words of wisdom about what being strong, resilient, and Indigenous means to you. Your messages helped inspire this speech and your wisdom is within these words. Special thanks also to my family and friends who helped inspire these words with their love, support and wisdom. I am humbled and honored to be asked to speak to all of you today. I am reminded of Maya Angelou’s words of wisdom to call in our ancestors and the spirits of our families and loved ones when we are called to speak with courage. I am calling in mine today to help me share the words of my heart with strength, courage, and love. I also invite you to call in yours to enjoy this moment of reflection and celebration with us. My prayer for each and every one of you today is to feel the love of our ancestors and the spirits of our loved ones, upon whose shoulders we all stand. To receive their love allows us to pass on this love to future generations. As Menominee people, we are strong, resilient, and Indigenous. We have worked hard to gain new skills, or build on existing skills in technical sciences, law, business, social sciences, health sciences, education, administration, arts and design, the environment, and computer and information sciences. Just like our ancestors in our clan system, we each have unique talents, passions and skills that help us fulfill our purpose to take care of ourselves, our families, our communities, our relatives, and Mother Earth. WE are needed. Just like our ancestors, we have also experienced many hardships before we got to this point – some while earning our degrees and diplomas, and many which began long before. We may have experienced poverty, addiction, homelessness, violence, abuse, neglect, illness, or have lost loved ones along the way. We may have also thought of ending our own lives at one point – I know I had – or we may have harmed others we love, feeling hurt, pain, anger, and hopelessness. Many of us still struggle with these challenges, and we know that life has more challenges to come. Our ancestors and Indigenous relatives across the Americas were and remain survivors of genocide, starvation, death from colonial diseases, slavery, displacement, violence, incarceration in boarding schools, prisons, and immigration detention centers, and ongoing attempts at desecration of Mother Earth since 1492. But WE are still here. Just like our ancestors, we have worked hard despite these challenges to raise our children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, cousins and other young loved ones with love, respect, pride, and power. We have also cared for our adult relatives, elders, and friends. We have overcome our fears with courage. We have done all of this while working hard to get our degrees and diplomas, in order to be living and loving examples for our young ones and all those we love. Resilience is in our blood. During these learning journeys, we have not only strived to take care of our families and friends, but also our larger Native community and our lands and waters. We have stepped up to help protect our community from COVID-19 through working, volunteering, social distancing, and masking up. We mourn the loss of each relative across Indian Country to COVID-19 – our ancestral memories embodied from the millions of our Peoples who died across the Americas due to colonial diseases to which they had no immunological resistance. We continue to stand in solidarity with our women, girls, two-spirit, and other relatives who’ve gone missing or who’ve been murdered. We continue to find multiple

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ways to contribute to the fight against the Back 40 Mine and to protect Mahwāēw Sēpēw, our sacred Wolf River, as well as our sacred forest. As the late Ingrid Washinawatok El-Issa has said, “Sovereignty has been an integral part of Indigenous Peoples’ daily existence,” and that “with original instructions from the Creator, we realize our responsibilities” (Washinawatok El-Issa, 2020, no page). We stand in solidarity with our Lakota relatives as Water Protectors to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline. We stand in solidarity with the children of our Indigenous relatives at the southern US colonial border who are stolen from their parents and put in cages and prisons for profit. We stand with our Asian relatives as they are being blamed for COVID-19, as well as with other Latinx, Muslim, and immigrant relatives who are targeted with xenophobic words and actions. We stand in solidarity with our Black relatives against anti-Black violence and racism. We stand in solidarity with our two-spirit and LGBT relatives against hate and violence. We stand with our relatives of all abilities against discrimination for how they show up in the world. And WE as Menominees are diverse, as are our relatives with whom we stand in solidarity. WE represent many of these same identities. Among our tribe, as well as across Indian Country, we represent many beautiful skin colors, tribal nations, and clan memberships. We each have unique abilities and gender identities, and we love our relatives of all such beautiful identities and backgrounds. When we stand with our relatives, WE stand for ALL of the beauty and diversity within ourselves as individuals AND as a tribal nation. WE stand for US. Our liberation is tied to that of all of our relatives. Justice for one of us is justice for all of us. Justice for one of us is justice for our Indigenous ancestors’ who faced genocide, displacement, slavery, boarding schools, incarceration, poverty, and violence. And still, they rose, to pass on everything they could for us to be proud and pass on strength, resilience, and love to future generations. It is because of them that we are here. We are proud to be Menominee, and we are strong, resilient, and Indigenous. Please say it with me. We are STRONG, RESILIENT, and INDIGENOUS. WE ARE STRONG. This strength begins inside. I  remember many years ago being told by a Native elder and former professor when I was worried about remembering which interventions to use with my clients as a brand-new social worker. She said to pray every morning and evening, and to “let your spirit guide you.” Since then, I’ve learned that if I don’t work through my own traumas and challenges every day, I cannot be present for those who I wish to support, and in fact, I can even harm them. She also said more recently, as I prepared to finish my Ph.D., “Angela, you always look for mentors. YOU are the mentor.” This also reminded me that as we gain experience in the academy as well as in life (also known as the school of hard knocks), we are also challenged to become the leaders who our teachers, mentors, family, and community have prepared us to be. There comes a time when we must be courageous and confident, knowing that this does not mean we have lost our cultural values of humility, or that we believe that we know everything and are free of making mistakes, but rather, we are following in our 68

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ancestors’ footsteps to step up and speak out for love, peace, and justice. And when we do this, there WILL be mistakes, but each of these mistakes is a lesson which will help us grow stronger and help us “put power behind those words,” as a dear friend once told me. As Ada Deer has said, “if you want to change things, there is only one place to start – speaking out” (Deer, 1970). Being a leader means dedicating our lives to our communities with humility, strength, and courage. And that work starts within. I’ve had to learn about my own implicit and explicit biases, my own fears, my own ignorance, and my own mistakes. I’ve been challenged to step up. As a close friend once told me, “remember, you are a solider,” and that we are “bulldozing” generations of colonial trauma as we work to be forces of healing for ourselves and those around us. Bulldozing involves all kinds of bumps and bruises, but in the process, we deconstruct and demolish colonial lies about ourselves and others – which tell us we don’t belong, we shouldn’t be here, and we have nothing to contribute to this world. WE ARE RESILIENT. We have said no more to pain and violence – and that includes harming ourselves with negative words and beliefs. We work hard to model what this looks like for our children. Whether it means taking it one day at a time, one hour or one minute at a time. Whether it means embracing our beauty, strength, and resilience for the diverse, complex, and beautiful people we are born to be, as we embody our ancestors and relatives’ call for us to “just be” who we are created to be. We are all gifts to our communities and to the world. Whether it means recognizing that every time we tell ourselves as we struggle to understand a new concept in school, in our workplaces, at home, or in the community, that we are not good enough, not smart enough, don’t belong, or wish we could be like someone else. These kinds of thoughts made me drop out of school in the sixth grade, and want to drop out many times after. And I still struggle with them, but then I remember, I’m a soldier bulldozing generations of colonial trauma. Remember, WE REFUSE to be erased. We refuse to remain silent. We are warriors for our people. We are warriors for our relatives. We are warriors for all of Mother Earth. By listening to our ancestors’ gentle call for us to love ourselves and see their image in ours, to see our children’s and grandchildren’s images in us, and to stand tall, shoulders and head up, knowing that we are never alone on this journey, we honor them. We embrace all of our beauty and diversity within our Menominee Nation, because we are one people of many clans, with many purposes, many faces, many beliefs, and many ways to love and make our community strong and thriving. Whether we now begin, return to, or continue careers in all of the fields of study in which we have earned our degrees and diplomas, we are charged with the privilege and responsibility of being warriors for our people, our lands, and our relatives wherever we go. We thank all of our teachers and professors who have taught us old traditions and new traditions. They may have taught us in school, at home, in the community, at work, or in ceremony. 69

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We also thank all of those who supported our teachers in the schools, who fed us, who cleaned up after us, who helped us learn how to take care of each other and challenge ourselves to grow. They may be those who helped us realize that we belonged in higher education, and that we are needed. They may be educators, relatives, friends, people we just met, or even people whose hurtful actions have reminded us how strong we are. They may be winged, or four-footed, teachers, or they may provide sunshine, hydration, shade, or food to nourish our bodies and minds. From feeding us, to helping us fill out applications, or to letting us cry in their homes, offices, under their shade or in their waters when we may have wanted to give up, each of these relatives of Mother Earth has shared a gift that helps us flourish and enables us to pass on the gifts they have given us to those who come after us. We embody their call for us to be STRONG, RESILIENT, INDIGENOUS. Please say it with me. We are STRONG, RESILIENT, and INDIGENOUS. Wāēwāēnen kitāēnenemauw. Netāēhnawēmākanak eneq (Thank you everyone. To all my relatives, that’s all.) Writing and delivering this keynote address compelled me to reflect on the path that brought me to this day. I have come to understand how the place and people from which and whom I come, and all my life’s teachers along this journey have shaped and inspired my “flight,” to live up to my name, Kenyukīw – Eagle Woman. I look backward toward ancestral and historical foundations, and forward toward future generations in order to understand my path and purpose. Nearly four decades of life has taught me much, as well as how much I have yet to learn about my people, myself and others. It has led me near, far, and ultimately inward, and has expanded my path and purpose. Though I was born and raised among my Northern relatives, I was always hungry to know my Mexican relatives. This desire led me to pursue opportunities to connect with my Southern relatives – to fly alongside the Condor – a flight which took me beyond my childhood roots to deepen my understanding of not only who I am among all my relations, but also how deeply intertwined our roots are as relatives across these northern and southern Indigenous lands.

The Condor As a Ph.D. candidate several years ago, I worked on a research study which became my dissertation project. Dr. Ramona Beltran (Yaqui/Mexica), a professor at the University of Denver, is the Principal Investigator of the study. We had met more than a decade prior when I was a Master of Social Work (MSW) student, and Dr. Beltran was a doctoral student in the School of Social Work. Back then, we had become close friends, danced together in a newly developing Danza Mexica group as I finished my MSW program, and maintained a friendship and informal mentorship over the years. I was honored to work with Dr. Beltran and reconnect with the Danza Mexica community again through the dissertation project, which was an alcohol and other drug (AOD) and HIV risk needs assessment in urban “Mexican American Indian” (MAI) communities (Beltran, Alvarez, Fernandez, Colon, & Alamillo, 2020). Danza Mexica is comprised of “dance traditions commonly rooted in pre-Cuauhtemoc ceremonies of Indigenous Nahuatl-speaking groups from Central Mexico” (Beltran et al., 2020, p. 6). I was a research assistant for this community-based participatory research project – helping design some items on the questionnaire, interview MAI participants who were current or former members of an Urban Danza Mexica Community (UDMC) in two Western cities, transcribe interviews, 70

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and disseminate findings to the participant and academic community. I used UDMC as a specific term in my dissertation to describe a sample of a “community of people who descend from diverse groups of Indigenous Peoples of Mexico, participate in a cultural dance tradition called Danza Mexica (also called Danza Azteca), and may be categorized within the Mexican American Indian US Census category,” (Fernandez, 2019, p. 11). The powerful stories of the UDMC participants provided important insights into how storytelling is used to share teachings about health promotion, risk prevention, and resilience within their dance circle, as a socially constructed place wherein health and wellbeing is nurtured. Additionally, their stories inspired the following written reflection on my inward and outward journeys in relationship with their beautiful and resilient community. This reflection was originally published in my dissertation and has since been revised and updated for the purposes of this chapter. It represents a transformative part of my lifelong journey of learning to fly with the Condor. I first noticed the sweet scent of burning copal (a scented tree resin used for ceremony), and I was moved by the power of the huehuetl (drums) and the shaking of the ayayotes (seed pods) worn on the danzantes’ (dancers’) ankles. As I walked into a community center where I had once danced over a decade ago, my heart was beating rapidly with both excitement and nervousness. Excitement came from my sensory memory of the copal, the drumbeats, and the dance that once moved me in prayer and praise of all Creation on Mother Earth. Nervousness came from knowing I was an outsider, after having only participated in a danza circle for a few months before graduating with my MSW and joining the Peace Corps many years ago. However, I was honored to accompany Dr. Ramona Beltran, a prominent and beloved member of the Danza Mexica community, along with another research assistant. All three of us are Indigenous women from different places, yet all connected by Indigenous ancestry to what is now called Mexico. We came to this ensayo (practice) to support Dr. Beltran as she danced, as well as to share information about the research study to find community members who might be interested in participating. My identity and experiences as a mixed-race Indigenous woman brought me there. Growing up on an Indigenous reservation with Menominee, Mexican, and European ancestry has informed my personal understanding of living with intersectional identities despite colonial borders. During my childhood and adolescence on this northern reservation, I  sometimes struggled with self-acceptance and belonging. Yet, there I was also nurtured to love my culture and community as well as to embrace my passion to love and protect our people and our land. Leaving the reservation in order to attend the university and make my career path in some ways brought me closer to home. Some of the things I  learned growing up began to make sense. Some of the things I didn’t have the opportunity to hear growing up, I began to learn. As a member of the Bear (awāēhsaeh) Clan, our ancestral duties in the tribe were speakers and keepers of the law. This was not done by force but rather through working hard on behalf of the community to help facilitate peaceful relations. Since my youth, I have always been devoted to helping others find peace and healing – this was how my parents and family raised me. With few free TV channels on the reservation at that time, I became a public television “nerd,” and through PBS programming and listening to my older brother Wade read books to us, I learned about human rights and Indigenous Peoples around the world. A fire was ignited inside of me. Around age 11 or 12, I  heard about the Peace Corps on the public television channel, and became determined to join one day to travel to Latin America to meet and build relationships with our Indigenous relatives to the south. As I grew in my education and maturity, I dreamed of building relationships across lands, bodies, and hearts; rebuilding the ties severed by colonial borders. I  stand on the shoulders of my ancestors, and Indigenous leaders like the late Menominee human rights activist and 71

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family friend, Ingrid Washinawatok (1957–1999). She gave her life for Indigenous solidarity and human rights throughout the Americas (Washinawatok El-Issa, 2020). She was assassinated by armed military forces while working with Indigenous Uwa communities of Colombia in defense of their lands and waters (Sachs, 1999). I also stand on the shoulders of family friend, social work mentor, and esteemed elder Ada Deer (born 1935). Ada continues to dedicate her life to protecting our sovereignty as Menominee people, from her work to restore our treaty rights after federal termination of our sovereign status, to her continual leadership in grassroots organizing against corporate efforts to incrementally reduce our sovereign rights to access our lands, forests, and waters (Deer & Perdue, 2019). I am compelled to follow in Ingrid’s, Ada’s, and many other family, friends’, and community members’ footsteps to be part of fulfillment of the prophecy of the Eagle and the Condor. Being Menominee, I came to realize that both the trauma of colonialism and the power of resilience were woven into my DNA. Beyond the multiple colonial traumas our tribe endured common to other US Tribal Nations since colonial contact, we were also one of the first tribes to be terminated by the US government, in 1954 (Deer & Perdue, 2019). As Ada Deer once corrected me when I tried to explain the definition of termination to a friend: the government did not take away our sovereignty, but rather, they broke a treaty with us. No one can take away our sovereignty – it is inherently ours, she told me (A. Deer, personal communication, January 22, 2016). Ada was a renowned leader in the political battle for Restoration (the reversal of the Termination Act; Deer & Perdue, 2019) – as were many others, including my late uncle and former Tribal Chairman Glen Miller (Winn, 2019). They achieved Restoration in 1973 after many years of hard work and advocacy (Deer & Perdue, 2019). Experiencing termination left our tribe with a heightened awareness of the tragedy, pain, and loss brought on by such political attempts to destroy our Indigenous identities and nationhood, as well as our resilience to rebuild, heal, and thrive. Our history compels me to work toward unity, peace, and health, despite the complex challenges we face on a daily basis as a result of ongoing settler colonial assaults and political attempts to divide and conquer us, to destroy our Indigenous identities, and violate our Mother Earth; all for the sake of economic exploitation. Years earlier during my service in the Peace Corps in Costa Rica, I was excited to connect with other Indigenous relatives in the south. In my rural community along the northern border with Nicaragua, I lived, worked, laughed, and cried with beautiful, kind, generous, and powerful people who looked a lot like people from my reservation. I was surprised by the responses I received when I asked people about their tribal ancestry. Many told me they were Spanish, didn’t know, or thought it was likely their ancestry was from local tribal groups of the region but weren’t completely certain because it was not something talked about often. Generally, fewer people seemed to identify with being or having knowledge of Indigenous ancestry. Yet some shared my excitement when we compared photos of Menominees from my home reservation, who they said looked very much like many of their relatives. The same was true when I showed Menominees photos of the people from my Costa Rican community on visits home. While I was sad that some people did not seem interested in their Indigenous ancestry, I was also excited when others seemed curious, and would share stories of older family members or grandparents who spoke of their Indigeneity with pride. Despite the limited dialogue on Indigeneity, the ways that people lived and cared for family and community greatly resembled the Indigenous community values with which I was raised. Throughout my service, I went on to meet Indigenous Costa Ricans who remained in their nationally recognized, tribal territories. We enthusiastically shared commonalities of our cultures, spiritualities, and political struggles. I felt at home. Working with the beautiful, powerful UDMC and with my Indigenous mentors during my Ph.D. program was both a privilege and an honor. It was an opportunity to be part of fulfilling 72

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the prophecy of the Eagle and the Condor. Returning to work with this community came full circle from my brief participation in danza over a decade ago to my reconnection with their community during my Ph.D. program. These identities and experiences gave me the opportunity to build relationships with people who identified with their Indigenous ancestry of Mexico, as I continue to explore the little-known and little-spoken of history of my Mexican grandfather’s mixed Spanish and Indigenous family origins. What I discovered during the two years I was interviewing participants and working on my dissertation was not only the expansive diversity of lived experiences and Indigenous group identities among the UDMC, but also the unique differences in the histories of settler colonialism between the Indigenous people of the United States and those in Mexico. My understanding of distinct forms of Indigenous erasure within Mexico has deepened, through awareness of efforts like the mestizaje (mixing of races) project, which attempted to erase Indigenous identity and promote both internalized and externalized racism toward Indigenous People (Alberto, 2016; Estrada, 2009; Luna, 2011, 2013; Saldaña-Portillo, 2016). I have also expanded and deepened my understanding of the different political relationships Indigenous Peoples of Mexico have with the Mexican nation-state and how this impacts connections with land and violations thereof (Alberto, 2016). Working with the UDMC helped frame my understanding of how Indigeneity is perceived by people across different parts of the world, through international experiences both during and prior to my Ph.D. program. For example, I traveled to South Africa as part of the North American Indigenous delegation for an international gender violence prevention summit one decade ago. Activists and advocates dedicated to ending violence against women and girls from all over the world attended the summit. One evening, we were hanging out with new friends from several African nations who were excited to meet us because they originally thought all Indigenous people in the United States were dead. We shared experiences about colonialism, culture, and resistance movements, and made lasting friendships. The following year, I traveled to Colombia with an Indigenous human rights delegation and met Indigenous People who were also excited to connect over commonalities in our efforts for language and cultural preservation; human rights; protecting their lands, forests, and waters; and our sovereignty. Similarly, on a more recent women of color delegation to Cuba, I was told by a few Cubans (some of whom looked like Menominees) that the Indigenous People of Cuba were sadly decimated by Spanish colonizers not long after contact, though later one Cuban told me there was still an Indigenous community somewhere in the mountains. Through all of these experiences, I have not only become more keenly aware of how my North American Indigenous standpoint had influenced my expectations of how people with Indigenous Mexican ancestry would identify with lands and Indigeneity, but also about the similarities and differences of Indigeneity across the world. Overall, I learned that I was at the beginning of a learning journey about ongoing colonial attempts at erasure of Indigenous Peoples, and our intergenerational resilience. This opportunity to work with current and former members of the UDMC was a gift that helped deepen my understanding of where I came from, who I was, where I was going, the responsibility I had to resist Indigenous erasure, and both embody and work to elevate Indigenous resilience.

Who I am among all my relations On each of these flights – the Eagle representing my lived experience as a citizen of a North American Indigenous Nation, and the Condor representing my journey to connect with our southern Indigenous relatives of Central and South America – I came to recognize patterns of 73

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Indigenous erasure through colonially imposed cultural, linguistic, and political borders, including those which have divided Indigenous People in the North and South. Many Indigenous Peoples across the Americas are continually compelled to accept settler colonial erasure of their own identities and ancestors  – the legacy of the atrocious acts of physical and psychological annihilation forced upon our ancestors since 1492. Yet our ancestors remained vigilant and resilient, passing on knowledge and love that has instilled awareness and increasing consciousness of the colonial projects that seek to divide and conquer us. We have joined those who remain steadfast in resistance through embracing, nurturing, and passing on our Indigeneity. In reflecting on my own identity and place in these patterns, I came to recognize the commonalities of strength, resilience, solidarity, and ongoing resistance to colonial erasure between myself and other Indigenous Peoples. I’ve learned about intersectionality (Kapilashrami  & Hankivsky, 2018), complexity, and resisting erasure through embodying Indigenous identity in order to heal from colonial trauma and strengthen cultural foundations for future generations. Ultimately, I’ve become more conscious of my own internalized colonialism as I strive to continually decolonize my mind, body, and spirit, and honor my responsibility to fight for our existence and right to thrive as Indigenous Peoples. My understanding of how colonialism works across Indigenous nations has expanded through my increasing awareness of how I  embody a combination of racism, internalized oppression, and simultaneous privilege as an Indigenous, mixed-race, cisgendered, two-spirit US citizen with a graduate-level education and fluent in English. I use the term two-spirit here as a broad, umbrella term to describe lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) American Indian/Alaska Native (AIAN) and other Indigenous Peoples. This term comprises the convergence of culture, sexual orientation, and gender unique to one’s identity. While use and perceptions of the term may be viewed positively or negatively and vary by tribal grouping and individual preference, those who use the term identify across a range of sexual orientations and/or gender identities (Argüello & Walters, 2017; Parker, Duran, & Walters, 2017). Here, I personally use the term as a cisgendered female bisexual person. I continue to realize how crucial it is that I embrace my intersectional identity as a vehicle for healing from the historical and intergenerational trauma of all of my ancestors, as a mix of both European colonial settlers and members of Indigenous nations. All of these experiences and identities have given me a frame of reference for understanding the complexities of what it means to walk as an Indigenous person in this world, as well as for understanding how colonialism impacts Indigenous Peoples in similar and different ways across the world. In my flight as the Eagle, I learned about my privilege of having been born into a resilient family and a sovereign Indigenous Nation with the influence of powerful leaders like Ada Deer and Ingrid Washinawatok; women who inspired and modeled courageous leadership and connectedness to our own people, as well as to our relatives all across the Americas. I also learned about the legacy of historical trauma (Sotero, 2006) in my community, through the health disparities and inequities resulting in early deaths from preventable causes (Indian Health Services, 2019, October; Menominee County Health Outcomes, 2019). My family and community relations have charged me with the responsibility to use my skills and abilities to carry on the courageous leadership of those who have gone before me, in order to pave the way for future generations. In the process, I have learned who I am as Kenyukīw (Eagle Woman), a member of the Bear (awāēhsaeh) Clan, with an important role in continuing to weave a relational tapestry that inspires us to step up and bulldoze colonial trauma, and be the strong, resilient, and Indigenous people we are born to be. In my flight with the Condor, I  learned more about the privileges that come with light skin, US citizenship, and English-language fluency, from a nation (the United States) actively 74

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engaged in creating and enforcing policies that lead to death, displacement, migration, and exploitation across the world. These forms of oppression compelled many peoples of Indigenous descent to migrate in order to feed their families or escape violence, and had reminded me of large-scale, explicit attempts at Indigenous decimation such as massacres and militarized boarding schools experienced by older generations in northern Indigenous nations. The lived experiences of these relatives I met on my flight with the Condor deepened and strengthened my responsibility to stand in solidarity with our relatives to the south – and beyond. The relationships I’ve gained along this flight have helped me recognize my role as a future ancestor, to lay the groundwork for future generations to look both inward and outward to know who they are among all their relatives. Our common efforts to engage in decolonization through nurturing connectedness with all of our relatives across our complex, intersectional identities, are a source of power, hope, and continual healing.

Conclusion As I reflect on ancestral and historical foundations, as well as the last four decades of my life, I  envision spending the next four decades laying strong groundwork for future generations. While I don’t know what journeys lie ahead, I do know that I am standing on the shoulders of many ancestors and elders whose legacies charge me with the responsibility to continue to build on the foundations they laid to protect our lands, bodies, and lifeways. I do know I am called to be courageous, using both my privilege and oppression as teachers to strengthen my resolve to be a warrior for love, justice, strength, and healing. I strive to be a good ancestor for my nieces, nephews, all the young ones in my life, and those who will come long after I’m gone. The prayer I carry for them is that they too will say they are proud to be Indigenous, that they too will continue to protect our lands, lives, and lifeways for future generations to come. May our current and future generations continue to ask: who are we among all our relations? What privileges and oppressions do we embody, and how will we take responsibility and be in relationship? May we be good ancestors by stepping forth with courage, strength, and humility as one leader among many nations of Indigenous leaders, so that we may honor our ancestors and future generations. Wāēwāēnen kitāēnenemauw. Netāēhnawēmākanak eneq. (Thank you everyone. To all my relatives, that’s all.)

References Alberto, L. (2016). Nations, nationalisms, and Indigenas: The “Indian” in the Chicano revolutionary imaginary. Critical Ethnic Studies, 2(1), 107–127. Argüello, T., & Walters, K. (2017). They tell us “we don’t belong in the world and we shouldn’t take up a place”: HIV discourse within two-spirit communities. Journal of Ethnic & Cultural Diversity in Social Work, 27(2), 1–17. Beltran, R., Alvarez, A. R. G., Fernandez, A. R., Colon, L., & Alamillo, X. (2020). Salud, cultura, tradición: Findings from an alcohol and other drug and HIV needs assessment in urban “Mexican American Indian” communities. Journal of Ethnic & Cultural Diversity in Social Work, 30(1/2) (online and in press). doi:10.1080/15313204.2020.1770653 Deer, A. (1970). Speaking out. Chicago, IL: Childrens Press Open Door Books. Deer, A., & Perdue, T. (2019). Making a difference: My fight for native rights and social justice. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Estrada, A. (2009). Mexican-Americans and historical trauma theory: A theoretical perspective. Journal of Ethnicity in Substance Abuse, 8(3), 330–340. Fernandez, A. R. (2019). Wherever I go, I have it inside of me: Indigenous cultural dance as a transformative place of health and prevention for members of an urban Danza Mexica community (Publication No. 22620258)

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Angela R. Fernandez (Doctoral dissertation). University of Washington. Proquest Dissertations and Theses Global, Washington. Indian Health Services. (2019, October). Indian health disparities. Retrieved from www.ihs.gov/newsroom/ factsheets/disparities/ Johnson, J. T. (2013). Dancing into place: The role of the powwow within urban Indigenous communities. In E. J. Peters & C. Andersen (Eds.), Indigenous in the city: Contemporary identities and cultural innovation (pp. 216–230). Vancouver, Canada: UBC Press. Kapilashrami, A., & Hankivsky, O. (2018). Intersectionality and why it matters to global health. The Lancet, 391, 2589–2591. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(18)31431-4 Luna, J. M. (2011). Danza Mexica: Indigenous identity, spirituality, activism, and performance (Doctoral dissertation). University of California, Davis. Retrieved from http://scholarworks.sjsu.edu/ mas_pub/?utm_source=scholarworks.sjsu.edu%2Fmas_pub%2F1&utm_medium=PDF&utm_ campaign=PDFCoverPages Luna, J. M. (2013). La Tradicion Conchera: Historical process of Danza and Catholicism. Dialogo, 16(1), 47–64. McCubbin, L. D., McCubbin, H. I., Zhang, W., Kehl, L.,  & Strom, I. (2013). Relational well-being: An Indigenous perspective and measure. Family Relations, 62(2), 354–365. https://doi.org/10.1111/ fare.12007 Menominee County Health Outcomes. (2019). County health rankings & roadmaps. Retrieved from www. countyhealthrankings.org/app/wisconsin/2019/rankings/menominee/county/outcomes/overall/ snapshot Mohatt, N. V., Fok, C. C. T., Burket, R., Henry, D., & Allen, J. (2011). Assessment of awareness of connectedness as a culturally-based protective factor for Alaska Native Youth. Cultural Diversity & Ethnic Minority Psychology, 17(4), 444–455. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0025456 Parker, M., Duran, B., & Walters, K. (2017). The relationship between bias-related victimization and generalized anxiety disorder among American Indian and Alaska Native lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, two-spirit community members. International Journal of Indigenous Health, 12(2), 64–83. Remle, M. (n.d.). Fulfillment of prophecy: The eagle and condor and embracing our Indian children. Retrieved from Last Real Indians website, https://lastrealindians.com/fulfillment-of-prophecy-the-eagle-andcondor-and-embracing-our-indian-children-by-matt-remle/ Sachs, S. (1999, March  7). 3 Victims in Colombia defended indigenous people. The New York Times. Retrieved from www.nytimes.com/1999/03/06/world/3-kidnapped-americans-killed-colombianrebels-are-suspected.html Saldaña-Portillo, M. (2016). Indian given: Racial geographies across Mexico and the United States. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Senungetuk, H. (2017). Creating a native space in the city: An inupiaq community in song and dance. Dissertations. Retrieved from https://wesscholar.wesleyan.edu/etd_diss/80 Sotero, M. M. (2006). A conceptual model of historical trauma: Implications for public health practice and research. Journal of Health Disparities Research and Practice, 1, 93–108. Retrieved from https://ssrn. com/abstract=1350062 Ullrich, J. S. (2019). For the love of our children: An Indigenous connectedness framework. AlterNative, 117718011982811. https://doi.org/10.1177/1177180119828114 Washinawatok El-Issa, I. (2020). Flying eagle woman fund. Flying Eagle Woman Fund. Retrieved from https://flyingeaglewomanfund.org Wilson, S. (2008). Research is ceremony: Indigenous research methods. Black Point, Canada: Fernwood Publishing. Winn, R. (2019, March 1). The heartbeat of history. Tribal College Journal of American Indian Higher Education. Retrieved June 20, 2020, from https://tribalcollegejournal.org/the-heartbeat-of-history/

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PART II

Pillars of Indigeneity

The chapters in Part 2 highlight some of the core pillars that both express and uphold Indigenous identity, including language, spirituality, and sexuality. Examples are presented from around the globe, including Aotearoa New Zealand, Guatemala, the South Pacific, Pakistan, and the United States. These pillars of identity offer sustenance and provide a foundation for wellbeing. Indigenous Peoples have been deeply affected by colonization but have not been conquered by it. While often socially, economically, and politically marginalized, core facets of our being remain. Our identity is interwoven with our languages, stories, and proverbs, as well as how we decorate and represent ourselves. Understandings of spirit, spirituality, cosmology, ontology, and epistemology are at the core of Indigenous identities. Rather than a decontextualized spirituality common in Western traditions, there is a deep sense of relationship and connection. Humans are not separate from the spiritual – and in fact, many Indigenous belief systems note that humans are spirits, temporarily existing in material form. While there are many different spiritual traditions across Indigenous People, most espouse a holistic, connected, contextualized spirituality.

Withstanding colonial attacks To successfully colonize Indigenous territories and Peoples, settler societies undermined defining aspects of Indigenous identity, including spirituality and language. Settler states implemented policies to assimilate Indigenous people to national contexts, yet Indigenous People predate and straddle the international borders that have crossed us. For example, authors describe attempts to “Pakistanize” the Pashtun, a practice echoed in later descriptions of the “Norwegianization” of the Sámi. The authors provide examples of how spirituality and traditional expressions of gender and sexuality have been attacked. Indigenous traditions were demonized, and people were depicted as savage and violent. These stereotypes justified attempts to eradicate Indigenous Peoples. Nudity was common in Pacific cultures, but under colonization, particular meanings were ascribed and nudity became sexualized and condemned by colonial Christian forces. This led to shame becoming internalized by Indigenous Peoples. Indeed, internalized colonization became one of the most detrimental, painful, and lingering attributes of colonial processes. Indigenous

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people were pressured to abandon key markers of their identity, particularly language and spiritual traditions. The authors describe how colonization was implemented as strategic decisions were made about whether to leave tribal areas alone, assertively manage them, micro-manage them at a distance with puppet governments, or exploit, tame, or civilize them using third parties such as non-state actors or churches to promote colonial interests. Sometimes, cultural institutions were manipulated by colonial forces, such as the example of the Jirga (Pashtun Council of Elders) described in Chapter 8. In other instances, Indigenous people became displaced through various mechanisms such as Mayans fleeing genocide in Guatemala or Pacific Islanders creating a diaspora seeking work. Indigenous territories are sometimes deemed strategic locations and become battlegrounds for clashing colonizers, further displacing Indigenous Peoples. Tremendous pressures often compel Indigenous Peoples to leave behind some pillars of identity such as language. Authors describe some of the challenges of language loss and acquisition of colonial languages common across Indigenous Peoples. There is a painful irony in that while Indigenous people have been told our cultures and languages are impediments to progress, some members of settler societies have recorded our information and continue to study it, while it remains inaccessible to us. Others not only have access, but support such as scholarships and grants to study Indigenous cultures and languages. They receive acclaim, write dissertations, and establish academic careers, while Indigenous people are punished and deprived of these sustaining pillars of our identity.

Asserting and expressing ourselves The authors in Part 2 provide examples of Indigenous people asserting and expressing themselves, including privileging Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies across modern spaces. Our stories and voices are powerful, multifaceted, nuanced, contextual, subjective, and flexible. Voices carry ideologies, either ours or those of our colonizers, and we are called to make affirming choices. The authors urge decolonizing and deconstructing our knowledge and actions, including those from academic spaces. They encourage us to embrace the ambiguities, question the rigid binaries that demand we fit (conform, adapt, assimilate) or fail, and emphasize that we must confront internalized colonization. The authors remind us that Indigenous identity is complex and multifaceted. Sometimes, people are not recognized as Indigenous. For example, migrants crossing the southern US border are assumed to speak Spanish but in fact may be Indigenous. Some Indigenous people do not live in their traditional territories and reside on someone else’s stolen land. Living in diaspora can lead to cultural changes, including reshaping gender attitudes and developing class distinctions, yet reciprocity and collectivity remain key Indigenous values. The authors highlight verbal and physical expressions of identity that reflect strong connections to land, other beings, histories, families, and language. The elements that make us strong and bind us together have led colonizers to stigmatize and label us, yet we affirm these strengths. Our stories span generations connecting us with ancestors and generations to come. Words reflect and shape behavior, as illustrated by the Pashtun proverbs recounted in Chapter 8. They reflect our values of reciprocity, strong social bonds, and loyalties across family and tribal networks. These same values manifest in physical expressions of identity such as Māori traditions of applying permanent designs to faces and bodies, a continued visible symbol of resilience. Chapter authors describe the nuances and complexities associated with living in a colonized, multicultural world and traversing multiple dimensions. They provide examples of revitalizing and reclaiming aspects of Indigenous cultures, emphasizing that these have many different 78

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expressions, particularly as traditional symbols are adopted in new contexts. Contemporary Indigenous people are challenged to perform a balancing act of accommodation to ensure survival, for ourselves as well as future generations. At times, this precarious balance requires difficult choices and painful sacrifices. The authors ask us to reflect on challenges such as those associated with accepting the colonizer’s educational system and language, or wearing visible tribal markers. They pose questions such as, how do we step closer to or away from our Indigeneity? and which choice ensures the future? The answers come as each People or community explores revitalization, restoration, reclaiming, and resistance movements. Through these processes, there is healing from trauma, inherent in the therapeutic value of traditional stories and telling our truths. We raise our voices through these empowering endeavors. As the authors explore pillars of Indigenous identity, readers may wonder, how many “pillars” do Indigenous Peoples need to “stand”? Our communities have experienced losses and some pillars of identity such as our languages may not be fully intact. We are told not to be ashamed of these limitations as colonial oppression has denied many choices and opportunities. Indeed, language – or any single pillar – cannot be the only thing that defines our Indigeneity. We are still fulfilling our ancestors’ dreams for us. Our stories educate and foster cultural continuity. Storytelling is a pedagogy, a collective remembering that binds and restores our communities. The authors in Part 2 provide personal examples of resilience recounted as love letters for grandparents, parents, and children. As they share their stories with readers, they offer opportunities for understanding through their sometimes painful, often personal revelations. The pillars described here are the hearts of our people. Indeed, integrating Indigenous values can enhance societies for all people. As the examples of Māori culture and spirituality illustrate, these foundational beliefs support everyone’s resilience.

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5 INDIGENOUS MĀORI NOTIONS OF SPIRIT AND SPIRITUALITY AS ENABLERS OF RESILIENCE AND FLOURISHING IN AOTEAROA NEW ZEALAND Natasha Tassell-Matamua, Nicole Lindsay, Te Rā Moriarty, and Deanna Haami Introduction The relevance of spirituality for lived experience should not be underestimated. The past two decades have seen a surge of academic and popular interest in the topic, fueled in part by studies demonstrating beneficial relationships between spirituality and wellbeing (Reutter & Bigatti, 2014), and a range of significant events (e.g., natural hazards, terrorist attacks, global pandemics) that have facilitated a search for meaning, purpose, and understanding. Indeed, literature increasingly suggests that across countries and cultural contexts, many people endorse spirituality as personally valuable (Kohls & Walach, 2006), and agree spirituality is an important part of being human (Wong, 2008). Western scholarly discourse is grounded in the worldviews of majority cultures situated primarily within North America and Western Europe. It is founded on Judeo-Christian philosophies, is non-Indigenous, and dominates popular and scholarly literatures. Traditionally, Western perspectives have tended to “psychologize” spirituality by seeking to understand it via existing psychological constructs (Cortright, 1997; Sperry, 2012). These constructs are themselves underpinned by the prevailing scientific paradigm that emphasizes material reductionism (which presumes that reality is wholly material) and positivism (which presumes that reality is amenable to objective observation, measurement, and experimental replication). Although attempts to define spirituality in Western academic literature have yet to reach consensus, many scholars concede spirituality is a complex, holistic, and comprehensive construct (Fleming & Ledogar, 2008). In general, the term describes an intrinsic, autonomous, and subjective sense of transcendence or connection with a higher being (Midlarsky, Mullin, & Barkin, 2012; see Scott Richards, 2012, for an overview of social scientists’ conceptions of spirituality).

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DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-8

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Indigenous notions of spirit and spirituality In contrast to Western scientific academic thought, the valence of spirituality for Indigenous communities has always been present, with many traditional and contemporary practices and beliefs being inextricably and unapologetically holistic, non-reductionist, and non-positivist. While a definition of spirituality that encapsulates the totality of Indigenous perspectives is impossible, many Indigenous leaders acknowledge similarities in notions of spirituality across Indigenous communities, which are typically based on “earth, ancestors, family and peaceful existence” (Christakis  & Harris, 2004, p.  251; United Nations, 2009). Some similarities are outlined in this chapter, as they relate to cosmology, ontology, and epistemology, although we acknowledge this brief, generalized description does not account for the complexity, nuance, and diversity of Indigenous thought related to the spiritual and spirituality for all Indigenous Peoples around the globe. Cosmological understandings, or those that relate to the origin of the universe, denote earthly existence as emerging through the actions of ancestral deities who bestowed upon humanity the role of guardians of the Earth (Wright, 2013). The power and intercession of ancestral spirits is acknowledged and upheld, and the land is often considered a portal or connecting link to the original lifeforce energy of ancestors. The natural environment is thought to be imbued with a unifying spiritual force; thus, reverence and respect for the Earth and all its natural forms (animate and inanimate) is often a guiding principle (Wright, 2013). The belief that “all things are one,” originating in the notion of a shared common ancestry extending back to the creation of the universe, manifests in various ways, including (for example) all living creatures being afforded the same status as humans and considered as kin or relatives (Deloria, 1994; Reed, 1975). Ontological perspectives, which focus on the nature of reality, existence, and how things come into being, reveal spirituality as foundational to Indigenous cultural institutions, social relationships, and personal identity (Sue & Sue, 2013), and embrace and explain the link between the tangible and the intangible. Western analytical thought attempts to pull apart spirituality, to decontextualize it from its surroundings, and to locate its constituent parts and strip it back to its core. By contrast, Indigenous spirituality operates on the principle of connectedness  – that humans, particularly Indigenous people  – cannot be truly understood without considering their holistic context, including social, familial, spiritual, and ecological aspects (Kim, Yang, & Hwang, 2006). Consequently, the metaphysical dimension of human existence is acknowledged and accepted (Sue & Sue, 2013), and there exists a “permeability of boundaries between the living and the deceased” (Comas-Diaz, 2012, p. 200). From an epistemological perspective, which is concerned with and studies the nature of knowledge, spirituality is understood as a body of knowledge that recognizes and draws on a wider connection to the universe as a living entity and source of genealogical descent for all living things. Indigenous spirituality places higher value on intuitive, participatory, or experiential knowledge than rational-empirical knowledge. Personal experience is a superior method for understanding reality and the only real claim to “knowledge” (Arrows, Jacobs, & Ryan, 2010). Thus, the spirit world does not require scientific “proof ” for verification of its existence. Not only is it presumed to exist, but often no distinction is made between the spiritual and material world. This outlook promotes a concept known as transpersonality, whereby personal identity extends beyond the individual context into the metaphysical realm (Scotton, 1996).

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Indigenous Māori and notions of spirit and spirituality In keeping with other Indigenous groups, the valence of the spiritual is acknowledged by Māori, the tāngata whenua (people of the land) of Aotearoa New Zealand (Furbish  & Reid, 2003; Kennedy, Cram, Paipa, Pipi, & Baker, 2015). Navigating the oceans of the South Pacific, Māori arrived in Aotearoa New Zealand over 1,000 years ago. Aotearoa is the name given to New Zealand by Kuramarotini, the wife of Kupe, the navigator of one of the canoes that first brought Māori to this country. It was Kuramarotini who cried out “He ao, he ao, he aotearoa” (a cloud, a cloud, a long white cloud), upon first seeing the clouds rising above the land that is New Zealand, and thus giving the land the name Aotearoa, which it is known as today. Upon arrival, Māori established a way of life imbued with traditions and customs, largely based in spiritual notions. This enabled the survival and flourishing of the initial inhabitants and their descendants, who lived communally according to immediate kinship ties (in groups known as whānau) and extended relational ties (which comprised several whānau groups known as hapū), and within specific geographical localities (several hapū within a specific area known as iwi; Mead, 2016; Roberts, 2013). Like other Indigenous Peoples, traditional Māori spirituality is deeply rooted in rich cosmological narratives that underpin both ontological and epistemological understandings of spirituality. Commonly referred to as creation stories, the cosmological narratives were inherently understood as foundational to past, present, and future existence. They provided the lens through which reality was viewed and understood, giving meaning and purpose to all aspects of life (Durie, 1997). Colonization has influenced Māori perspectives on cosmology to some extent (Tate, 2012). Specifically, early Christian missionaries integrated traditional Māori cosmological beliefs into Christian beliefs as a way of legitimizing their colonial presence, which was deeply grounded in patriarchal hegemony. Although a detailed account of the complexities of traditional Māori cosmology are now likely lost to history, a generalized overview of narratives articulated since the mid-1800s is possible, although variations according to iwi (tribal) affiliations may not be captured in all their complexity (Durie, 1997) in the following synopsis. Equally, it is acknowledged that any narrative in any culture will be compiled according to the language people have available to them at any moment in time (Zlatev & Blomberg, 2015). When it comes to matters of the spirit, which are often based on experiential understanding or inherent “knowing,” it is reasonable to assume that any narrative is a function and consequence of the communicatory tools (i.e., language) employed to explain what is effectively the unexplainable. In general, Māori cosmology espouses the existence of a nebulous energetic force known as Io, who was neither male nor female, and existed in a state of potentiality commonly referred to as Te Kore or Te Korekore (the void). Through a process of internal intercourse, Io activated a celestial realm known as Te Pō (the night), which included various domains of existence. Within Te Pō, the first atua, or celestial deities, Ranginui and Papatūānuku were manifested into being (Royal, 1998). Although contemporary narratives often depict Ranginui and Papatūānuku as the Sky Father and Earth Mother, respectively, these entities might more appropriately be understood as complementary energies that when combined had potential to create further energetic forces vibrating at different velocities (Royal, 1998). As such, narratives suggest they begat atua of their own, who are “departmental gods” or energies who manifest as specific aspects of existence. For example, Tangaroa is the atua that encapsulates the energetic force that manifests as sea life, Tāwhirimatea is the atua that encapsulates the energetic force that manifests through weather and storms, and Tāne is the atua that encapsulates the energetic force that manifests through forest and bird life (Royal, 1998; Tate, 2012).

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Although it is not known whether traditional beliefs endorsed the pre-eminence of Tāne above other atua, many contemporary narratives speak to Tāne as dominant since Io bestowed on this atua the task of completing the heavens and assigning specific domains to other atua to govern. Tāne was also responsible for separating Ranginui and Papatūānuku, thus enabling metaphorical light to shine on their “children,” who had previously existed in the space between them (Durie, 1997). This might also be interpreted as Tāne being an energetic element that initiated the process of bringing forth other energetic forms from the combining of the complementary energies Ranginui and Papatūānuku. The pre-eminence of Tāne also relates to this atua fashioning the first human being, Hineahuone, from the Earth. Although it is not known if traditional beliefs assigned gender to Tāne, or whether this was a consequence of the imposition of Christian missionary beliefs or the utilization of language to explain the energetic composition of Tāne, contemporary narratives depict Tāne as male. Such narratives indicate Tāne as a male energetic form breathed life into Hineahuone as a female manifestation, through a process known as hongi (the sharing of one’s breath, often depicted in contemporary times through the pressing of noses). It is from this process that Te Ao Mārama (the world of light), the dwelling place of the energetic forms that manifest as humans and other material beings, came into existence. It is from the subsequent union of Tāne and Hineahuone that all human beings descend (Marsden, 1992; Reed, 1999; Royal, 1998). This generalized synopsis of the creation of the universe provides the basis for one of the most important ontological assumptions held by traditional Māori – that of whakapapa, often used to refer to genealogy, but equally referring to the “layers” of descent from one point to another. Whakapapa denotes a system of organization that binds all living beings, including those in the natural environment such as rocks and mountains, together through a common lineage (Mead, 2016; Roberts, 2013). Because all are descendants of the atua, who themselves are creations or descendants of the primordial energy that is Io, there is ultimately no separation between humans, the natural environment, the celestial spheres, and the entire universe. All things exist in a state of intimate interconnectedness (Harmsworth  & Awatere, 2013). Despite this apparent equality, individuals, objects, and events were understood as possessing a particular supernatural force or spiritual essence, known as mana, that enabled them to serve as agents for the atua. Although a complex concept that can take many forms, contemporary Māori thought still considers all beings to be imbued with mana, although it can manifest to varying degrees and in various forms (Tate, 2012). For example, males and females are believed to manifest distinct spiritual essences (known as mana tāne and mana wāhine, respectively) that delineate their ability to bring complementary energies to a situation, which manifests in the performance of specific tasks in specific settings. Common usage of the term also pertains to authority, social status, influence, or integrity (Durie, 2001), and becomes manifest when an individual is perceived as possessing behaviors denoting the wellbeing of the collective (Henare, 1988). Because there is no ultimate separation between the physical and the spiritual, another ontological assumption pervasive in traditional Māori culture is that all human beings are innately spiritual beings, manifested in material form, but with the understanding that they return upon death to an exclusively spiritual form (Ngata, 2005). The physical form is believed to be energized by a vital essence known as mauri, an elemental life force derived from Te Korekore. The spiritual form is known as wairua. While both wairua and mauri are essential for the vitality of the physical form, at the death of the physical body, the energetic force of mauri dissipates, while the wairua continues. Wairua is acknowledged as an immaterial entity that cannot be seen or touched, yet its existence is unquestionably presumed, and at times can be affirmed to individuals through a particular type of knowing akin to a “sixth sense.” Equally, wairua is 84

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omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient, having a relationship to human life that contravenes understandings of and transcends space-time boundaries (Valentine, Tassell-Mataamua, & Flett, 2017). Perhaps a pertinent example of wairua comes from the following account of a near-death experience: I became seriously ill for the only time in my life. I became so ill that my spirit actually passed out of my body. My family believed I  was dead because my breathing stopped. They took me to the marae [traditional gathering place], laid out my body and began to call people for the tangi [funerary rituals]. Meanwhile, in my spirit, I  had hovered over my head then left the room and travelled northwards, towards the Tail of the Fish [northern end of Aotearoa]. I  passed over the Waikato River, across the Manukau, over Ngāti Whātua, Ngāpuhi, Te Rarawa and Te Aupouri [tribal regions], until at last I came to Te Rerenga Wairua, the Leaping-Off Place of Spirits. I cleansed myself in the weeping spring and then descended to a ledge from which hung Te Aka, the Pohutukawa [tree] root. Here I crouched. Below me was Maurianuku, the entrance to the underworld, covered by a curtain of seaweed. I began to karanga [call] to let my tupuna [ancestors] know I had come. Then I prepared to grasp the root and slide down to the entrance. But a voice stopped me. It was Mahuta [an atua]. “Who is it?” he asked. “Ko au,” I said. “It is I, Ngakahikatea.” “Whom do you seek?” he questioned me further. “My parents. My old people. I have come to be with my tūpuna.” “They are not here,” said Mahuta. “They do not want you yet. Eat nothing and go back where you came from until they are ready. Then I shall send for you.” So I did not leap off. I rose and returned to my body and my people in Waikato. I passed over all the places and things I had seen on the way. My family and those who had assembled from Waahi for the tangi were most surprised when I breathed again and sat up. So it is that I live on. Because the spirits of my dead will not claim me. I shall not die until they do. (King, 1985, pp. 87–88) Due to its pervasiveness as an inherent and infinite property, numerous Māori leaders have endorsed wairua as being the “ultimate reality for Māori” (Marsden, as cited in Royal, 2003, p.  47) and “necessary for the existence of the body” (Henare, 2001, p.  209). Māori health models, such as the widely cited Te Whare Tapa Whā (Durie, 1994), consider spirituality an essential component of wellbeing, alongside familial, mental, and physical domains of health. Indeed, as prominent Māori scholar and leader Mason Durie stated, “without a spiritual awareness, the individual is considered to be lacking in wellbeing” (1985, p. 483). Such statements highlight the primacy of wairua and imply that the epistemological basis of traditional Māori ways of being revolved around wairua. Indeed, most Māori institutions and aspects of everyday life still function according to strict tikanga (protocols), grounded in notions relevant to wairua, including tapu and noa. In its most general sense, tapu denotes a sense of sacredness and restriction, and signifies the potential for spiritual risk if restrictions are transgressed. Noa relates to the removal of sacredness and restriction or the return to a sense of neutrality or relative spiritual safety (Durie, 2003). Ordinary activities such as preparing and eating food, opening and closing meetings, child-rearing, interacting with others, harvesting and planting crops, fishing, and hunting are oriented according to tapu and noa, providing a sense of order, meaning, and rationale for such activities. Consequently, the definition and scope of and justification for knowledge, according to a traditional Māori perspective, was and continues to be embedded within the spiritual guidelines of tapu and noa (Marsden, 1992; Tate, 2012). 85

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Contemporary Māori in Aotearoa New Zealand The arrival of European settlers led to Māori population decline. Today, Māori comprise 14% of the total population, while those of European descent make up 74%, and 12% of the population is comprised of Pacific Peoples, Asian, and other ethnicities (Statistics New Zealand, 2013). Spoonley (2015) suggests that contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand is a “settler society,” due to its composition of “national minorities comprised of Indigenous Peoples who have been colonized, and ethnic minorities whose presence and compositional characteristics are the product of both historical and contemporary immigration policies and a nation building project that revolves around immigration” (p. 651–652). Settler societies serve as meeting points for cultural groups and their diverse worldviews. Such exposure inevitably leads to acculturation and a subsequent changing of cultural beliefs, values, practices, and rituals of the population over time (Marín & Gamba, 2003). As with Indigenous Peoples around the globe, Māori experiences of colonization were colored by exploitation, marginalization, and oppression (Walker, Eketone,  & Gibbs, 2006), including the dispossession from ancestral lands, subjugation of cultural practices, ongoing racism and discrimination, and socio-economic disadvantages. The consequence of these has been erosion of Māori cultural institutions and wellbeing, as evidenced by poorer outcomes across a wide range of health indicators (Bécares, Cormack, & Harris, 2013; Harris et al., 2006; Ministry of Health, 2019). An equally devastating consequence has been the impact on cultural identity. Contemporary Māori live in diverse realities (Durie, 1994), and not all endorse the values, beliefs, and practices characteristic of Māori culture, for various reasons. Dispossession from ancestral lands, and the push to urbanization within the past 50 years, means Māori living in urban environments may now lack the cultural resources (e.g., whānau support, access to land and other natural resources important to sustaining food and livelihoods, exposure to Māori language, access to traditional rituals and practices) to live in accordance with such values, beliefs, and practices, in comparison to those living in rural environments (Tassell, Flett, & Gavala, 2010). The arrival of Christian missionaries heralded a movement away from deference to the atuas; thus, contemporary Māori may endorse Christian values as more important to their identity than their Māori whakapapa (Elsmore, 1989). Although recent decades have seen a revitalization of many traditional Māori institutions, including wide usage and fluency of te reo Māori (Māori language) among younger generations, Māori youth may prefer to live in accordance with a universal youth culture (Durie, 2008). Even in the face of historical trauma, continued discrimination, marginalization, and diverse realities, aspects of some practices that epitomize spirituality have been preserved and are evident in contemporary Māori culture (Dansey, 1992; Jacob, Nikora, & Ritchie, 2012; Nikora, Masters, & Te Awekotuku, 2012), thus highlighting the inherent resilience of Māori as a People. Maintaining a sense of spirituality reinforces this resilience. For example, the rituals engaged in during tangihanga (funerals) are understood as having a significant spiritual underpinning to them, and reflect an acknowledgment of the cycle of life, from birth in the human realm to death and the return of the wairua to the spiritual realm (Te Rangi Hiroa, 1982). Equally, core values epitomizing Māori culture are founded in spiritual understandings. For example, although the term manaaki is typically understood as the capacity to provide hospitality and care, etymologically the term refers to inciting, uplifting, or encouraging (āki) the mana (i.e., spiritual essence) of another. When viewed in this way, the term manaaki extends beyond mere superficialities of being hospitable to an obligation to exhort the spiritual essence of others. Other examples of values epitomizing and recognizing the spiritual interconnectivity of all beings include that of kotahitanga and whanaungatanga. Kotahitanga, literally translated as oneness, 86

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hints at the interdependence of life forms (Henare, 1988), which must be acknowledged but also maintained through collectively beneficial actions. This is often reflected in the desire for initiatives to be collectively driven. Closely related, whanaungatanga reflects the shared whakapapa of all that exists, providing a sense of belonging, while simultaneously imploring an obligation to provide emotional, spiritual, and material caring and sharing to others (Henare, 1988; Metge, 1995). This is evident in creating connections through sharing of whakapapa (genealogy) at the beginning of Māori gatherings. Once whakapapa connections are made, individuals and groups become bounded to each other in ways that encourage reciprocity. The fact that these cultural institutions have survived colonization (although colonial discourses may have influenced how they are interpreted in contemporary times), speaks to the fundamental value of spirituality, and once again positions spiritual perspectives as “an integral, infused part of the whole in the Indigenous worldview” (United Nations, 2009, p. 61). Beyond being important to Māori, they have – perhaps somewhat ironically, given the history of colonization – taken on significance for non-Māori in contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand. Non-Māori are regularly exposed to Māori beliefs, practices, and rituals through popular media, social networks, and familial ties. Such exposure inevitably facilitates social and psychological change in individuals, which can manifest as accepting and/or adopting aspects of Māori culture that are agreeable to the individual. Over time, this affects change in communities and the greater population (Marín & Gamba, 2003). Māori cultural institutions continue to feed into contemporary society, creating a unique cultural milieu that distinguishes Aotearoa New Zealand from other parts of the world, and reinforces the notion that Māori are incredibly resilient and have the inherent capacity to persist, even in the face of adversities. As Tate (2016) notes, Māori were never conquered by colonization, but rather deeply affected by it, to the point that we as Indigenous Peoples tend to be “socially, economically and politically, but not spiritually, marginalized” (p. 17).

Influence of Māori spirituality in contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand society Although the spiritual significance of Māori cultural institutions may not always be understood in all their complexity by non-Māori and even many Māori, they still can facilitate comfort and healing, and they have become an effective tool for fostering resilience at both personal and communal levels across Aotearoa New Zealand. Indeed, growing evidence demonstrates enhanced physical, mental, emotional, and psychological resilience in connection with Indigenous spirituality (Fleming & Ledogar, 2008; Garroute et al., 2003; Kulis, Hodge, Ayers, Brown, & Marsiglia, 2012; Torres Stone, Whitbeck, Chen, Johnson, & Olson, 2006; Wendt et al., 2017). Resilience can be defined as the ability to flourish and adapt despite adverse circumstances. It is recognized that what is considered adverse or not is a matter of perspective. For some, adversity can be the catalyst for substantial spiritual development. Therefore, resilience is the ability to “bounce back,” to protect oneself against the overwhelming influence of risk factors (Zautra, Hall, & Murray, 2010). The notion of resilience is essentially a strengthsbased approach that looks at the individual’s internal and cultural assets rather than focusing on vulnerabilities or weaknesses. No studies have directly investigated the impact of Indigenous spirituality on resilience and wellbeing in the Aotearoa New Zealand context or fully addressed the resilience-building capacity of Māori spiritual beliefs, rituals, and practices for Māori and non-Māori, but recent events demonstrate that Māori cultural institutions have permeated the psyche of Aotearoa New Zealand society in powerfully transformative ways. 87

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Christchurch earthquakes (February 2011) On February 22, 2011, a magnitude 6.3 earthquake struck Christchurch, the second most populous city in Aotearoa New Zealand. The inner city was flattened, thousands of homes across the region were destroyed, 185 people lost their lives, and thousands more were injured. Severe aftershocks continued for several months (New Zealand History, 2020). Although emergency services were immediately responsive, numerous anecdotal reports noted the swift mobilization of the local iwi (tribal group), Te Runanga o Ngāi Tahu, who led disaster recovery efforts and cared for the vulnerable in the wider community, as well as opening their local marae (traditional gathering place) to those needing shelter in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake. Such efforts were specifically centered on the cultural value of “aroha nui ki te tangata” (extend love to all people; Kenney & Phibbs, 2015, p. 46). Deeply rooted in Māori spirituality, extending love to all people acknowledges the shared whakapapa of all beings central to Māori cosmological narratives. Equally, the statement embodies the values of manaaki, kotahitanga, and whanaungatanga, acknowledging the spiritual connectedness and essence inherent to all human beings. Indeed, the Ngāi Tahu response was so effective at facilitating community resilience, wellbeing, and recovery that this cultural approach has since shaped disaster management and emergency response policy at local and national levels (Kenney & Phibbs, 2015). This indicates that Māori notions of spirituality are accepted by non-Māori, as well as Māori, as legitimate means for responding to significant challenges. A further example of Māori institutions grounded in spiritual notions effecting change is the campaign Te Waioratanga (Macbeth & McCarthy, 2015). Initiated by the Mental Health Foundation of New Zealand and the Canterbury District Health Board in 2013, Te Waioratanga was designed to bolster the Christchurch community’s mental health and wellbeing, which had suffered substantial ongoing negative effects following the 2011 earthquake. Earlier health promotion efforts had not been as effective for Māori as the non-Māori population because they failed to account for the collectivistic orientations of Māori (epitomized by the values of kotahitanga and whanaungatanga) and neglected the spiritual dimension of wellbeing (Rawson, 2016). In partnership with local iwi, the project team conducted four focus groups, each comprised of 8–12 Māori ages 16–80, to explore the wellbeing of participants and delineate factors contributing to resilience and recovery. The findings highlighted the importance of a holistic approach to wellness and the significance of core cultural values. Alongside other Māori cultural customs and beliefs, traditional spiritual practices such as karakia (incantations) were used by participants to evoke protection, healing, and feelings of safety, and were considered important sources of strength, resilience, and wellbeing (Rawson, 2016). Using a series of black and white photograph portraits featuring people from the community, the group developed six campaign posters that drew upon the themes identified in the focus groups, namely the importance of family, connectedness, and spirit. For example, one of the posters included the caption “Ko au, ko koe, ko tātou” translating as “I am you, you are me, we are one” (see Macbeth & McCarthy, 2015, and Figure 5.1). Launched in early 2015, the campaign was hugely successful, engaging both Māori and non-Māori. Many claimed they “could see and feel the wairua, or spirit, of the people coming out of the posters” (Rawson, 2016, p. 86). Today, the works remain widely recognized by the wider population of Christchurch. As Rawson noted, both Māori and the broader community of Christchurch saw “opportunities for new conversation, acknowledged the distinct contribution of the Māori world to resilience and wellbeing, particularly in a disaster context but also more widely” (p. 86).

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Figure 5.1 Te Waioratanga project poster featuring kapa haka practitioner Aaron Hapuku with his daughter Kaahu Source: From “Te Waioratanga posters” by N. Macbeth and M. McCarthy (2015). Copyright 2015 by Community and Public Health, Canterbury District Health Board. Reproduced with permission.

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Christchurch Mosque attack (March 2019) Another poignant example of the healing power of Indigenous spirituality was observed during the public’s response to the Christchurch Mosque shootings on March 15, 2019, in which 51 people were killed and 49 were injured during Friday Prayers. In the days following the massacre, numerous spontaneous displays of haka were performed throughout the country by both Māori and non-Māori alike, including Muslim schoolchildren (BBC, 2019). The haka is a rhythmic posture dance traditionally performed on battlefields, but also when groups come together for ceremonial occasions, and signifies the unity, mana, and strength of the collective. In contemporary times, it is performed for a variety of reasons, most notably as a mark of respect. The haka performances served as a national expression of unity that facilitated collective psycho-spiritual healing for the nation. Many of those who viewed the performances found it as cathartic as the participants. As Donna Hall, a member of the New Zealand Māori council, explained, “It’s a spiritual response to what has happened and it really is intended to tap the spiritual depth of people” (BBC, 2019). The haka became a powerful tool for expressing grief and mitigating spiritual distress in a time of need. In addition to these public displays of haka, terminology and symbolic representations specific to Māori culture were publicly displayed in messages of support. For example, the word aroha was typically incorporated alongside messages in English. Although commonly used to denote love, affection, and care, some suggest aroha is a composite word, made up of the word aro and hā. Aro means to pay attention, consider, or be conscious of, while hā refers to breath or essence. When considered in this way, the term aroha denotes a consideration of another’s essence, and in many ways gives full expression to the idea of acknowledging the wairua, or spiritual essence, inherent in all beings (Tate, 2016). A benefit concert to support victims of the shooting and their families was aptly titled, “You are us. Aroha nui.” The koru symbol in the form of a heart was utilized as an expression of aroha. Indigenous to Aotearoa New Zealand, the koru is named after the new unfurling fern leaves of the silver fern plant. For Māori, the koru symbolizes new beginnings, growth, unity, and peace, among other meanings (New Zealand Government, 2020a). Although the nuances associated with aroha and the koru symbol may not necessarily have been understood, their utilization suggests a widespread adoption by Aotearoa New Zealand society, and implies their effectiveness as spiritual resources that facilitate resilience.

Whakaari (White Island) volcanic eruption (December 2019) On December  9, 2019, the most active volcano in Aotearoa New Zealand erupted with extreme force (GeoNet, 2020). Although the volcano had erupted continuously between 1975 and 2000, and then again in 2012 and 2016, this eruption was notable for the significant toll on human life and wellbeing. Recent years had witnessed a rise in tourism. At the time of the December eruption, several tourist groups were on the island, and the lives of 20 people were lost with a further 27 seriously injured (GeoNet, 2020). In line with traditional cosmological beliefs about the common ancestry and interconnection of all living things, Māori of the local iwi Ngāti Awa consider Whakaari to be a living ancestor. Some felt the increased tourist operations in recent years were disrespectful and exploitative, the eruption represented a protest from Whakaari about this apparent exploitation, and that “she shouldn’t be taken for granted anymore” (The Guardian, 2019). Despite expressing disapproval at the treatment of their ancestor, the response from local Māori to the disaster was immediate and compassionate. Out of respect for those who died, a 90

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rāhui (prohibition) was imposed on the surrounding coastal area, which forbade swimming and collection of any seafood for one week. While fishing and tour operators felt the rāhui resulted in unnecessary economic consequences for them (Radio New Zealand, 2019), the underlying intention of rāhui is to ensure the safety of the collective, and in this case, allow the natural environment to return to a state of equilibrium. Given the interconnected nature of all beings, the Whakaari eruption not only had significant implications for humans, but also for other living beings in other domains (e.g., sea creatures, birds). The local iwi authority Te Runanga o Ngāti Awa also opened Te Mānuka Tutahi marae to the community, as well as loved ones of those who lost their lives or were seriously injured, as a place to share and support each other (Te Ao Māori News, 2019). In this way, the local iwi enacted manaaki to those in need and also reflected the inherent values of kotahitanga and whanaungatanga. Combined, the imposition of the rāhui and the opening up of the local marae signified a capacity by local Māori to draw on cultural notions embedded in spirituality, as a means for building resilience and supporting others in the face of adverse circumstances.

COVID-19 pandemic (March 2020) COVID-19 has become a global pandemic, reaching almost every corner of the Earth, having dire consequences for health and wellbeing, and impacting the functioning of societies. The government’s response in Aotearoa New Zealand was swift, with efforts focused on curbing the sharp spike in infection rates and reducing the spread of the virus. At the time of writing the initial draft of this chapter, the entire country was preparing to go into “lockdown” within 24 hours, which involved an enforced period of self-isolation at home. At the time of revising this chapter, the country has come out of the imposed lockdown period of close to three months, and is effectively “COVID-free” (Ministry of Health, 2020). Leading up to the initial government directive to commence lockdown, Māori response to COVID-19 was rapid and pragmatic (The Spinoff, 2020), with many iwi leaders highlighting the importance of social distancing and supporting the discontinuation of pōwhiri (traditional welcomes) for the foreseeable future (Radio New Zealand, 2020). Deeply imbued with spiritual meaning, pōwhiri are conducted according to specific tikanga that ensures the safety and wellbeing of all involved. Integral to the pōwhiri process is the hongi, pressing noses with another and inhaling simultaneously to reflect a sharing of the same air or life force. Despite its primacy in pōwhiri, a prominent leader of the iwi Te Ātiawa, Kura Moeahu, indicated hongi would not be conducted by iwi members during formalities such as pōwhiri (Radio New Zealand, 2020). Citing the term taupāruru, confining or restricting movement in a certain place or area, Moeahu stated this should not be taken as “stopping people from doing what they want to do if they choose to do that,” but rather served as a guideline for the adaptation of cultural institutions such as hongi, and qualified his decision by stating that “from a tikanga Māori perspective, it’s the right thing to do” (Radio New Zealand, 2020). While often considered static, tikanga are dynamic and evolve according to circumstance to ensure the continued spiritual safety and wellbeing of collectives. When considered in this way, the discontinuation of hongi by Te Ātiawa members extends beyond the governmental requirement for social distancing and becomes a reflection of manaaki, the exhorting of another’s spiritual essence, which in the current climate is about being socially responsible and caring for each other. Equally, it signals the flexibility of Māori to adapting cultural institutions to the ever-evolving nature of our times, and how traditional spiritual understandings promote resilience and flourishing. 91

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The incorporation of other aspects of Māori culture has had wider reach through the government’s Unite Against COVID-19 campaign (New Zealand Government, 2020b). The use of te reo Māori (the Māori language), for example through the slogan “Mā tātau katoa e ārai atu te COVID-19” (“Together we can slow the spread of COVID-19”), highlights a commitment by the government to ensure this public health campaign is messaged in a way that appropriately addresses all members of the Aotearoa New Zealand population. Although it is not clear where the genesis of the slogan Unite Against COVID-19 rests, the notion of uniting is deeply ingrained in Māori thought, as expressed in the concepts of kotahitanga and whanaungatanga, a sense of belonging and oneness that obligates each person to care for another, maintained through collectively beneficial actions. Again, this speaks to the likely influence and relevance of aspects of Māori culture that are grounded in notions of spirituality, for addressing contemporary societal issues and building resilience in response to national threats in Aotearoa New Zealand.

Conclusion The valence of spirituality for Indigenous Peoples has been present since time immemorial; it has never subsided, even in the face of severe oppression and colonization, and it continues to be reflected in contemporary Indigenous ways of being. Furthermore, the value of Indigenous notions of the spiritual has extended beyond Indigenous communities, permeating the very psyche of many non-Indigenous peoples, in beneficial and meaningful ways. Nowhere has this been more apparent than in Aotearoa New Zealand, where Māori notions of spirituality have become deeply embedded in many aspects of society and are drawn upon in challenging times as messages of hope, flourishing, and resilience. Māori spirituality facilitates adaptive behavior by enhancing coping skills, problem-solving ability, and providing a sense of meaning, coherence, and purpose in life. It fosters stronger societal interconnectedness and underscores the importance of unity through compassionate relationships (Manning et al., 2019). Perhaps most importantly, Māori spirituality provides a segue for facilitating the re-emergence of the spiritual in non-Māori. Indeed, in the face of major global challenges, Māori spirituality and Indigenous notions of the spiritual in general have much to offer humanity. Their potential transformative impact and resilience-building capability should not be underestimated.

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6 RI QACH’AB’ÄL JA RI RUK’UX RI QAWINAQ, CHAQA’ RI QAWINAQ JA RI RUK’UX RI QACH’AB’ÄL Linguistic resilience in Guatemala Ingrid Sub Cuc For my grandmother, my mother, and my people – Matyox, thank you for your wisdom and resilience.

Introduction I am an Indigenous woman who speaks three languages – Maya Kaqchikel, Spanish, and English. Each of these languages is a window into part of my story and my family’s history. Each of these languages has played a significant role in shaping the person that I am today, an Indigenous Maya woman in the 21st century. The lessons I have learned in regard to language, culture, family and my Indigenous identity are rooted in the stories passed down to me from my grandmother and mother – wisdom passed down through a long history of oral tradition. This story, the story I now share with you, is informed by their knowledge, wisdom and lived experiences.

Iximulew – our homeland My people are powerful and resilient, with an incredibly rich history. Iximulew, our ancestral homeland (also known as Guatemala), is a small country located in Central America that has as much natural beauty as a it does a history of hardship. It is one of the few countries in the world where our Indigenous communities constitute almost half of the entire population (Elías, 2020), despite efforts to eliminate us. Our homeland is known as the land of eternal spring. With its unique landscape and microclimates, it truly is a gracious and incredible home for the Indigenous Maya people. Our mountains, volcanoes, rivers, lakes, and plant and animal relatives have contributed to the survival of our communities over the past 500 years of colonization – each element connected to our history and our families, each element a vital part our language.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-9

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Qach’ab’äl – our language Language is a powerful tool. It allows us to communicate with one another, to voice our opinions, to share our ideas, and – most of all – to express that which is important to us. Our languages are especially sacred to us because they hold ancestral knowledge that is passed down from generation to generation – lessons learned, family stories, ceremonial practices, aspirations, and teachings that ensure our future and the survival of our communities. However, not all languages are valued equally. The languages we hold sacred as Indigenous people are often labeled not as full languages but as dialects. This distinction has come at a high cost to Indigenous people in my homeland and the power – or lack thereof – we hold in society. In fact, the continued use of our Indigenous languages has been used as justification for the poverty and the lack of progress and opportunities our communities continue to suffer from today (Barrett, 2008). Sociolinguist Max Weinreich has often been referenced as stating that a language is just a dialect with an army and a navy (McWhorter, 2016; Greene, 2010). This really puts into perspective for me the dynamic of power that devalues our languages while upholding others. Languages like Spanish and English have more economic and social power and are even considered more sophisticated. Indigenous languages are considered primitive and less economically advantageous, and in many instances, it is even encouraged that they be forgotten, erased from our identity. It is no surprise, then, that Indigenous languages are rapidly disappearing around the world (Degawan, 2019) and that we as Indigenous people are often discouraged from learning or preserving them. It is against this backdrop that the Indigenous Maya communities in Iximulew fight to keep our languages alive. It speaks to the resilience of the Indigenous people that 22 of our Maya languages are still actively spoken today. It is especially important to mention that Indigenous women play an exceptionally vital role in the preservation of language around the world and as keepers of Traditional Knowledge (OHCHR, 2015; UN, 2019). The fact that I  can speak my Indigenous language is a testament to the resilience and strength, not only of my family, but of Indigenous people around the world who continue to speak their languages in a world that is often hostile to them. It is not a secret that there have been systematic efforts not only to erase our identity and our culture, but also our language – and with it, our existence (Perera, 1993). One of the most recent and atrocious efforts was during the 36 years of civil war that ravaged our homeland. In its 1999 report, “Guatemala: Memory of Silence,” the United Nations Commission of Historical Clarification concluded that the Guatemalan government had carried out a policy of genocide against its Indigenous people for over three and a half decades of civil war (UN, 1999). This attempt to eliminate the Indigenous population is not a unique event in Guatemala’s history. Although the civil war highlighted the lengths to which the government would go to eliminate our Indigenous communities, these efforts have been ongoing since the establishment of colonization. Language learning, revitalization, and restoration are forms of resilience, especially given the vast efforts to eliminate Indigenous heritage. Language revitalization and restoration allow Indigenous Peoples to rewrite their histories – to recapture and to reclaim their identities. Equally important is the resilient effort it has taken Indigenous Peoples to learn one or more of the colonizers’ languages. I say this because learning languages that are so vastly different than our own Indigenous languages has not only been part of my journey, but also my mother’s journey, and my grandmother’s journey, as well. Language learning is resistance. Language learning

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is strength. Language learning ensures our existence. Language learning is a way to seek the wellbeing of future generations.

Wati’t – my grandmother My grandmother was one of nine children. She and her siblings were born and raised in our hometown of Tzolojya’ (Sololá), located deep in the highlands of Iximulew. None of them attended what was considered a Western school. It wasn’t a priority for the government, nor for their families at that time. During those times, Indigenous people were not expected to participate in Guatemalan society, except as laborers and domestic workers; they lived parallel lives and were completely excluded from what would be considered formal systems in Guatemala (Carey, 2013; Garzon, 1998). The priority for many Indigenous women like my grandmother was to learn what was necessary to be a good wife, mother, and member of the community. This included the Kaqchikel language, the traditional art of weaving, the preparation of traditional foods, and how to help care for the home, animals, and plants. Those skills were prioritized in her life, and it was expected that she would eventually marry and do the same thing for her children – pass down these teachings and lessons. Although marriage was not a personal priority for my grandmother, she made sure to fulfill the expectations required of her by her community. She was married, and she had seven children. My grandfather passed away shortly into their marriage, leaving her and her children, including my mother at 3 years old, to build a new life. My grandmother had to learn to be resilient in the face of great uncertainty. Like many Indigenous people in our community, my family’s main source of income was from growing and selling their crops. Both of my grandparents came from a long line of ajtikonel, skilled workers of the land. In their marriage, my grandfather worked the land, and my grandmother grew flowers and medicinal plants that she would sell at the market in the town’s plaza. My grandfather’s death changed the role that my grandmother played in her family. She had to find a way to venture out and provide for the whole family. Her young children worked the fields and helped her with the crops so that she could continue to harvest and sell her products in the market. Although she had learned a few Spanish words through her interactions with customers, her frequent presence in the market increased her vocabulary tremendously. Spanish became a necessity for her success as a saleswoman. Although she was already in her forties, she did what it took to provide for and feed her family and learn a second language. I know this part of my grandmother’s story well, because I had the privilege of growing up with her. I lived with my grandmother from the time I was 2 years old until I was 12. Even though all her children had grown up and built their own families, my grandmother still prepared her crops and went to the market every Tuesday and Friday to sell her harvest, which often included beautiful white calla lilies (her favorite flowers), k’ix (spiky squashes), ichaj (an assortment of greens), and q’ayis aq’om (medicinal plants). It was during our times at the market that I became aware of my grandmother’s ability to speak Spanish because at home she only communicated in Kaqchikel. I remember telling her, “Nan, I didn’t know you could speak Spanish” and she would say, “Well, I know enough to survive.” That was definitely true. She had learned enough to survive, and to secure the survival of her children. For her, learning Spanish was an act of resistance, an act of resilience, and a testament of love – she dedicated every part of herself to her children, and she never remarried despite pressure to do so. Spanish was not an easy language for her to learn. It was foreign and unfamiliar but necessary to get her through life.

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My grandmother’s ability to speak Spanish also greatly impacted my life. My parents separated when my sister and I were very young. As a single mother, my mom worked full time, and because of this, my sister and I were raised by my grandmother. I have fond memories of growing up with my grandmother. I can still remember waking up in our adobe home to the sounds of her hands carefully crafting fresh tortillas, the sound of her ka’, her grinding stone, as she prepared q’utun’, salsas made from chili peppers and tomatoes. Our house had two rooms; one was our kitchen and the other was where we slept. After my grandmother finished preparing the food, she would rush into our bedroom to wake us up, as we had likely already overslept. My sister was usually sent to the kitchen to eat first, while I would stay behind so that my grandma could have the time to carefully arrange my thick black hair into beautiful braids. She always made sure that we were well-prepared for school. Despite having little understanding of Western education, my grandma understood well the sacrifices my mother had to make to keep us enrolled in school. Even with her limited Spanish vocabulary, she always made sure to ask our teachers, when picking us up from school, if we were doing well academically. In this way, my grandmother’s resilience to learn a new language has impacted my life. I owe much of what I know today to my grandmother, including the ability to speak our Indigenous language, Kaqchikel. In our culture, elders are never alone. As children, it is our responsibility to accompany our grandparents wherever they go. Being one of her youngest grandchildren, I would often accompany my grandmother – whether it was to harvest flowers, to look for firewood in the mountains, to hunt mushrooms during the rainy season, or to buy and sell at the market. In all of those scenarios, she would show me the value of our language and its many uses in our community. Although I did not recognize it at the time, my grandmother provided me with immersive lessons in our language. I still treasure these lessons very much today. Whenever I  go home to my community, I  think of my grandmother’s lessons. Every time I am in the market, or in the forest, or eating mushroom soup, I am able to appreciate my environment more deeply because of my connection to my language. I am grateful every day for this gift, because I know I am deeply privileged to speak my language. The knowledge of Kaqchikel allows me to understand my community. It allows me to better understand my lineage and my history, which became even more important to me later in my life. This keeping and teaching of our language is the legacy of my grandmother’s resilience. At the age of 12, my life changed completely. My mother remarried, and we moved to the United States. It was not until that time in my life that I understood how much my grandmother taught me in the time that I lived with her. The years I spent with her in our comfortable adobe home learning more about who she was and how she learned many of the things I was so curious about became the cherished memories we connected over later in her life. It was such a gift to be able to return home every few years and hear her stories in our language. My ability to understand and speak our language became even more important in our relationship, because the older she became, the harder it was for her to access her limited Spanish. It was thanks to her efforts to teach me our language that I was able to have conversations with her and dive deeper into her stories. I knew that there would be a time when I returned that she would no longer be there to receive me. For this reason, during my visits back home, I asked her to tell me more about her story, which she always shared with a smile – her stories of growing up in the highlands of Guatemala, her stories of the awkwardness of wearing shoes for the first time, her stories of hiding her kids in the mountains and resisting sending them to school out of fear of losing them or of them being abused by that system. We laughed about how funny she thought her Spanish sounded, how little she felt she knew, and how it was now leaving her mind as she got older. I laughed along with her, but beyond their humor, I thought her stories

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depicted true resilience – the resilience of an Indigenous mother who every generation had seen her lineage adapt and change due to the dominant culture.

Nute’ – my mother My mother was the only one of my grandmother’s seven children who received a formal education past sixth grade. She attended the Guatemalan equivalent of community college and graduated with a degree. She was the first one in my family to have what would be considered a professional level of Spanish. My mother’s Western education has been a point of contention in our family. Her pursuit of Western education and her ability to speak Spanish was often perceived as a definitive step away from her Indigeneity, her family, and community. Yet, my mother often reflects back on her decision and remembers how important it was for her to gain education to provide for her family and open up new opportunities. Throughout my childhood, I remember this being a point of disagreement between her and my grandmother. My grandmother often resented my mother’s insistence that she seek out additional training and education for career advancement, feeling that those things had nothing to do with the needs of her children. My mother reassured her that what she was doing was valuable, and that it would serve to ensure our future – one with plenty of educational opportunities. Although my grandmother had allowed my mother to study, she felt that this education had inevitably brought things unknown to our culture and worldview – because language is powerful. We have seen it be a power used for good and a power used for our destruction. My mother and grandmother shared a very special bond. My mother was 3 years old when my grandfather passed away. She was my grandmother’s ch’ïp, or youngest child. My mother’s recollection of that time in her life is a foggy dream. What she does remember is how hard life became for her and her siblings, how hard my grandmother worked to provide for them, and how each of them had to learn to be resilient in their own way. I never really reflected on the fact that there was a time in my mother’s life when she did not speak Spanish, since with us, her children, that is the language she used the most. She told me that like my grandmother before her, she learned Spanish out of necessity. My grandfather’s death left the family in deep poverty. It was not easy to be a family of eight with a single mother, especially an Indigenous mother. They had to work very hard and make many sacrifices in order to eat every single day. Because of this, my mother started working at a very young age. At 5 or 6 years old, she was already helping my grandmother with her flowers and her harvest in order to make some money at the market. By the age of 7 or 8, she began running errands for non-Indigenous women, which was the common job for young Indigenous girls during that time. They would make 10 or 15 cents by carrying their groceries, or by delivering letters or messages all around town. This role required the basic ability to speak Spanish, which many Indigenous children learned on their own out of necessity. She says that it was on one of those occasions on a market day that she approached a woman and asked her, in limited Spanish, if she could help carry her basket back to her house. The woman said, “Yes, of course you can.” Then she handed her the basket. It was during their walk to this woman’s house that the woman became interested in my mother’s story and asked her who her family was and where she came from. My mother shared her story about her father passing and helping her mother at the market. The woman said, “I pity you, and I feel sorry for the things that you have to go through at such a young age, but if you are interested in working, I can provide work for you. I make chuchitos (traditional Guatemalan corn dumplings that are similar to tamales). I could definitely use some help selling them.” 100

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My mother remembers being so excited for this new opportunity because she knew that she could bring in a little money and help her mother. She asked my grandmother if she would allow her to work at this woman’s house. My grandmother was hesitant but agreed in the end. It was in this job that my mother began to expand her Spanish vocabulary; the woman she worked for advised her to learn Spanish in order to be a good saleswoman – to be able to sell chuchitos to travelers on the early buses that passed at 5 or 6 in the morning. This is how her journey into language learning began. The years that she spent making chuchitos and selling them provided her with enough Spanish to help her enter elementary school with enough proficiency to excel academically. For centuries, Indigenous people in Iximulew have learned Spanish in this way, by immersing themselves in the language to provide for their families. Today, one can find Indigenous people in tourist towns with the capacity to speak three, four, or even five languages to communicate with potential clients. Our communities continue to be linguistically resilient in the face of hardship. My grandmother’s and mother’s language journeys have had a huge influence on my life. As a young girl, I was immersed in both Kaqchikel and Spanish. My grandmother spoke to me in Kaqchikel and my mother mostly in Spanish. I never really understood why my mother chose to speak to us predominately in Spanish, but what I do know is that my ability to speak Spanish by the time I started school contributed to my academic success. This is not the case for many other Indigenous children. The vast majority of the curriculum in Guatemalan schools is in Spanish only (McEwan & Trowbridge, 2007). Many Indigenous children do not learn much Spanish at home and have to learn to adapt quickly when they start school. It is a huge struggle for Indigenous children when they begin school to have to learn the Spanish language at the same time that they try to perform well academically. I asked my mother if her decision to speak to my sister and I in Spanish was intentional – her reply was that she knew it was important in order for us to succeed. She knew this because she had gone through that same system herself a few decades earlier. It was important for her to set us up for success because she said the world is much easier if you know how to speak Spanish: opportunities become available, and more doors open. The ability to speak Spanish had opened many job opportunities for my mother, opportunities that her siblings did not have. Her efforts to pass this language to us was her way of ensuring we would have the same opportunities. My mother’s ability to speak Spanish made me very proud of her. The power and strength that this gave her – not only within our family, but in our society and our culture – was evident. Her proficiency in Spanish allowed her to navigate and access systems that were often hard for Indigenous people to understand, like the governmental, educational, and healthcare systems. As a mother, she attended our parent-teacher meetings and asked specific questions about our academic performance, and she even knew to ask for accommodations and extra support if necessary. If we were sick, she was successful in getting us the medication and services necessary because of her ability to speak Spanish. She was able to use the language as a tool of empowerment. I remember admiring this ability in my mother. Beyond that, though, I admired my mother immensely because she could communicate effectively in two languages. Despite venturing far into Western education, my mother never lost her ability to speak our language. On more than one occasion, my mother served as an advocate and interpreter for our family and community. She was my grandmother’s primary contact with doctors and healthcare services throughout my grandmother’s illness later in life. I have deep respect for my mother and her resilient spirit. Like her mother before her, she overcame many challenges in her life and demonstrated true linguistic resilience for the betterment of her family. Seeing my mother as her authentic powerful self in those settings during my childhood was admirable and beautiful – a presence and power I wished to attain myself one day. I could not 101

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have imagined that anything could strip my mother of that power and presence, but a new setting did. When my mother remarried, and my stepfather gave us the opportunity to move to the United States to seek better economic and educational opportunities, we had to learn English. It took me years to truly understand the sacrifice that my mother made when she decided to bring us to this new country. For many years, I resented her. I felt so much pain because I was far away from my community and had been thrust into a world of which I had no understanding. It took me many more years to understand how much harder and more painful this experience had been for her. My mother had always been our greatest advocate in Spanish and Kaqchikel. Now that we found ourselves immersed in the English language, she was just as lost as we were.

Rïn – me English was a challenging language for us to learn. Because I grew up speaking Spanish and Kaqchikel at the same time, I didn’t quite understand how different colonizing languages were from our own language until I began learning English. Our language is centered around Traditional Knowledge and draws upon our surroundings. For example, to greet someone in the afternoon we say xqa’ q’ij, which references the position of the sun; the sun is setting. Although I was fortunate to have had some linguistic training in Spanish before learning English, this new language was still completely foreign to me, it had no relation to my life and no connection to my people or history. Learning English brought my sister, mother, and me closer together, because in this linguistic journey, all we had was each other. Yet, it also challenged us immensely and distanced us from one another in ways we did not expect. It was the first time in my life that I remember being at the same academic level as my mother. We were both learning a new language. I saw how quickly my sister and I learned the language and how much more difficult it was for her. Nevertheless, she persevered. She continued to push herself to twist and bend her tongue in ways she never had before just so that she could have enough English to communicate with us. I think one of the biggest motivating factors that propelled us all forward in our language learning journey with English was an experience we had in the first month that we spent in the United States. My sister and I, after only two weeks in the United States, were sent to school with little to no English proficiency. We were so young and so lost. In this new setting, my mother told us that we could never be separated – that we must always be together. We had to leave the house together and return to the house together; this was the rule. On one occasion, at the end of the school day, I arrived at the spot where my sister and I would always meet after school to take the bus home together; but I couldn’t find her. In my panic, I rushed to get on the bus to look for her and make sure she was not already there. The bus driver began yelling at me and pointing to the seat to communicate to me that I needed to sit down, but I could not reply. I had no words, no voice. Because I couldn’t say anything, I sat down, and the bus drove away. I have never felt more powerless or more afraid. I knew that I did not have my sister with me, and I also knew that she must have been feeling just as powerless and lost wherever she was. When I arrived home, I told my mother through tears that my sister was lost. I remember my mother felt equally panicked and afraid, but she did her best to keep calm. Our fear came from a place of powerlessness and voicelessness that many immigrants experience (Toppelberg  & Collins, 2010). I  think it was that moment that really defined for my mother the necessity to learn English and be able to protect us in this new reality. 102

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Seventeen years later, my mother’s journey with the English language continues. My mother was a professional in Guatemala. She had a stable job and so many opportunities because she knew how to speak Spanish. Upon arrival in the United States, her limited English proficiency did not allow her to use her degree. She had to find new ways to survive and to provide for us. My father and mother started a business selling traditional Indigenous products from Iximulew at various festivals, markets, and pow wows throughout Washington state. Like my grandmother, it was through her interaction with customers and the necessity of selling her products that she was able to acquire enough English to continue to support us in this new environment. It is through the lens of these experiences that I see my mother today. What some may call her broken English is a testament to the love and devotion that she has for her children. It is also a testament to the resilience of Indigenous immigrants who continue to seek a better future for their families. My mother sacrificed a lot by leaving everything she knew behind, including her professional status and social stability. Just as my grandmother before her, as a single mother, she prioritized her children and their future. She gave my sister and me the opportunity to learn English and pursue academic and professional success in the United States. There is something beautiful and painful about language learning for Indigenous people. Our Indigenous languages bring us closer to our ancestors and help us understand our communities and our history. Our languages help us survive. On the contrary, learning a colonizing language often pulls us away from our family, our communities, and the very heart of our identity. Yet, these colonizing languages also open many doors for us to escape the poverty, sickness, and trauma that colonization brought to our communities, and to express our resilience in new ways.

Wach’alal – my relatives It’s not uncommon for Maya people in Iximulew to experience both the joy and the sadness of multilingualism. Those like my grandmother who speak predominately Mayan languages have the ability to access the richness that is the experience of our culture in its fullest beauty – the sacredness of our ceremonies, the knowledge of our lands, and the teachings of qatit qamama’ – our grandmothers and grandfathers. However, they also know the pain of being excluded from nearly all social systems and the feeling of powerlessness that comes with being unable to access resources due to language barriers and discrimination. On the heels of my grandmother’s generation came another generation that knows the beauty of bilingualism – to be able to communicate fluidly both with their families and with the dominant Eurocentric world – to achieve greater economic stability. Yet they, too, know the pain that comes with accessing those spaces that have been historically denied to people like us. They know what it is like to be ridiculed for their accents, to be the brunt of racist jokes and public mockery, the feeling of navigating two worlds at once. In one world, they are guided by ancestral knowledge and oral tradition, where our decisions are made based on our sacred calendars, the movements of the moon, and the teachings of Mother Earth. In the other, they are guided by the accumulation of wealth, over-production, exploitation of natural resources, and knowledge written and formulated by Western science and governments. Then there are the growing number of us who for various reasons have traversed several dimensions of linguistic knowledge to find ourselves distanced from our communities and families, while also being immensely privileged. By becoming so well-versed in the colonizers’ languages, we are the first generation to not only survive but to thrive within systems that were built to exclude us. Despite few resources given by the government in Guatemala to Indigenous youth, there are now more of us that are academics and professionals than ever before. Yet, 103

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I  never feel closer to my grandmother and my mother than when I  speak to them in Kaqchikel – the language in which I can truly appreciate their full power and wisdom. However, at this moment in my life, Kaqchikel is the language I speak least fluidly. As we become the realization of our ancestors’ wildest dreams, thriving in the enemy’s world, we must internally wrestle with a nagging question in our hearts: how can I be faithful to my language and my people when my language is no longer central to my daily life? After all, it is because of their linguistic resilience that I find myself writing this story today in my third language. There is no easy answer to this question. This is because, whether we speak our Indigenous languages or one of the many colonizing languages, we have never truly had a choice. For generations we have learned languages, not by our own decision or by privilege, but as a means of survival. As Maya people, our language learning history is deeply intertwined with the legacy of colonization – abuse, war, genocide, and displacement (Perera, 1993). The Maya people of Iximulew have survived more than 500 years of colonization – the burning of our libraries and written knowledge, the enslavement of our people for the wealth of the Spanish and mestizo elite class, 36 years of civil war and genocide, and continuous displacement from our lands and resources because of the greed of transnational corporations (Carey, 2013). This history has made my people linguistically resilient – whether or not they choose to pass on our Indigenous language, whether they learn a colonizing language or are unable to do so – their choices are rooted in resilience, resistance, and survival. We must not forget that these acts of resilience and resistance are not in our distant past. They continue to affect our immediate reality. During the civil war in Iximulew that lasted from 1960–1996, investigators found that over 200,000 people were killed (UN, 1999). Of the victims recorded by the Commission for Historical Clarification, 83% were Indigenous Maya people (UN, 1999). The trauma of the events of the civil war instilled fear in our communities. Anything that identified someone as Indigenous could threaten that person’s existence – including our clothing and our languages. Many people chose not to pass these things down to their children – out of fear, but also out of love. Displacement and immigration have always played a key role in our language journey, as well. During the civil war in our homeland, thousands of people fled to the United States, Canada, and other countries to escape the genocide that threatened our people. There is a whole generation of Maya people who were robbed of the opportunity to learn their language and grow up in their communities. Many of these people are well-versed in colonizing languages and have learned to move seamlessly in the systems and cultures of foreign lands, yet they find themselves in an ongoing journey to reclaim their language and identity. Even though the peace accords to end the war were signed in 1996, the displacement of Maya people continues (Garcia, 2006; Morrison & May, 1994). Maya people are currently fleeing their communities because of hunger, climate change, and exclusion from systems of wealth and power in Guatemala (Garcia, 2006). The new wave of colonization, based on the control and exploitation of natural resources, displaces Indigenous Peoples from their ancestral lands every day. Though a large number of people migrating north to the United States are Indigenous Maya people, there is little to no recognition of this in the media or in society at large (LeBaron, 2012). It is as if our Indigenous identity plays no role in our immigration story, as if we are being erased from history once again. When reports of children dying in the custody of the US government recently became common, these children were reported as Guatemalan immigrants, not as resilient Indigenous Maya children from Maya linguistic communities. Additionally, when the United States implemented its new immigration policy separating families (Kandel & Library of Congress, 2018), neither the Maya parents nor children were given access 104

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to resources in their ancestral language (Nolan, 2019; Bernd, 2019). Due to the long history of discrimination, Indigenous immigrants are advised against using their Indigenous languages outside of their community. Yet, if they are able to answer even the most basic questions in Spanish, they are considered to be Spanish speakers and their Indigenous identity is overlooked. The story of Indigenous immigration highlights yet another illustration of linguistic resilience for Maya people as we seek to survive. Migration outside of our homeland brings another layer to our story of resilience as Maya people adapt to new systems, lands, and languages in a new context. The need to recognize the unique linguistic barriers of Indigenous immigrants is becoming urgent. In the United States today, Mam, Quiche, and Qanjobal, Maya languages from Guatemala, have become three of the 25 most frequently spoken languages in immigration court (Medina, 2019). Unless this need is recognized, young Indigenous children who have been separated from their families will continue to be expected to defend themselves in immigration court in languages that they do not speak or understand. Nothing depicts the true power of a colonizing language more than the image of Indigenous people signing legal documents with no concept of the consequences or implications for their wellbeing. Another familiar barrier that immigrant Maya children are facing is navigating education systems that are not yet able to accommodate their language needs. They often sit in classes instructed in English or Spanish, without adequate interpreting or support (Tussey, 2019). There has been an increase in interest among educators in the United States to understand Indigenous Maya languages and create better language learning environments due to the influx of Maya immigrants in local schools. Facing language barriers is a familiar struggle for Maya children. It was their reality in Guatemala, a reality that follows them wherever they go. For some, language learning can be a privilege or even a pastime, but for most Indigenous people, it is has been a mechanism of survival. For this reason, as Indigenous people, we should not be ashamed for speaking the languages that we speak in the unique ways that we speak them. Although our language is central to our Indigenous identity, it cannot be the only thing that defines our Indigeneity. Some of us may only speak one language, and this language may not be our Indigenous language. Some of us may only speak our Indigenous language and continue to thrive. Wherever we fall in our language identity, one thing remains true: our ancestors foresaw for us a future that was one of dignity and choice. No matter what languages we speak, we are fulfilling their dreams for us. I finally came around to asking my mother why she only spoke to us in Spanish when we were little. I even asked her if she ever saw any value in teaching us Kaqchikel. She replied, I didn’t have the privilege to think about it that way. I didn’t grow up in a world where I was taught our language was valuable or worth preserving. You are now in a vastly different world. You have the ability to choose to learn our language, to value our language, and to think about such concepts as language revitalization or conservation. I was just trying to survive. My mother is absolutely right. As Indigenous people, it’s only when we’ve been able to move past the important step of securing our immediate survival that we have the privilege to choose what, when, and why we learn. It’s taken my family over three generations and a journey across several colonizing languages to secure us the privilege of choice. Very few people in my Indigenous community of Tzoloj’ya have the privilege of learning to read and write our language. Because I have had the opportunity to study in the United States, I am the first in my family to have the opportunity to access my language in its written form and to read the stories 105

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and history of my ancestors. In fact, it was only this past summer that I was able to take a class to learn to read and write in Kaqchikel for the first time.

Qawinäq – our people Until recently, I didn’t know that there had been extensive research into our language, including its structure, and into the culture of my people. I was unaware of the degree of funding, research, and knowledge that is recorded about my people in academic spaces in the United States. This knowledge is far too often completely inaccessible to us. I feel a certain degree of sadness when I think about Indigenous children in Guatemala who are shamed and ostracized for speaking their Indigenous languages, knowing that there is a parallel world where students in the United States are celebrated and given funding for learning these same languages. I often wonder what we could achieve as Indigenous people in Guatemala if we were given the same quality instruction and praise for learning and speaking our languages as is given to academics and other people of great privilege for learning our languages. It’s worth noting that the peace accords of 1996 guaranteed Maya people the right to quality bilingual education. We have been waiting for over 20 years for that promise to be fulfilled (Poppema, 2009). When I think about what resilience means to me, I think about the strong Indigenous Maya women in Iximulew. Maya women have been those who have carried forward our history, our way of life, our traditions, our language, and our culture, despite facing unspeakable atrocities. The stories of the women in my family are a small window into a much larger history and present reality. Part of our responsibility as Indigenous Maya people who speak colonizing languages is to tell the true history of our people and our ancestors. For hundreds of years, the stories of our people have been erased or terribly misrepresented. It’s time for us to take ownership of our stories and ensure that future generations understand the true beauty and knowledge of our people and our worldview. Colonizing languages have been historically used to divide us. We must now learn to reinvent the role of these languages in our lives. In Reinventing the Enemy’s Language (Harjo & Bird, 1997), a book I revisit for wisdom, Indigenous women of the North share their stories – stories of resilience, love, hardship, loss, and strength – all in the enemy’s language, English. This book changed my perspective on what it means to be linguistically resilient, and it continues to give me hope for the future of my own Maya community. Just as past generations have been linguistically resilient and adaptable, so, too, must we take comfort in knowing that the future generations will express this resilience in ways unimaginable to us today. We don’t know what is to come but this truth remains: Ri qach’ab’äl ja ri ruk’ux ri qawinaq, chaqa’ ri qawinaq ja ri ruk’ux ri qach’ab’äl. El corazón de nuestra gente es nuestro idioma, y el corazón de nuestro idioma es nuestra gente. The heart of our people is our language; the heart of our language is our people.

References Barrett, R. (2008). Linguistic differentiation and Mayan language revitalization in Guatemala. Journal of Sociolinguistics, 12(3), 275–305. Bernd, C. (2019, July  21). Indigenous asylum seekers face language barriers and a legacy of oppression at the border. Retrieved December 11, 2020, from https://truthout.org/articles/torn-away-traumatized-andtongue-tied-seeking-asylum-while-indigenous/ Carey, D. (2013). I ask for justice: Maya women, dictators, and crime in Guatemala, 1898–1944 (Acls humanities e-book). Austin: University of Texas Press.

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Linguistic resilience in Guatemala Degawan, M. (2019, January 1). Indigenous languages: Knowledge and hope. Retrieved November 29, 2020, from https://en.unesco.org/courier/2019-1/indigenous-languages-knowledge-and-hope Elías, S. (2020, May 25). El Mundo Indígena 2020: Guatemala. Retrieved December 01, 2020, from www. iwgia.org/es/guatemala/3742-mi-2020-guatemala.html Garcia, M. (2006). Seeking refuge: Central American migration to Mexico, the United States, and Canada. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Garzon, S. (1998). The life of our language: Kaqchikel Maya maintenance, shift, and revitalization (1st ed.). Austin: University of Texas Press. Greene, R. L. (2010, August 4). Of dialects, armies and navies. Retrieved December 11, 2020, from www. economist.com/johnson/2010/08/04/of-dialects-armies-and-navies Harjo, J., & Bird, G. (1997). Reinventing the enemy’s language: Contemporary native women’s writing of North America. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Kandel, W.,  & Library of Congress. Congressional Research Service, issuing body (Eds.). (2018). The Trump administration’s “zero tolerance” immigration enforcement policy. Washington, DC: Congressional Research Service. LeBaron, A. (2012). When Latinos are not Latinos: The case of Guatemalan Maya in the United States, the Southeast and Georgia. Latin Studies, 10, 179–195. https://doi.org/10.1057/lst.2012.8 McEwan, P. J., & Trowbridge, M. (2007). The achievement of indigenous students in Guatemalan primary schools. International Journal of Educational Development, 27(1), 61–76. McWhorter, J. (2016, January 20). There’s no such thing as a ‘language’. Retrieved December 11, 2020, from www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2016/01/difference-between-language-dialect/424704/ Medina, J. (2019, March 22). Migrant’s plight is complicated by interpreters. The New York Times. Morrison, A. R., & May, R. A. (1994). Escape from terror: Violence and migration in post-revolutionary Guatemala. Latin American Research Review, 29(2), 111–132. Nolan, R. (2019, December 30). A translation crisis at the border. Retrieved December 11, 2020, from www. newyorker.com/magazine/2020/01/06/a-translation-crisis-at-the-border OHCHR, C. (2015, September/October). A CLADEM1 contribution to the study of the promotion and protection of the rights of indigenous peoples in relation to their cultural heritage, particularly through their participation in political and public life. Retrieved November  29, 2020, from www.ohchr.org/Documents/Issues/ IPeoples/EMRIP/CulturalHeritage/CLADEM_en.pdf Perera, V. (1993). Unfinished conquest: The Guatemalan tragedy. Berkeley: University of California Press. Poppema, M. (2009). Guatemala, the peace accords and education: A  post-conflict struggle for equal opportunities, cultural recognition and participation in education. Globalisation, Societies and Education, 7(4), 383–408. Toppelberg, C. O.,  & Collins, B. A. (2010). Language, culture, and adaptation in immigrant children. Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Clinics of North America, 19(4), 697–717. Tussey, A. (2019). Maya indigeneity in the public school system: Institutional barriers between educators and students. Maya America: Journal of Essays, Commentary, and Analysis, 1(1), Article 11. Retrieved from https://digitalcommons.kennesaw.edu/mayaamerica/vol1/iss1/11 United Nations, UN. (2019, August  9). UN women statement on the international day of the world’s indigenous peoples. Retrieved November  29, 2020, from www.unwomen.org/en/news/stories/2019/8/ statement-un-women-day-of-the-worlds-indigenous-peoples United Nations, UN Commission for Historical Clarification. (1999, February). Guatemala memory of silence. United Nations. Retrieved from https://assets.documentcloud.org/documents/357870/guate mala-memory-of-silence-the-commission-for.pdf

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7 EXPLORING THE ROLE OF SEXUALITY AND IDENTITY ACROSS THE PACIFIC Navigating traditional and contemporary meanings and practices Jioji Ravulo Introduction I have always felt that I was different. Different in the way I connected with self and others. I  remember as a young child feeling out of place when interacting with others my age and gender. But I remember feeling a sense of empathy for those who, like me, were treated differently for being different. It was through this shared experience that I wanted to use my own differences to make a difference, while trying to make sense of how such differences can be meaningfully included. As the child of an Anglo Australian mother and an iTaukei (Indigenous) Fijian father, I grew up being reminded of being different on a daily basis. Different because of my skin color. Different because of my afro hair. Different because I lived in public housing. Different because I acted effeminate. Different because I had a strong sense of spirituality. Different because of my physical size. But as I got older, I saw that such differences could, and can, be used to provide other people who are different with a voice and an ability to contribute across society. These differences can help shape societies to become a space and place in which cultural diversity can be nurtured and fostered. If we are celebrated for being different, then such differences would not be seen as unusual and unhelpful, but rather a source of strength, purpose, and resilience. It is through this sense of resilience that I am positioned. As an individual, I am still working through my own personal and shared identity as a bisexual person alongside my own male privilege and its impacts on others around me. I continue to endeavor and learn to be an ally with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples, while reconciling the realities of living on stolen Aboriginal land in Australia where their sovereignty was never ceded. I strive to understand and enact the importance of privileging Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies across modern Western spaces and places. This includes personally learning and upholding my own Pacific-Indigenous views while promoting the meaningful inclusion of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander practices and perspectives as a social work academic and practitioner. Similarly, I am conscious of the struggle to deconstruct dominant discourses that create societal tensions and discords. DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-10

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I am not against the ability to live within the grays that occur within such societal binaries, but rather I am averse to the notion that it is one way or the other – that you have to be straight or gay, poor or rich, secular or religious, male or female, able-bodied or disabled, Black or white, and the list goes on. It is through these binaries that we create an us and them, a good and bad, a right and wrong. We then get stuck in this cycle of creating social structures, norms, values, and cultures within these binaries, and expect people to fit in or fail. We educate our children to accept the status quo and not question the possibility that what we are doing to each other through the way we view and interact with others may create more problems rather than promote robust, well-rounded communities. We have trained each other to be individually focused and obsessed with self, without understanding our own personal contribution to others. Our individual views are reinforced by the notion that we don’t have to justify self to anyone else except self, that it is my way or the highway, and that the individual pursuit toward personal happiness is clouded by consumerism, corporatism, and capitalism. But there is hope. Hope that comes from highlighting that differences do exist. Hope that comes from meaningfully including these differences in the transformation of the cultures in which we exist and operate. Hope that comes from understanding the role we all play in supporting each other. And, I genuinely believe global Indigenous norms and values are well positioned to greatly contribute to this change and transformation. As we may know, Indigenous cultures globally are all unique in their own ways of knowing, doing, being, and becoming. However, they do generally share one common theme – the significance placed on self and others. On reciprocity. On living with the notion that my own existence is to support others, not just myself. That we all have a role to play; individually and communally. It is within this context, position, and foundation that I believe we can collectively as a global community utilize Indigenous epistemologies to help support the inclusion of differences beyond the binary. Through this shared approach, we can learn to support the role of diverse sexualities to be accepted and celebrated within the mainstream and beyond.

Pacific Peoples and communities across Oceania Across the chapter, I will be using the term Pacific Peoples and Pacific communities to include those that have an ethnic heritage from the geographical region of the South Pacific. PacificIndigenous Peoples continue to occupy and belong to the lands and waters within Oceania, and include iTaukei Fijian, Samoans, Tongans, Tahitians, Kanaka Maoli Hawaiian, Cook Islander Māori, New Caledonian Kanak, Papua New Guinean Wantok, Ni-Vanuatuan, and New Zealand Māori. I acknowledge the rich and diverse cultural differences that exist across the islands and waterways, ranging from language to familial and community practices. Pacific Peoples and Pacific communities are not a homogenized group but rather share a common connection through our locality in Oceania. Collectivist values resonate across Pacific Peoples and place an importance on our connection with family, spirituality and faith, food, recreation and sport, and the visual and performing arts. These continue to provide a shared platform for Pacific Peoples to communally celebrate this connection to each other within a wider geographical space and place (Ravulo, Mafile’o, & Yeates, 2019). The examples that underpin my exploration of Pacific sexualities are based on these various shared Pacific cultural views and have been influenced by my own lived experience and professional connections. Colonialism is another shared experience among Pacific-Indigenous Peoples and communities that has an ongoing impact on our ability to meaningfully integrate our collectivist perspectives in modern contexts. Conversely, we celebrate the resilience shown in 109

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our desires to maintain, sustain, promote, provoke, and provide Pacific-Indigenous approaches within Western modernity across Oceania and beyond.

Understanding sexuality in the context of resilience Sexualities in the Pacific region were historically fluid rather than fixed and bound by morality and labels (McCubbin & Marcus, 2017). The introduction of Western perspectives, through colonization and its pervasive binary influences (Hite, 2017), led to our own Pacific perspectives being deemed archaic, savage, and immoral (Chang Hall & Kauanui, 1994). It is through this judgmental, contemporary lens that our own ability to see sexualities as a rite of passage and as a means to connect collectively with self and others has been greatly diminished (Stewart, 2014). In this chapter, I explore the resurgence, reclaiming, and resilience of Pacific LGBT+ communities in our homelands and the broader diaspora. Within each of these three areas I explore the past, present, and future of Pacific sexualities as a means to acknowledge, advocate, and applaud the strength we can glean from seeing our differences as part of a broader quest to promote social inclusion within contemporary contexts. As noted earlier, it is through our Indigenous ways of knowing, doing, being, and becoming that more fair and just societies can be achieved. It is through the meaningful inclusion of our traditional and evolving views as Indigenous people that colonized spaces can be disrupted and those individuals who have been relegated to the margins can be provided opportunities to contribute without fear of retribution, shame, and discrimination. We can establish a broader platform for many voices to shape and share sociocultural spaces in which we meaningfully create as individuals who make up families, communities, and broader societies. It is through such micro, meso, and macro perspectives that solutions can emerge and people are afforded opportunities to contribute. Instead of seeing sexuality as a tangible entity that manifests through sexualized behaviors, we need to approach it from a more holistic lens, where other forms of diversity meaningfully intersect, including spirituality, gender, class, language, and religion. I believe it is possible to create physical, liminal, and fluid spaces, perspectives, and practices that are then nuanced and meaningfully shaped by an array of intersecting identities, rather than the one already perceived and judged as negative and irrelevant. Our individual identities are made up of many different identifiers and shaped by the collective context in which we operate. I am not just my identity based on a sexual orientation but also have other identifiers that contribute to how I make sense and meaning of the world. These diverse characteristics can inform and provide a connecting point toward sustainable change. For example, it is possible to bring my Pacific-Indigenous views into my identity within the LGBT+ community while promoting such diverse perspective with non-Indigenous people to consider and incorporate these views within and beyond. Similarly, I can utilize my identity within the LGBT+ community to assist in shaping evolving Pacific-Indigenous perspectives on sexuality alongside my other identities based on class, gender, and religion.

Making sense of it all, and advocating for change Queer theory and Indigenous theory Globally, Queer theory has provided a platform for sexualities to be critically understood and approached. It has been a much-welcomed avenue for queer people to find and validate a voice that has existed but was striving to be included. By definition, Queer theory challenges the status quo of how we view sexuality beyond the prescribed notions of heterosexuality and its 110

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accompanying heteronormativity. The socialization of intersecting gender norms provides the platform to further critique the role and performance of our sexual desires and attractions. It provides a platform for resistance against hegemonic and dominant discourses that deter social inclusion (Miller, 2019). Queer theory has evolved since its development by acclaimed scholars in the 1990s (Comstock, 2020), and it continues to emerge as a means to support the deconstruction, diversification, and expression of sexualities to include sociological, psychological, physical, and embodied expressions. It is a transformational construct that allows individuals, families, groups, and communities to question the perceived norm, and allows other diverse perspectives to be acknowledged. Like any theory, there are limitations to its broader application. Some of these include the over sexualization of behaviors and using predominately Westernized/Global North, white, middle-class viewpoints to describe other forms of queerness among those in the Global South. It has created almost a one-size-fits-all approach to the way in which LGBT+ communities may strive for societal inclusion and justice. In some circumstances, it has also created a self-imposed marginality within that has led to negative views on its own existence, rather than celebrate its own queerness as a source of strength and solitude (Moore, 2018; Morrissey, 2019). Interestingly, I  believe there is a synergy between Queer theory and Indigenous theory. Both were founded in the desire to be understood and included. Both were established from a grounded approach. Additionally, both theories continue to support the need to deconstruct and disrupt the status quo, the perceived normalcy of Western modernity (Hames-Garcia, 2013). It is within this shared relationship that I believe Indigenous theory can contribute to Queer theory, with acceptance and inclusion, reciprocity and holistic wellbeing rooted in its common cause and foundation. With collectivism embedded in its core, the evolving nature of solesolevaki (from Fiji  – meaning reciprocal living), fa’a’samoa (from Samoa – meaning the Samoan way), and fetokoni’aki (from Tonga – meaning mutual helpfulness) utilizes an understanding of traditional practices, but as they merge across the decades from colonization and migration, they are influenced by space and place. That is, these concepts can still effectively incorporate the importance of collectivism while promoting fair and just approaches underpinned by reciprocal living and wellbeing. Each of these specific Pacific concepts strives to impart the importance of vā, a relational space that exists between us all (Mila-Schaaf, 2006). The disruption of this sacred space can create issues for our wellbeing, and perpetuate insecurities and isolation. As individuals committed to nurturing the vā between self and others, we are inextricably bound and connected to use our own strengths, resources, and purpose to support the collective. This includes supporting those in need, and ensuring everyone is able to play their broader role. Here is where the concept of vā shines; everyone has a role to play in the broader collective. Everyone is valued and matters. Everyone is part of the common unity that defines who we are as a community. Failure to include others in our own practice and nurturing of vā compromises this sacred bond, and deters the existence of harmony. I believe that it is possible to enable a whole-of-community approach, to apply such PacificIndigenous concepts into Western practice through the ongoing decolonization of social systems to be more intentional in promoting collective approaches, rather than implementing societal structures that are obsessed with the sole commodification of an individual’s labor and consumption. I believe it is possible to utilize and integrate Pacific-Indigenous concepts into Queer theory and provide a platform for diverse sexualities to be seen as part of the vā (sacred space) we hold with self and others that then contributes to the fabric of society we are placed within. 111

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Looking back, exploring the now, and the possibilities In the following section, I provide historical context on perceptions of Pacific sexuality. This is followed by examining the resurgence, reclaiming, and resilience of Pacific sexualities in contemporary times and identifying possibilities for the future. I encourage a more holistic view of how identities were formed and are understood, and provide critical views on the way in which other intersecting norms, values, and views – including Pacific cultural contexts – also pervade, shape, and influence. My hope is not to romanticize the utility of Pacific-Indigenous epistemologies, but to provide possible threads to the ways in which these perspectives and practices still inform our understanding of where we have come from, where we are today, and where we are headed in the future. Various resources are used to support this critique, including the use of what is academically perceived as gray literature: web-based media articles from blogs, social media, and news outlets. The information from the gray literature contributes to the larger narrative of inclusivity by incorporating sources not traditionally valued. Additionally, these sources provide a space for LGBT+ communities and Pacific Peoples to have a voice, to share their views, and to support a critical consciousness that is generally missing from the dominant discourse.

Past: looking back Historical accounts of same-sex behavior in the Pacific operated from a morally conservative view of sexuality, using a Western lens that problematized such behaviors. Most of these perspectives have been conveyed by Western scholars within their Western contexts to further understand and provide context for sexualities across the Oceania region. Only a handful of published works have been written by Pacific Peoples themselves, and these provide a more nuanced connection to the way in which our own sexualities are understood and practiced (Chang Hall & Kauanui, 1994; Mokuau, 1986; Teaiwa, 2014; Tupuola, 2000, 2004). In saying that, I acknowledge my own privileged position; I, too, am writing this chapter from a Westernized space and place, working from an academic institution in Australia and placing a critical gaze from my Westernized context. However, my examination of the historical literature that deals with Pacific sexualities is one whereby I account for the ways that Pacific epistemologies meaningfully interact with such Westernized accounts. Rather than view these accounts from a post-colonial gaze, I am striving to make sense of these narratives in the context of vā, and the role of reciprocal living nuanced by the concepts of solesolevaki (from Fiji – reciprocal living) and veiqaravi (also from Fiji – to serve others), and to implicitly serve self and others in collective reciprocity. I am striving to make sense of these historical accounts from my own identity as someone from a lived Pacific-Indigenous heritage.

Masculinities As European empires extended their colonial conquests across the Pacific, the notion of hegemonic masculinities was utilized to frame how Pacific men and women, their family structures, and broader societies were viewed, compared, and contrasted to the dominant discourse occurring within Western societies of the time (Alexeyeff, 2008; Alexeyeff & Besnier, 2014; Elliston, 2014; Masterson, 2018; Wallace, 2003c). Within European societies, masculinities were generally linear in nature, and were inextricably bound to physical strength and capabilities

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that would then parallel their tangible contribution to the commodification of labor during the emerging industrialization period. Females were considered physically inferior to men, and because of that, women were relegated to maternal duties while men were seen as the providers for their family unit (Chen, 2014). Nuclear families were restricted to functional roles of paternalism with a singular mother and father figure, and children were empowered to nurture individualistic desires beyond their own family settings and structures. It is within these ongoing binaries that Western paternalism still occurs across the region, and pervades the way that Pacific Peoples are seen, heard, included, and involved. In contrast, Pacific families were broad and complex in their structure, with multiple parental figures beyond the mother and father figure (Manuela & Sibley, 2014). Pacific women in various islands and territories are perceived as being emotionally and spiritually superior in familial and social structures, and utilize these giftings to support the bigger collective that includes everyone in their immediate and broader context by default (George, 2010; Stege, Metala, Naupa, Simo, & Huffer, 2008). Gifts, whether individual physical strengths or local resources grown or sourced from the lands and their accompanying waters, belong to everyone. Alongside other global Indigenous cultures, Pacific children are seen as assets and provide a meaningful role to contribute to the wellbeing of others. Elders are placed as the source of mana, or knowledge that permeates how a collectivist approach is maintained. This may manifest through resilient oral narratives passed down and accompanied by various forms of visual and performance expressions (Ravulo, 2016). If we deconstruct the way that sexualities were known and understood via Pacific-Indigenous epistemologies, they would be viewed as being part of the broader, holistic connection to self and others. Many Western historical accounts witnessed Pacific men being affectionate and participating in sexualized behavior and activities with other men (Wallace, 2003a). From a Western perspective, this was judged as being counterproductive and counterintuitive to the function of society. Christian ideals and morality promote a belief that sexual activity must be between one man and one woman. For those who professed a functionalist/Calvinist perspective, sex was for procreation alone (Wallace, 2003b). However, sexuality and its many forms and expressions in various parts of the Pacific was a rite of passage and moved beyond the Westernized perspective of the sexualization of such behavior: In the Pacific Islands, this must also be understood in relation to the cultural constructions of self which often differ greatly from their Western equivalents. It is gender, rather than sexual identity, that is given ontological priority in the wider Pacific region, and gender liminal identities, as with all other social identities, are mainly defined with respect to their role in social life and centred on their expected contribution to collective life as opposed to inner, personal desires. (Presterudstuen, 2019, p. 166) This may then suggest that for Pacific Peoples, their obligation and desire to uphold the sacred space, or vā continues in spite of demoralization of their sexual expressions, as their individual roles are still part of contributing to the collective. Where our identities are bound to the broader role of self and others, the priority to maintain a close connection regardless of gender roles or norms further contrasts with the individualistic manner in which Western views were introduced. In challenging these gender roles, colonizers in effect disregarded this sacred space bound by a holistic view of self to a context of morality and function.

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Sexualization of Pacific appearances and behavior Another key trend of the colonization of the Pacific region was the oversexualization of certain appearances and behaviors. Due to the morality imposed on Pacific Peoples by a conservative religious agenda brought from the West, predominately from the Catholic and Protestant persuasion, nudity is seen as abominable and savage in nature (Alexeyeff & Besnier, 2014; Chang Hall & Kauanui, 1994). Nudity was seen to be a source of provocation and sexual desire; to be naked was a sexual expression in and of itself. From a Westernized gaze, individuals were held account for not promoting such imagery, as it prompted a lewd and sexualized sense of self. This was not something to be embraced beyond the confines of a mutually consenting relationship that may involve forms of sexual expression and activity. Over time, Pacific Peoples learned to see their naked bodies as a source of shame, to be covered and not exposed. An eminent Pacific scholar of his time, Ravuvu (1983) noted how nakedness among young children was acceptable within Fijian village life up until the age of 3 or 4. Ravuvu (1983) also made a contrast to the 1950s when it was previously acceptable for them to go about village life naked up until the age of 8. He notes though, at the time of writing, that “young adolescent girls and old women of the village sometimes leave their breasts exposed in public settings, usually when they are among themselves working” (p. 111). Over time, this became completely frowned upon within modern contexts due to the ongoing sexualization of such appearances. The semi-naked body is welcomed as a source of beauty and strength, and not seen as oversexualized, tantalizing, or homoerotic. Various forms of partial nudity were practiced (e.g., shirtless men, women wearing flowing skirts to accentuate their hips through cultural dance.) From a Pacific Peoples perspective, this can be seen as part of the overall collective expression of the performance, where the body is used as a meaningful instrument to convey a narrative intertwined with a rich sense of self and others. Lyrics are sung and proclaimed to portray a vivid image of connecting to space and place, and to celebrate the vā we all share as unique and nuanced Pacific cultures across the region. Pacific dances are performed with poetic grace and stature, which are alluring to the senses and evoke a sense of sexualization, but can be embraced as being natural and as a part of how we celebrate a connection, once again, to self and others, without stigma or shame. Regardless of how colonial pressures pervaded Pacific perspectives, maintaining such practices is a form of resilience, and continues to show the importance Pacific Peoples placed on maintaining our own forms of expression.

Present: exploring the now From our past as Pacific Peoples comes a broader legacy that has shaped the way we view ourselves sexually. In this next section, I explore how modern movements around sexual diversity continue to evolve, with a view to reclaim our own Pacific perspectives in our sexual expressions and interactions. This includes understanding and unpacking dominant views of sexuality, and the resurgence occurring across Pacific communities to celebrate our own sexual identities.

Making sense and having purpose The way members of the LGBT+ community are perceived and understood is inextricably bound to the terminology and phrasing used to describe them. Over time, words like queer have been reclaimed by the community itself, and evoke pride in standing with others who identify with the term in a positive way, rather than as a slur intended to demean. Certain reclaimed 114

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labels have provided a platform for solidarity among the LGBT+ community and facilitate a broader sense of normalcy to create a space and place within society. Labels have also been used to create a sense of purpose of what it means to be part of this group in society. Such words provide a way to connect with self and others, and to promote value toward an individual and collective purpose. Inclusive terms enable dominant discourses to be challenged and disrupted so that they encompass something more than the societal center, and to be reminded that life and its accompanying structures, systems, perspectives, and practices go beyond the binary. Similarly, the use of specific Pacific language terms for sexuality has created a sense of meaning and purpose, but has included negative associations with its related sexual expressions and created further problematization in supporting fair and just perspectives (Dvorak, 2014). Certain negative terms have been utilized to vilify the LGBT+ community across Oceania and have been informed by an underlying morality that pervades Pacific societies. That is, strong religious views perpetuated by a close social affinity with church-based faiths, predominately Christian in nature, inextricably shape the social and cultural landscape of many Pacific families. Despite the rich and nuanced role Pacific sexualities had in being more fluid in their practices and approaches, the vā (sacred space) accepted between men who have sex with men is now tabu or taboo. The way in which various Pacific cultures utilized certain physical acts as a rite of passage within the same gender (Stewart, 2014) has been labeled by Christian views as being gravely unacceptable, inappropriate, and unhelpful to our morality, and devalues the functional Western perspective of sexuality in modern, colonized Pacific societies. However, there is a resurgence occurring among many Pacific Peoples across Oceania to reclaim and profile the resilience of Pacific sexualities. This is evident in the way Pacific individuals have started to call out the moral biases and binaries our own Pacific Peoples have internalized from colonization. Pacific Peoples are creating social movements via social media and are using other forms of media including print and radio to call out the negative use of judgmental and divisive labels and stereotypes among our own Pacific Peoples. Andre Afamasaga is of Samoan heritage, born in New Zealand, and has worked extensively in Christian ministry across the southwestern Sydney region of Australia. In December 2019, he publicly came out as gay through an opinion piece published in one of Australia’s most wellknown newspapers, the Sydney Morning Herald. Titled “Gay, Christian and a former preacher, I’m coming out to help anyone hurt by Folau,” the article directly positions itself to challenge the “homophobia deeply rooted in religious beliefs and cultural values” where it “can be ultimately traced back to our colonial history, our leaders have ensured that discrimination against LGBT+ people remains entrenched” (Afamasaga, 2019, n.p). This article was in response to social media posts made by Israel Folau, an International Rugby Union player of Tongan heritage, which contained negative religious stances on being homosexual. Subsequently, Folau’s employment contract was terminated by Rugby Australia, leading to him suing them and settling out of court with a large amount of money awarded as compensation, alongside a large following of conservative Christians supporting his cause, including fellow Pacific Peoples. However, it is within such spaces that Afamasaga continues to challenge Folau to further reflect on such actions and has continued to undertake interviews across other areas of the media to profile this alternative discourse. On a national TV program, Afamasaga encouraged Folau to consider the following question: “Do you understand that the words that you say have impact and makes it harder for those who are Pacific?” (Insight SBS, 2020, at 46:42). He goes onto acknowledge that: the churches got to accept that they are causing harm. Faith systems have got to understand that they are contributing to this harm. And they have got to do something 115

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about it. They just can’t continue to say all this stuff and not be accountable for what they are saying. (50:26) In a follow-up radio interview, Afamasaga provides a poignant encouragement for Pacific Peoples to embrace their sexualities, and to “share your story and don’t be ashamed; you will help others make it much more acceptable for them to come out, as well” (Tiperio Lafoa’i, 2020, at 15:30). Kristian Fanene Schmidt is a media personality, with previous experience as an MTV Australia host, and continues to work in Los Angeles across various media outlets and roles. He is accomplished within academic contexts and his alma mater Auckland University, and he is a Fulbright scholar. Born and raised in Porirua, New Zealand and of Samoan heritage, he openly came out as gay through a blog piece written and co-published by The Coconet TV titled “Mothers Day” (Schmidt, 2018). Through this raw, personal account of his journey in dealing with his own sexuality against a backdrop of pain and shame, he aptly notes, “We’re not the default and so we’re not normal and if you’re Samoan you can just about forget it cuz our culture in its current state is intrinsically tied to Christianity and, in turn, sin and all that rhetoric.” However, through his own ability to accept and love self, he is able to connect and share this with others in a way that empowers and provokes a more positive association to sexuality. He continues to call out homophobia across our own Pacific communities and beyond via his social media channels @whatwouldkritdo, and he further profiles his position via provocative blogs on https://whatwouldkritdo.com/. In one piece, titled “Pride,” he notes the need to challenge self to counteract unhelpful narratives which in turn supports a healthier perspective on sex and sexuality: All the myths and programming are so entrenched. It’s hard to undo it all but it’s possible. Deprogramming the lies to get to what’s real takes being brutally honest with ourselves [another huge struggle for me] but it actually comes more naturally than holding on to those programmed lies. (Schmidt, 2019) Such views are continuing to support the broader conversation among Pacific individuals to further unpack the contemporary way we view our connection to sexuality while incorporating diverse perspectives in and across our communities. Pacific Sexual and Gender Diversity Network (PSGDN) was launched in 2007, and has a very active Facebook page that lists the following mission: a regional network of Pacific MSM [Men who have Sex with Men] and Transgender organisations whose mission is to strengthen community leadership, mobilisation and advocacy in the areas of sexuality and gender identities with respect to sexual health including STIs [Sexually Transmitted Infections] and HIV and AIDS, wellbeing and Human Rights. (Pacific Sexual and Gender Diversity Network, n.d.) A wide range of postings are profiled on their timeline, ranging from critical comments on topics related to Pacific sexuality and gender, to reposting a broad scope of web-based articles outlining various successes and challenges from the queer community across the globe. The PSGDN oversees a private Facebook group titled LGBT Pacific. This provides a culturally 116

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safe space and platform for more nuanced discussions on LGBT+ matters occurring across the Pacific region. As a member, I continue to be inspired by the solidarity shown among Pacific Peoples in sharing their personal stories, insights, and realities. I am conscious that this continues to provide Pacific Peoples across the many islands and their diaspora globally with an opportunity to reclaim spaces that previously were hard to navigate due to the post-colonial moral view of sexuality. Such virtual platforms assist in celebrating the resilience that comes from being a proud Pacific person regardless of the contemporary challenges we are still working through collectively.

Nurturing my own vā and connection to self and others On further personal reflection, my own coming out to my parents in my early twenties was an opportunity to re-establish and nurture the vā that was previously marred with my father. Admittedly, I was very reluctant to share that I had same-sex attraction due to my conservative Christian upbringing and its accompanying perspectives. But it was through my ability to openly share this part of my identity with my father that our relationship rapidly changed for the better. As acknowledged in my introduction, I was considered effeminate in my late childhood and early adolescence. I was somewhat aware of this, but felt it more through my perceived lack of a loving connection with my father. He tried to build this through my involvement in the local soccer team from the ages of 8 and 9, and then the local Rugby Union team from the ages of 11 and 12. He tried to connect by getting me to attend his own sporting activities and events. Throughout this period, I feigned interest and went along out of sheer obligation and expectations to comply with fatherly instructions. Our relationship did not improve over my teenage years, and I started adulthood without feeling loved by him until he verbally told me he did at the age of 21. This did help somewhat, but it was not until shortly after, when I was 23, that he became aware of my sexuality. And it was almost instantly, through me sharing this part of my identity, that my father felt a connection, or an opportunity to build a bond with me. It was, I believe, the ability for me to be real with him, rather than hide and feel ashamed, that a genuine connection was established and reclaimed. As a result, the vā between us was restored, and our relationship has soared ever since. I now have a great relationship with my father, and we are able to speak intimately together without the fear of judgment and hurt I felt growing up. I now seek and cherish opportunities to share all areas of my life with him. I believe it is through our Pacific approach to enact solesolevaki – a commitment to love and serve self and others – that has nurtured our relationship, and is reflected in our ability to journey together.

Future: the possibilities What would it look like to effectively integrate Pacific epistemologies of collectivism within gender and sexuality across modernity, in Oceania and beyond? How can we forge ahead in celebrating and reclaiming the diverse ways that Pacific sexualities were positioned prior to colonization, now and into the future? In essence, I believe this can be achieved, and I would like to propose three practical recommendations on how we might be able to achieve this goal of inclusion. First, we need to support the creation of specific Pacific education programs on the resurgence of Pacific-Indigenous values and sexuality, helping people to decrease internal and external judgment and labels. Second, we need to challenge the pervasive and persuasive nature of whiteness within the broader LGBT+ community itself. Third, we need to continue to 117

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share diverse stories and narratives to profile resilience and celebrate differences. This supports recommendations one and two, leading to holding and nurturing vā and promoting societies grounded in concepts like solesolevaki (reciprocal living). I will further unpack these recommendations in what follows. Through the creation of specific Pacific education material and/or resources on our Indigenous values and sexuality, we provide the opportunity to see the synergies that existed prior to colonization whereby people were valued and were connected to self and others. Due to various religious-based views outlined in this chapter, I believe it would be empowering to remind our church elders, leaders, and broader congregants to enrich their love your neighbor as yourself teaching through Pacific cultural perspectives like vā and veiqaravi – serving others. It’s about encouraging individuals to adopt a more collaborative and cooperative approach to ensure that those generally in the margins are considered and cared for. The need to promote diverse and eclectic ways of representing the LGBT+ perspective is imperative. We need to move beyond universalizing a white, Westernized view of queerness to ensure diverse experiences of sexuality shaped by other realms of cultural diversity are included. Thankfully, many countries globally have benefited from the protests across Western spaces that have lobbied for equal rights across many areas of society; however, certain intersectional identities are still missing. This may mean that individuals are dealing with discrimination on multiple levels beyond their sexuality. For Pacific Peoples, this could include being a person of color, of a religious faith/spirituality, living in low socio-economic contexts, having English as a second language, and negotiating migrant status. This may all occur alongside health and wellbeing concerns impacting ability, educational engagement, and employment. The ideal look and narrative to be individually liberated beyond the shackles of the family may exist within Western narratives of queerness, but we need to nuance how this may look for individuals within collectivist cultures wanting to still inextricably connect to Indigenous cultural practices and perspectives. Rather than enacting a hegemonic, homogenized, and static approach to being queer, we need to embrace the broader concept of fluidity that is often celebrated and cherished as part of the sacred spaces in which LGBT+ communities traverse. The three examples outlined in this chapter – Andre Afamasaga, Kristian Fanene Schmidt, and the Pacific Sexual and Gender Diversity Network (PSGDN) – are all about sharing stories from a Pacific perspective on Pacific sexualities. Encouraging opportunities to create, curate, collate, and capture Pacific stories on how people experience their wellbeing against the backdrop of their sexualities alongside other intersecting identities propels diversity as a norm. It can greatly encourage, empower, enhance, and embrace others to consider their own personal positionality when striving to make sense of how to connect to such stories. Imagining the possibilities to support the growing movement to incorporate Indigenous perspectives can be achieved through a shared commitment and collective approach.

Conclusion From writing this chapter, I have personally learned so much from understanding our varied and collective past, present, and future, and how this can shape, deconstruct, and disrupt the way sexuality is understood and explored. The need to share this knowledge as presented across the chapter is part of a growing movement to ensure that Pacific voices are included and can inform the way mainstream societies are challenged to be better. Actions toward the resurgence, reclaiming, and resilience of Pacific LGBT+ were profiled to further provoke possible opportunities from within the Pacific community itself, and beyond.

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I’ve experienced this from my own learning: to embrace the way in which Pacific sexualities have been defined by ourselves previously, and how this can continue to be shaped by us, through us, for us. I believe it is through this collective approach that others are encouraged to come into the broader Pacific LGBT+ community, as they learn to embrace diversity in an inclusive manner, rather than perceive such characteristics as barriers and irrelevant to self and others. I genuinely believe it is possible to meaningfully integrate Pacific-Indigenous epistemologies alongside other global Indigenous concepts of collectivism into the evolving nature and concept of Queer theory. I am aspirational that non-Indigenous communities can integrate Indigenous perspectives into the ways they interact, perceive, and understand sexualities and diversity, as the need to support self and others should be the norm, not the exception. If these perspectives are successfully integrated, people would not sit in moral judgment and problematize the ways people interact sexually. Rather, people would see that the societies they belong to are formed based on the innate responsibility to nurture the vā we collectively create, while holding each other accountable to ensure that diversity is celebrated and acknowledged as part of the interwoven ibe (mat) we sit on and share.

References Afamasaga, A. (2019, December 27). Gay, Christian and a former preacher, I’m coming out to help anyone hurt by Folau. The Sydney Morning Herald, pp. 1–4. Retrieved from www.smh.com.au/national/gaychristian-and-a-former-preacher-i-m-coming-out-to-help-anyone-hurt-by-folau-20191220-p53lrw. html Alexeyeff, K. (2008). Globalizing drag in the Cook Islands: Friction, repulsion, and abjection. Contemporary Pacific, 20(1), 143–161. Alexeyeff, K., & Besnier, N. (2014). Gender on the edge: Identities, politics, transformations. Gender on the Edge: Transgender, Gay, and Other Pacific Islanders, 1–30. Chang Hall, L. K., & Kauanui, J. K. (1994). Same-sex sexuality in pacific literature. Amerasia Journal, 20(1), 75–82. https://doi.org/10.17953/amer.20.1.q86w52t860486m58 Chen, C. H. (2014). Prioritizing hyper-masculinity in the pacific region. Culture, Society and Masculinities, 6(1), 69–90. Comstock, N. W. (2020). Queer theory. In Salem press encyclopedia (pp.  1–4). Retrieved from http:// ezproxy.uow.edu.au/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ers&AN=1 00259292&site=eds-live Dvorak, G. (2014). Two sea turtles: Intimacy between men in the Marshall Islands. In Gender on the edge: Transgender, gay, and other pacific islanders (pp. 184–209). Manoa: University of Hawai‘i Press. Elliston, D. (2014). Queer history and its discontents at Tahiti: The contested politics of modernity and sexual subjectivity. In N. Besnier & K. Alexeyeff (Eds.), Gender on the edge: Transgender, gay and other Pacific islanders. (pp. 33-55). Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press. George, N. (2010). ‘Just like your mother?’ The politics of feminism and maternity in the pacific islands. Australian Feminist Law Journal, 32(1), 77–96. https://doi.org/10.1080/13200968.2010.10854438 Hames-Garcia, M. (2013). Review: What’s after queer theory? Queer ethnic and indigenous studies. Feminist Studies, 39(2), 384–404. Hite, C. (2017). Derrida and queer theory. Earth, Milky Way: Punctum Books. Insight SBS. (2020). Coming out with faith. Retrieved from www.sbs.com.au/ondemand/ video/1696444483597 Manuela, S., & Sibley, C. G. (2014). Exploring the hierarchical structure of pacific identity and wellbeing. Social Indicators Research, 118(3), 969–985. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11205-013-0472-y Masterson, I. (2018). E hua e: Surfing and sexuality in Hawaiian society. In Lisahunter (Eds), Surfing, sex, genders and sexualities. (pp. 30-49). London: Routledge. McCubbin, L. “Lali,” & Marcus, M. D. (2017). Pacific islanders and sexual orientation. In K. L. Nadal (Ed.), The SAGE encyclopedia of psychology and gender (pp.  1259–1262). https://doi.org/10.4135/ 9781483384269.n419

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Jioji Ravulo Mila-Schaaf, K. (2006). Vā-centred social work: Possibilities for a pacific approach to social work practice. Social Work Review, 18(1), 8–13. Miller, J. L. (2019). Queer theory. Year’s Work in Critical and Cultural Theory, 27(1), 82–99. https://doi. org/10.1093/ywcct/mbz005 Mokuau, N. (1986). Human sexuality of native hawaiians and samoans. Journal of Social Work and Human Sexuality, 4(3), 67–80. https://doi.org/10.1300/J291v04n03_04 Moore, M. (2018). What’s queer about the catwalk? In Fabulous: The rise of the beautiful eccentric. New Haven: Yale University Press. Morrissey, M. E. (2019). Calaveras, calacas, and cultural production: The queer politics of brown belonging at U.S. Día de Los Muertos celebrations. In S. Eguchi & B. M. Calafell (Eds.), Queer intercultural communication the intersectional politics of belonging in and across differences. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Pacific Sexual and Gender Diversity Network. (n.d.). Facebook page @PSGDN. Presterudstuen, G. H. (2019). Understanding sexual and gender diversity in the pacific islands. In J. Ravulo, T. Mafileo, & D. B. Yeates (Eds.), Pacific social work: Navigating practice, policy and research (pp. 161–171). https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315144252-15 Ravulo, J. (2016). Pacific epistemologies in professional social work practice, policy and research. Asia Pacific Journal of Social Work and Development, 26(4). https://doi.org/10.1080/02185385.2016.1234970 Ravulo, J., Mafile’o, T.,  & Yeates, D. B. (2019). Introduction to Pacific social work. In Jioji Ravulo, T. Mafileo,  & D. B. Yeates (Eds.), Pacific social work (1st ed., pp.  3–10). https://doi.org/10.4324/ 9781315144252-1 Ravuvu, A. (1983). Vaka i Taukei – The Fijian way of life. Suva: The University of the South Pacific. Schmidt, K. F. (2018). Mother’s day. Retrieved from The Coconet TV website www.thecoconet.tv/ coco-talanoa/guest-writer/mothers-day/ Schmidt, K. F. (2019). Pride. Retrieved from What Would Krit Do website https://whatwouldkritdo. com/2019/07/02/pride/ Stege, K., Metala, R., Naupa, A., Simo, J., & Huffer, E. (2008). Land and women: The matrilineal factor. Suva, Fiji: Pacific Islands Forum Secretariat. Stewart, C. (2014). On the edge of understanding: Non-heteronormative sexuality in Papua New Guinea. Gender on the Edge: Transgender, Gay, and Other Pacific Islanders, 323–346. Teaiwa, T. K. (2014). Same sex, different armies: Sexual minority invisibility among Fijians in the Fiji military forces and British army. Gender on the Edge: Transgender, Gay, and Other Pacific Islanders, 266–292. Tiperio Lafoa’i, I. (2020). On being Christian, Samoan and Gay – a chat with Andre Afamasaga. Retrieved from www.sbs.com.au/language/english/audio/on-being-christian-samoan-and-gay-a-chat-withandre-afamasaga Tupuola, A. M. (2000). Learning sexuality: Young Samoan women. In A. Jones, P. Herda, & T. Sua’ali’i (Eds.), Bitter sweet: Inidgenous womein in the pacific (pp. 61–72). Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Tupuola, A. M. (2004). Talking sexuality through an insider’s lens: The Samoan experience. In All about the Girl: Culture, Power, and Identity (pp. 115–125). https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203492567 Wallace, L. (2003a). Gauguin’s Manao Tupapau and sodomitical invitation. In Sexual Encounters: Pacific Texts, Modern Sexualities (pp. 109–137). https://doi.org/10.7591/9781501717369-008 Wallace, L. (2003b). Introduction. In Sexual encounters: Pacific texts, modern sexualities (pp.  1–8). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Wallace, L. (2003c). Pacific texts, modern sexualities. In Sexual encounters: Pacific texts, modern sexualites (pp. 9–37). Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

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8 PASHTUN COMMUNITY INDIGENOUS RESILIENCE TO CHANGING SOCIO-CULTURAL AND POLITICAL CHALLENGES Zafar Khan and Zahid Ali Shah Introduction This chapter explores the roles of Pashtun cultural values, social bonds, and folk literature in supporting Indigenous resilience in the face of social, economic, political, and environmental challenges. Pashtun people are self-reliant and face these challenges with little help from state institutions. The chapter begins with a description of the origins of the Pashtun people and their geographical location. An overview is provided of Pashtun history and cultural values to set the stage for understanding their resilience, both in the past and present. Pashtunwali, the cultural code that guides their behaviors, plays a central role in preservation and continuation of the Pashtun way of life. This chapter sheds light on metaphors, stories, cultural institutions, and ways of using humor that support survival of Pashtun people in tough times.

The history and origin of Pashtuns Pashtuns live in a region known as a Khurasan that comprises Afghanistan and Pakistan (Barfield, 2010). In Pakistan, they reside predominantly in the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, recently merged districts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (previously called Federal Administered Tribal Area; FATA), and Baluchistan. There are approximately 52 million Pashtuns in Pakistan, accounting for almost 15.4% of the total population (Pakistan Bureau of Statistics, 2018). Pashtun people traditionally live in mountainous regions with difficult terrain and lowland regions where they grow vegetables and tobacco. Some Pashtun people have migrated from their traditional homelands to the urban centers of Pakistan such as Karachi, Lahore, and Islamabad, and to other countries in search of a stable livelihood. There are various theories about the origin of the Pashtun people. Some scholars trace their origin to Israel and believe they are a Semitic race descended from one of the original 12 tribes of Israel (see Aafreedi, 2009; Sheikh, 2018). This is considered the most credible theory and is used by Khan and Ahmed (2013) in their scholarly works. However, this theory has been criticized for being inaccurate and not documented anywhere in Arabian Islamic history (García, & Munir, 2016). The Semitic origin theory is rejected by some eminent scholars and historians

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(Tainter & MacGregor, 2011). Others believe that Pashtuns belong to Arian tribes (see Sabitov, 2011) or to Indo-European tribes, known historically as Indo-Arian tribes (Khalil  & Iqbal, 2014). Among the various theories, the theory of Indo-European or Indo-Arian origin is most popular among anthropologists and historians. It is argued that the words Pashtoon and Pashto are found in the holy book of Rig-Veda of Arian tribes and Hindus. In the Rig-Veda, the word Pakht or Phakta is used for the geographical surrounding. Later, the word Pakhtean became Pakhtun (Ahmed, 2016). The Pashtun people occupy an important strategic geographical position at the Khyber Pass in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan (Rubin & Rashid, 2008). This region connects Central Asia with the East and West, serving as an important trade route between Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Historically, many foreign invaders attacked this region in different epochs to achieve their own strategic goals. Over time, Cyrus, Darius, Genghis Khan, and Kushan invaded this region (Docherty, 2008). These conquerors expanded their reign and exploited the resources of Pashtun land. Subsequently, the Parthian Empire controlled the Khyber Pass, gaining access to the silk route. They used this region for trade between China, Western Asia, and Europe. Gandhari (present-day Pakistan) used this region to connect the city of Taxila with Afghanistan. The area also experienced multiple Muslim invasions as Muhammad Ghaznavi, Muhammad Ghori, and the Turks attacked the subcontinent through the Khyber Pass (Qayum, Shah, & Alam, 2017). Later on, the Sikh under Ranjit Singh captured this region. Pashtun territories have been invaded repeatedly by various competing forces, but the British had a particularly significant colonial influence on this region. In the 19th century, the British captured this region and built a famous railway track through this pass, an area that remained an important strategic route for the British. Subsequently, they blocked the Khyber Pass due to fear of German attacks on British India. The British policy toward the tribal belt was based on a mixture of persuasion, pressure, and armed intervention to achieve their aims (Swinson, 1967). After the defeat of the Sikh in 1849, the British came into direct contact with Pashtuns in Afghanistan. Afghanistan was strategically important and allowed British military and political penetration into Iran, China, and Central Asia, with the intention of blocking Russian advances toward Central Asia. British rule began with a policy of non-interference toward the tribal areas from 1849 until 1887. During the viceroyship of Lansdowne and Elgin (between 1887 and 1898), the British replaced the policy of non-interference with the Forward Policy (Tripodi, 2013). Under the Forward Policy, adopted in 1878, the British tried to occupy Afghanistan, or a part of it, in order to defend India against any possible Russian or foreign attack on the border (Woodward, 1962). During this time, an uprising of 10,000 Afghans attacked and defeated British forces near Kabul (Tanner, 2009). The British, hence, realized that it would never be possible to subdue the frontier tribes by force only. Therefore, the colonial administration implemented the “closed border” policy in Pashtun tribal areas (now known as merged districts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa). Under the closed border policy, the British established several tribal agencies, enclosed by a chain of posts and military garrisons for the maintenance of law and order in Pashtun society. The closed border policy called for Pashtun customs and traditions to rule the region (Riwaj), but this was in name only (Spain, 1962). In fact, this became an excuse for the British to deny reforms in Pashtun areas that were extended to the rest of the Indian subcontinent. The British introduced inhumane and oppressive laws under the Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCR), a special set of laws applicable in the Pashtun tribal areas. Under the FCR, they denied residents legal representation, the right to present evidence, and the right to appeal. The province was ruled indirectly by propping up local strongmen loyal to the colonial administration. These included the governor and political agents (Broome & Christakis, 1988). 122

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Political agents were representative of the British forces, and they helped local tribal leaders rule over the tribal people. Even after British colonial forces departed from this region, the newly independent Pakistan enforced the same policy (FCR) until 2018. Present-day human rights activists are critical of FCR for not giving political and appeal rights to contest the decisions of political agents. Recently, international pressure led the Pakistan government to extend constitutional rights to the tribal districts of Pashtun society, but often these people are still deprived of their civil and political rights (Ali, 2018; Ali, Ansari, & Firdous, 2020).

Contemporary Pashtuns Pashtuns are the largest ethnic group in Afghanistan and the second largest ethnic group in Pakistan. They are also considered the largest tribal ethnic group in the world (Romano, 2003; Lamer & Foster, 2011). Pashtuns are divided into different tribes, the four major tribes being Duranni, Ghilzia, Yousafzai, and Kerlanri (Khayyam, 2016). They are further divided into over 400 clans and sub-tribes. The major sub-tribes of Pashtuns are Popalzai, Sadozai Barakzai, Alikozai, Muhammadzai, Mehsod, Abdali, Afridi, Mohmand, Wazir, and the Achakzai (Olaf, 1958). Pashtun society has a strong patriarchal structure and patrilineal system. Social order is maintained through cultural values and social organizations. The tribal Laskhkar (militia) implements the decisions of the Jirga (Council of the Elders) according to the spirit of Pashtununwali (cultural code). It is considered a collective responsibility of Pashtuns to follow decisions made by the Jirga according to the spirit of Pashtunwali (Kabiri, 2012). It compels them to cooperate in response to the fortunes or failures of an individual. There is no central authority in Pashtun society. Rather, collective responsibility is a dominant cultural norm carried out in the light of Pashtunwali. This normative order is more effective than organizational order. Pashtun people resist state authority and laws of the state perceived to be contrary to their culture. Although the Pashtun people have their own institutions, government institutions also exist. Pashtuns are under state authority, regardless of their institutional norms. Police get involved when there is a crime or threat to the interest of the state. If there is a property dispute, Pashtun people typically go to the Jirga, but some may go to the courts. Pashtun people attend public or private schools that teach using a curriculum set by the state. The Pakistani state has authority over the lives of Pashtun people (Khan, 2016). However, they mostly rely on their social ties, close kin, and collective structure to support each other in troublesome times, receiving little or no support from state institutions when they are in crisis. State institutions are very brutal when state interests are threatened and very passive when it comes to providing welfare services in Pashtun areas. Therefore, Pashtun people depend on their own social institutions for survival. Foreign invasions and continuous war in the region have slowed down Pashtun cultural evolution and economic development in this region. Pashtun people live in both mountainous and lowland areas where they farm and domesticate animals. The low land is fertile and produces vegetables and cash crops such as tobacco and sugar cane. Pashtuns who live in mountainous areas depend on domesticated animals. While the territories of the Pashtun contain extensive mineral wealth, those assets are controlled by the Pakistani state, while most of the Pashtun live under the poverty line. Extreme poverty leads significant numbers of Pashtun people to work abroad, especially in the Middle East. The Pashtun diaspora population also lives in Europe, Canada, the United States, South Asia, and Asia-Pacific countries. These migrants provide economic support to their family members at home and periodically visit their native towns. Family members remaining in their homelands often depend on foreign remittances for their livelihood. 123

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The Pashtun who live and work outside their homeland are exposed to the values of their host societies. This can lead to changes in their attitudes or reinforced beliefs that ultimately affect Pashtun society. For example, the Pashtun people who migrated to Europe were exposed to liberal values and became sensitized to women’s rights and other democratic values. The perspectives they brought back to their home communities are often contrary to their traditional culture. A less educated class of Pashtun people migrated to the Middle East, where they do manual work. Since people in the Middle East are also tribal, they are not exposed to major cultural differences, but the flow of foreign remittances has brought changes and created economic classes in Pashtun society. This has resulted in a loss of their traditional egalitarian social structure (Kraml, 2012). The Soviet-Afghan war in 1979 also distorted Pashtun institutions. The traditional leadership lost control over tribal affairs and a new leadership emerged in the tribal areas in the forms of the Mujahedin (holy warriors) and the drug mafia. These holy warriors received enormous sums of money from the United States and Saudi Arabia to fight against Soviet forces (Gress & Grau, 2002). The drug mafia also made significant changes in the local economic structure. Social disruption following the Soviet-Afghan war, incursion of the drug mafia, and changes in the economic structure have led to the breakdown of Pashtunwali (the cultural code of Pashtun). The Russian invasion injected violence into the cultural fabric of Pashtun society, exposing them to modern, sophisticated weapons. The drug mafia has become the rich class of Pashtun society, damaging their egalitarian social structure. During the Soviet-Afghan war, the United States funded Jihadi outfits in this region, and, with the help of Pakistan, distributed violent literature among Afghan refugees in camps inside Pakistan (Riedel, 2014). The Pakistani state has supported Islamic extremist groups in this region based on fears of Pashtun nationalism. This collusion between the state and militant groups resulted in the emergence of terrorist organizations that ultimately challenged the state of Pakistan and disrupted the socio-cultural institutions of Pashtun society. Pakistan is a country of different ethnic groups such as Punjabis, Baloch, Sindhis, and Pashtun. Punjabis are the majority, while Pashtun and Baloch are minority ethnic groups. The Pashtun nationalism inspired by the Bacha Khan (founder of the Khudai Khedmatgar Movement) asserted that Punjabis have always exploited the resources of Pashtun land. The Pashtun are more integrated into Pakistani society than the Baloch and now have significant numbers working in civil and military bureaucracies. Despite serving in these roles, Pakistan as a state has failed to win the hearts and minds of the common people in Pashtun land. The region received global attention when the United States identified it as a key area in what they referred to as the “war on terror.” Pashtun people have been subjected to enforced disappearances. National and transnational terrorist organizations such as the Taliban, Al-Qaeda, and ISIS targeted the strong local leaders who raised their voices to support the rights of Pashtun people. Pashtun nationalist politicians, human rights activists, journalists, and local people have been targeted and kidnapped. The United States, the so-called custodian of democracy, and Pakistan as a state have failed to protect human right activists and Pashtun nationalists from enforced disappearances. In the wake of the “war on terror,” the terrorist organizations attacked and killed many prominent tribal leaders, thus creating a leadership vacuum. Local cultural institutions like the Jirga (assembly of elders) and Hujra (community center) were particularly targeted. Millions of people were displaced from their native towns (Markey, 2008; Khan, Wazir, & Khan, 2019) and live in camps in different places (Mohsin, 2013). They suffered both psychologically and socio-economically. They also faced violent military operations in the “war on terror” that destroyed their homes, crops, and local businesses. The government of Pakistan has failed to provide shelter and food to internally displaced people from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. Families shared their houses with the 124

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displaced people and offered support. During disasters, Pashtun are socially bound to support their kin, friends, and even their rivals. Their collective structure and social ties encouraged them to accommodate the displaced people in their own houses. Social fabrics and relationships give strength to them in the time of disaster (Elahi, 2015).

Understanding Pashtun Indigenous resilience Colonial powers (especially the British before the independence of Pakistan and the Soviet Union after) have consistently tried to extend their authority and suppress the Pashtun Indigenous community to serve their own political interests (Kolsky, 2015). Pashtun have resisted these colonial forces across different spaces and times, displaying their Indigenous resilience (Bala, 2009). Indeed, they continue to do so. Pashtun, like other Indigenous societies, preserve and reinvigorate their social organizations and traditional practices to address colonial disruptions (see Ford, Smit, & Wandel, 2006; Thornley, Ball, Signal, Lawson-Te Aho, & Rawson, 2015; Council, 2013; Kirmayer, Dandeneau, Marshall, Phillips, & Williamson, 2011; Thomas, Mitchell,  & Arseneau, 2016). In this regard, understanding Pashtun culture, traditions, and social ties are crucial to understanding their Indigenous resilience. They depend on their wider social networks and traditions to help them in hard times. The social structure of Pashtun society and Pashtun cultural values enable them to face tumultuous socio-political situations (Siddique, 2014). The Pashtun cultural code of Pashtunwali, and the social structures that emerge from it, help Pashtun people to cope with adverse situations (Rzehak, 2011). Pashtunwali guides all their social interactions, especially when they are in crisis, and is integral to Pashtun identity. To be considered Pashtun, someone must be of Pashtun descent, speak the Pashto language, and lead their life under the Pashtuns’ cultural code of conduct, i.e., Pashtunwali. A person who speaks the Pashto language but does not follow the traits of Pashtunwali is not considered a Pashtun (Badal, 2004). The elements of Pashtunwali such as Badal (revenge), Ghayrat (self-respect), Nang (chivalry or bravery), Mailmastia (hospitality), Nanawat (asylum), Purdah (gender separation), Namus (pride or defense of honor), Badragga (safe conduct), and Jirga (council of the elders) are important pillars of Pashtun society. Elements of Pashtunwali collectively bind the overall social structure of Pashtun society by establishing general principles that define culturally approved behavior. It guides interaction among clans, tribes, and families under commonly held norms and regulates all aspects of individual, social, and political life. It is also considered a measuring rod to gauge socially approvable and condemnable behavior, and provide a strong ethical code to ensure solidarity in the tribal society. It is considered a Sharam (shame, humiliating, embarrassing) in Pashtun society if someone does not follow its traits; therefore, members of the tribal society strictly follow this unwritten code. Pashtunwali works as a powerful mechanism of social control and social coherence, and it plays a vital role in the Indigenous resilience of Pashtun people. Through the Jirga, elders work to resolve disputes or develop a consensus over issues that affect the group. Pashtunwali also reinforces reciprocity and khair khaigarah (to support each other), uniting Pashtun people to help each other and face challenging situations.

Kinship ties and baradari (brotherhood) Pashtun are famous for their tribal traditions, strong social bonds, and reciprocity. They live in joint or extended families, and it is obligatory for them to help each other. According to the spirit of Pashtunwali, they provide psychosocial support to each other in troublesome times and 125

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spend days with relatives in times of misfortune. Pashtun tribal values reinforce this collectivist structure and discourage individual liberty. It is the responsibility of everyone in the family to economically support all members of the joint or extended family. They also support people outside the family or close kin, especially in times of need. Culturally, it is highly appreciated and prestigious (izzatmand) to support fellow Pashtuns or relatives. Expectations of reciprocity go beyond psychosocial and financial support. Pashtun people also support each other in political matters based on tribal loyalties. Political organizations or parties are often weak, and political support is offered based on tribal loyalties regardless of political manifesto. In fact, it causes social humiliation for them when they do not support members of their tribe (Benson & Siddiqui, 2014). Reciprocity, a major tenet of Pashtunwali, sustains them in times of socio-economic crisis. For this reason, despite being abandoned by the state, they face destitution by relying on Pashtunwali. Mutual aid is essential in wedding and funeral ceremonies. Individuals do not have sufficient resources to bear the financial burden of social events, so they pool their resources. They give food, money, or cattle to each other for weddings or funeral ceremonies. Reciprocity buffers economic vulnerabilities. It also helps them psychologically because they can face difficult situations with the collective support of their community. At weddings or funerals, both elder women and men receive gifts from relatives because they know all of them by names. It is the responsibility of the elder women and men in every household to reciprocate when they receive gifts from other families (Homel, Lincoln, & Herd, 1999; Tainter & MacGregor, 2011). They are socially bound by reciprocity and elder women try to remember the families from whom they received gifts. It is unnecessary to return what they received, but they incur an obligation. They may support each other in any form, but they are bound to offer support in times of crisis (Lindholm, 1982). Reciprocity is vital to Pashtun survival in the absence of help from the Pakistani state. An elderly Pashtun expressed this tenet of Pashtunwali in the following words: “When a person only works for his own benefit or family, they do not consider him honorable person in Pashtun society. The honorable person in our society give support to entire community in hard time or disaster” (Gul, personal communication, February 15, 2020). Pashtuns do not have advanced farming technology and work collectively in fields to assist each other in farming. They are bound to work together where they need the help of fellow Pashtuns (Haroon & Green, 2017). In Pashtun culture, the concept of ashar (collective work) emphasizes mutuality, especially in the time of harvesting, building houses, and collective community work. The entire community spares one person from each family to help another community member harvest crops or build a house. They also come together to work collectively in the time of natural or man-made disasters. Ashar gives them strength to survive in difficult situations and is also a coping mechanism to deal with all kinds of adverse situations. For example, the Pashtun Indigenous community works together to solve water shortages that often arise because of global warming or a shortage of rainfall. The importance of mutual aid is reflected in Pashtun literature that positively depicts those who strongly support others in their community. For instance, there is a Pashtu tappa (typical Pashtun poetic literature considered the oldest and integral part of the Pashto folk literature) that acknowledges those who support others: haze pa harcha kunda kege aw saray hagha day che pa hawara kunda sheena (when the husband dies, only his wife suffers, but when an honorable man dies, it affects the whole community). In Pashtun literature, they highly appreciate a man who works for the community. The community remembers him, and calls him an honorable and brave man. 126

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Violence and Pashtun Indigenous resilience Both British and Soviet colonial forces described the Pashtun culture in stereotypical ways that demeaned their cultural identity. Based on their vested interests, they portrayed Pashtun to the outside world as a martial race known for bravery. They romanticized the violent aspects of Pashtun culture and emphasized that weapons were part of their culture. Later, the state of Pakistan adopted the same stance. The cultural reductionist approach adopted by these powerful states depict Pashtuns as a warrior or martial race (Trbic, 2008). In Pakistani literature and drama, Pashtuns are presented as a violent ethnic group (Yousaf, 2019). These stereotypical images are based on distorted perceptions of culturally sanctioned violence (Lamer & Foster, 2011). Pashtun culturally imbedded violence can arise around socio-economic or political matters. For example, one person may socially humiliate another, then the other person uses violence to restore his or her honor. Violence is used to take revenge against enemies. When disputes occur between two families, they strongly support their own tribe against other tribes. These expressions of violence have culturally specific explanations. Pashtuns’ violent behavior can be interpreted in light of their famous code of conduct (Pashtunwali). The elements of their code of conduct such as Toora (bravery), Badal (revenge), Badhi (vendetta), and Peghore (taunt) are responsible for provoking violence. Pashtuns are famous for family feuds which often begin over Zan (women), Zamin (land), and Zer (gold) (Robson & Lipson, 2002). The Pakistani state has not been effective in controlling violence in Pashtun society, particularly violence that arises from family disputes. Pashtuns do not trust the state to resolve disputes, and they fear that state intervention may add to the violence. Therefore, they try to avoid state involvement in dispute resolution and seek solutions through their own cultural institutions. These institutions have the potential to restore their honor and resolve disputes in culturally acceptable ways. Indigenous mechanisms are used to maintain peace, law, and order, while supporting resilience to cope with violence. These Pashtun Indigenous mechanisms are entrenched in their cultural code Pashtunwali. It guides them in every matter, including disputes. The Pashtun socio-cultural institution Jirga (assembly of the elders), is guided by their cultural code to settle disputes in ways that are culturally acceptable to both parties (Gang, 2010). Violent conflict between tribes or families creates chaotic situations that can jeopardize the peace of an entire community. Cultural institutions can resolve disputes quickly compared to state institutions and immediately restore peace. Jirga plays a vital role in curbing violence, helping the victims, and punishing the offenders. Like any other institution, Jirga can sometimes be exploited. When corrupted, the Jirga members often support the dominant party and do not give equal opportunity to women. Historically, Jirga was corrupted by the British and renamed Frontier Crime Regulation (FCR). Despite this colonial legacy and its controversial status, Pashtun people still prefer to resolve their disputes through Jirga as compared to state institutions. On the importance and role of Jirga, a member of the Pashtun community from District Bajor stated: Jirga resolve disputes and curb violence. It maintains normative order in the light of our culture. Jirga also makes us united when there is any common threat to our culture and property from any outsider. During the disaster both natural and man-made, the Jirga can easily unite the entire tribe to cope with the disastrous situation. (Jan, personal communication, February 10, 2020) When faced with external threats to their culture and property, Pashtuns come together and select their leader to protect the common interest of the community. The Jirga also has the power to organize a tribal Lashker (militia). The Lashker is organized in the time of threats 127

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from another sub-tribe or outsiders. The tribal Lashker and Jirga give a sense of security to every member of Pashtun society in the time of tribal disputes or outside aggression. Sometimes, the Jirga imposes fines (cash or land forfeiture) on the offender to support the victim. This helps the victim to recover from adversity and restores their social prestige. Jirga and Lashker are cultural institutions that enable survival under difficult situations that arise during conflict. These sociocultural institutions are manifestations of Indigenous resilience that protect Pashtuns from both outside and inside aggression (Yousaf & FurrukhZad, 2020). Pashtuns continue to face threats to their culture from so-called non-state actors, individuals or organizations with significant political influence who do not function under the authority of a particular country. Indeed, from its very inception, Pakistan has supported these non-state actors in Pashtun lands (Fair, 2011). As described previously in this chapter, during the Soviet-Afghan war, Saudi Arabia and the United States both funded non-state actors and used them against the Russians. Non-state actors have been further encouraged by Pakistan to achieve strategic interests in Afghanistan and Indian Administrative Kashmir (Nakanishi, 2014; Ul Haque, 2011). The roots of terrorist organizations can be seen in Pakistani society, but such organizations have a stronghold among the Pashtuns (Tariq, Malik, & Afridi, 2018). Pashtun society has been socially engineered to provide a fertile environment for violence (Shakoor, 2012). Non-state actors have exploited the tribal people and recruited them into terrorist organizations on the name of holy war. They also exploited religion (in this case Islam) to promote radical ideologies for political interests (Haqqani, 2010) and have done so not only during the Soviet-Afghan war, but also in the wake of the “war against terror.” Pashtuns have borne the brunt of the state’s erroneous policies of colluding with armed groups for strategic purposes. This has resulted in the loss of thousands of lives because of the violence that has gripped Pashtun society since the Soviet-Afghan war era. These terrorist organizations work under the patronage of formal organizations. In most cases, these terrorists are the proxy of different states. They have been supported to further political interests in the region, and it is difficult for Pashtun to effectively counter them through Indigenous institutions. That being said, their cultural institutions and social organizations help to normalize the lives of the Pashtun people and enable their perseverance in the face of ongoing terrorism.

Protecting cultural identity A strong cultural identity is an important element of Indigenous resilience (Wexler, 2014). Pashtun have been exposed to outside cultures and colonial states over different eras, yet their strong ethnocentric attitude has helped to protect their cultural identity. They have preserved their distinctive identity despite changing social, economic, and cultural conditions (Khan, 2016). Pashtun people have resisted societal changes that are perceived to be against the specific cultural identity of the local inhabitants (Rehman, Khan, & Wali, 2017). An elder community member in District Waziristan stated: I am 90 years old and I have seen wars and British rule on our land. Despite difficulties, we still have centuries-old traditions and we feel proud of our values. These were left to us from our ancestors. We believe that our centuries old values not only give a separate identity but also give us strength to survive in a tough time. (Aman Ullah Khan, personal communication) Damage from abrupt socio-cultural change is mitigated by Pashtun resilience. Pashtuns view recent changes within the context of their culture (Jandt, 2017). They believe that their cultural 128

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values and traditions are important for their survival. Pashto poetry emphasizes cultural identity (Hosseini & Zohdi, 2016). The famous poet Hamza BaBa said, If the Pashtun adversaries believe Pashtu is the language of hell, I would go to the heaven along with my language (waye aghyar che dozakh jaba da, za ba janat da pakhtu sara zam.) Despite attacks on their culture by powerful states, Pashtun people have preserved their cultural identity through Indigenous resilience. Pashtun people disgraced or ridiculed those who worked in the interest of colonial forces. They also mocked those who adopted the cultural values of outsiders or supported invaders. Those who imitate the language or culture of other people (xenocentrists) face public ridicule, thus discouraging assimilation and preserving Pashtun cultural values and identity. Jokes and mockery are used to express cultural identity in times of conflict. They can also serve as mechanisms for defusing tension. For example, when there is a conflict between two families or individuals, a third party may use jokes to decrease tension among the disputants (Sciama, 2016). If a Pashtun does not tolerate culturally sanctioned mocking from another Pashtun, then they say che wokhan sati nu darwaze wochate sata (when you have camels, then your doors must be tall).

Expressions of resilience in the face of colonial influences and societal change Pashtun people have experienced profound social and cultural changes over the past century, including forced relocation and cultural colonization. Despite these traumatic experiences, they have the potential to cope with challenges. Proverbs, literature, and social movements all reflect and reenforce Pashtun resilience in culturally grounded ways, as noted in this section.

Pashtu literature and proverbs Despite continuous suppression, Pashtun people continue their cultural practices as mechanisms for coping with outside pressures. Bravery and revenge are integral parts of the Pashtun culture, and accordingly, Pashtu literature romanticizes heroes who resist external forces. For instance, males have accepted their sacrifices and martyrdom, but their wives are not ready to be widows (zwaanaano murg pa zaan qabool kro peghlay randey kre che kundthun Na qablaweena). Similarly, the Pashto Tappa romanticizes the bravery of Pashtun: “O, my lover it is better to see you dead than hearing the news of showing your back in the war Pashtun” (pa tore topak wshtalay rashey, da bay nangay awaz dey raa masha mayena) (Khalil, 2011, p. 13). Pashtu literature, both old and contemporary, encourages and helps the Pashtun people to face adversity bravely. There is a Pashtu saying that reflects hope in hard times, noting that there is way on the top of the mountain (wai ka ghar loye day nu pa sar ye lar da). Another proverb also reflects hope in troublesome times, stating that first you have to struggle and then you will enjoy (awal wokhra da zan ghuwakhe aw bia wokhra da khkar guwakhe) (Sanauddin, 2015; Tair, 2009). Pashtu proverbs and the stories of brave men empower people to adjust or overcome challenges in tough times. Local stories celebrate the Pashtun heroes who played vital roles in confronting colonial and outside forces. These stories emotionally appeal to Pashtuns and help to normalize the abnormal situations they endure (Akins, 2018).

Social movements Pashtun society has been affected by changes that have occurred throughout the world (Haroon, 2007). Before the British invasion, Pashtun tribal structure was politically decentralized. The 129

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British colonial government supported certain Pashtun individuals based on their own vested interests, thus elevating different fanatics among the tribal people. This favoritism undermined socio-economic development in Pashtun society. Various social movements developed in response to these challenges (see Marwat, 2012). For example, the Khudai Khedmatgar Movement began under the leadership of the great Bacha Khan to protect the cultural identity of Pashtun people. It was the first non-violent movement of Pashtun against the British (Khan, 2019). This movement utilized the socio-cultural capitals of Pashtun to resist the British exploitation (Banerjee, 2000). More recently, Pashtun youth felt need for a social movement to protect people from growing violence and respond to the leadership vacuum in the Pashtun region resulting from the “war on terror.” In response, in January  2018, Pashtun Tahaffuz, or Protection Movement (PTM), emerged as a civil rights movement in the predominantly Pashtun regions, particularly in the erstwhile tribal areas (FATA), Quetta Baluchistan, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. The PTM started under the leadership of an average person, Manzoor Pashteen. The local people strongly support the movement to bring peace into Pashtun society. Pashtun youth particularly support this non-violent movement to resist anti-Pashtun state policies (Ahmed & Khan, 2020). PTM criticizes state policies and holds state institutions accountable for the exploitation of the Pashtuns (Yousaf, 2019). Continuous suppression and Pashtun cultural distortions have weakened Indigenous resilience, but the seeds of resilience remain. Social movements, both historically and in contemporary times, reflect and support the strength of the Pashtun people. The tribal structure and cultural values played a vital role in mobilization of local people for the collective cause.

Conclusion This chapter describes Pashtun Indigenous resilience. Qualitative paradigms were used to identify different themes in the light of the primary data. We found that Pashtun socio-cultural capital strengthens the Indigenous resilience of Pashtun people. Strong social bonds and kinship ties unite them to face difficult situations. Pashtun social organizations and Lashker help them transcend adversity. Pashtu literature, poetry, and jokes reflect and strengthen Indigenous resilience to protect the cultural identity of Pashtun people, despite ongoing challenges from foreign forces. Strong ethnocentric attitudes help to preserve their cultural identity. This chapter is limited in that Pashtun Indigenous resilience is presented using examples grounded in a masculine worldview. Pashtun women face significant adversity and have the additional challenge of depending on their male family members. In Pashtun society, women are confined to indoor activities and they cannot freely take part in outside realms. It is also important that a focus on resilience not downplay significant, ongoing challenges. Indeed, dependence of Pashtun people on their societal institutions could make them reluctant to develop more advanced, formal institutions. This chapter has provided an overview of the Pashtun people of Pakistan, including how they have been shaped by a history of frequent invasions from multiple colonizing forces. Our research documents that Pashtun Indigenous resilience has eroded because of abrupt socioeconomic and political changes in Pashtun society inside Pakistan. Despite challenges, however, the Pashtun people retain strengths such as social bonds and kinship ties. Cultural institutions like the Jirga remain, albeit with some compromises and changes. Literature, proverbs, and social movements reflect and reinforce resilience. Three Pashtu proverbs highlight and reflect the Indigenous resilience that characterizes the Pashtun people: “Self-done is well done” (khpala lasa gula lasa); “You can leave the village, but not your traditions” (da kali woza hu da narkha ma 130

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woza); and “A human as strong as a stone, as delicate as a flower” (ensaan tar kanhe klak day aw tar gul nazuk day). These proverbs remind us of the inherent resilience of the Pashtun people.

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9 MOKO KAUAE A symbol of Indigenous resistance and resilience Kelli Te Maihāroa

Introduction E mihi ana ki a koutou [Greetings to you all] E taki ana ki te whenua [I weep for the land] Taoka tuku iho a kā tīpuna [Handed down by our ancestors] Ki te whei ao ki te ao mārama [It is dawn, it is daylight] Tēnā kōrua, ko Papatūānuku, ko Rakinui [Greetings to Mother Earth and Sky Father]

This formal Māori introduction reflects the importance of our primordial parents, Rakinui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother), the connection with this beautiful land, and the gift of a new, emergent day. My ancestor Rākaihautū arrived here with his people more than 1,000 years ago, on the Uruao waka (canoe), reading the stars, whales, birds, and clouds as signs to follow that led us to our Southern Pacific new home, Aotearoa. These tohu (signs) remain spiritually and symbolically important to our people as a way of being, living, and connecting with our tīpuna (ancestors). Moko is a gift from this sacred place. In order to understand the significance of moko kauae as a symbol of resilience and resistance, it is important to look at the whakapapa (genealogy) of how moko came into existence.

Moko history Māori interpret signs and gifts as ancestral signposts, signaling the correct pathway forward. Prior to contact with Europeans in the mid-1600s, Māori communicated predominately through oral means. It could be said that moko was a form of communication, a way to express individual and tribal whakapapa kōrero (family history/ies) visually. Tā moko is the traditional Māori term for applying permanent markings to the body and/or face, but throughout this chapter, the term moko is used more commonly. Moko is derived from the atua (god) Rūaumoko, the unborn child of Ranginui and Papatūānuku, most commonly associated with volcanoes and earthquakes (Higgins, 2004). Moko was brought forward into te ao tūroa, (the natural living world) by Mataroa, who visited his spirit love Niwareka in the underworld, and returned with her and a facial tattoo (Taewa, 2012; King, 1992; Sangl, 1980). A South Island narrative differs DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-12

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in that it describes how Tama-nui-a-Raki’s wife Rukutia left him for another man, so Tama went to the underworld to seek beautification and returned with moko (Diaz, 2012). Moko has continued throughout the Pacific, particularly in Tahiti and Samoa, developing into the unique art of tā moko in Aotearoa. It is a cultural expression of being Māori, connecting us with our Pasifika cousins throughout Moana Nui a Kiwi, (the Pacific Ocean), and practiced throughout the world, in Asia-Pacific, North and South America, and North Africa. Moko can also serve as signals of masculinity and femininity, and representation of deeds or accomplishments. Traditionally, moko was an external sign of chiefly status, adornment, talents and abilities, and achievements. As an identity marker, moko can represent a form of tribal identification to locate a person, their social standing within their tribal area, and their whakapapa (genealogy). A discussion on the adoption of moko in the contemporary world as a sign of resilience and resistance is introduced in the last segment of this chapter. Although moko varies regionally across Aotearoa, King (1992) claims that moko positioned on the body is commonly referred to as tā moko. As noted previously, moko on a Māori male’s face is generally known as mataora, derived from the narrative about Mataora and Niwareka, whereas the wāhine Māori (Māori women) facial moko is placed on the chin, commonly known as moko kauae (tribal chin symbols). The process of moko is conducted in a state of tapu sacredness, steeped in ancient tikanga (Māori customs and protocols), deemed so sacred that temporary houses where moko was carried out were subsequently burned to the ground in order to whakanoa (spiritually cleanse) the area (Higgins, 2013). “Ta Moko is . . . a language of symbolic designs accorded to the expertise of tohunga, initiation and achievement, the mediation between the person and the spiritual realms and more recently the assertion of tino rangatiratanga” (Ururoa, 2000, as cited Gallagher, 2003, p. 45). Moko was carried out by tohunga, an expert chosen as a representative of an atua (God). The tohunga-tā-moko is an expert specialist in the art of tā moko (moko etched into the body), and tohunga-tā-kauae are specialist moko practitioners of chin moko for wāhine Māori. As moko is considered a sacred taonga gifted from our tīpuna in the times of te ao tāwhito (the ancient Māori world), the writer has made the conscious decision not to use the English word “tattoo,” as it is considered to diminish the mana (prestige) of moko – a firm statement of resistance against using colonial words which attempt to describe Māori cultural rituals and ways of being. This point is highlighted in the waiata song “Moko” composed and sung by Moana Maniapoto (Maniapoto, 2003). The writer is also clear that this chapter, although researched, still remains the personal views of the writer who claims no expertise in this field, other than to share her personal experience, motivation to receive this gift, and dedication to wear moko kauae.

European perceptions of Moko One of the first European records of moko was by an early European visitor, James Cook in 1769, when his botanist, Joseph Banks, noted moko as “extreme elegance and justness” (King, 1992, p. 5). As Māori were an oral race, moko was reproduced accurately and used on official documents such as the founding treaty between Māori and the British Crown, and early land sales, to represent endorsement. The presence of moko was deemed to authenticate such important deeds and transactions. It has been suggested by Rev. Taylor (1805–1873), who accompanied Cook, that Māori used moko as a hieroglyphic or symbolic form of communication. Subtle images were conveyed through each marking, adding a sophisticated layer of moko literacy (Gallagher, 2003). “Some portion of it, some distinctive part, was a mark of identity, and has been copied for Europeans by the Māoris as a signature” (Robley, 1987, p. 10). Te Pēhi 135

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Kupe (c.1795–1826) was a Ngāti Toa rangatira (chief), and was noted to have drawn every single line and detail of his face from his memory as it was firmly etched (carved) into not only his skin, but also his memory (Robley, 1987). This hints at moko being a form of visual language, that could be written on the body, read and understood by others (Caroline McCaw, personal communication, August 11, 2020). During the late 19th century, there was a decline in moko. King (1992) suggests that male moko may have been hastened almost to extinction when missionaries labeled it a “heathen practice” along with the social introduction of new cultural fashions, such as beards and mustaches. The clash of cultures is further highlighted by Thomson (1859), who claimed that “tattooing is now going out of fashion, partly from the influence of the missionaries, who described it as the Devil’s art, but chiefly from the example of settlers” (Thomson, 1859, as cited in Sangl, 1980, p. 94). Although moko became less visible from the 1860s onwards, this ancient practice endured for Māori wāhine (women). Sangl (1980) postulate that the end of the Taranaki and Waikato wars in 1872 may have signaled an end to war associated symbols, but it had “the opposite effect with women (where) the female moko became the symbol of identity . . . women were now fulfilling that role. The way of marking the genealogical or social importance of a family was for the women to have a lip and chin moko” (Sangl, 1980, p. 94). Similarly, King (1992) suggests that kauae may have endured the cultural pressures because moko for wāhine was not associated with fighting and was not regarded as incompatible with Europeans and Christianity. Within 60  years of colonial contact, Māori had become a minority population, surrounded by foreign colonial rules and regulations geared toward assimilation. The mid- to late 19th century was a time of despair and upheaval for Māori due to the large loss of land and population decline as a result of introduced diseases. In 1856, Dr. Isaac Featherston (1813–1876) speculated that Māori were a dying race and fatalistically prepared Europeans to “sooth the pillow of the dying race” (Featherston, as cited in Buck, 1924, p. 362). Just two decades into the 20th century, author James Cowan noted that he could not find a (Māori) man whom had received moko to his face after 1865 (Cowan, 1920, as cited in King, 1992). Traditional cultural practices were further weakened at this time with the Tohunga Suppression Act (1907) was passed by the New Zealand Parliament, which made large gatherings of Māori and traditional Māori healing practices unlawful (Parliament Counsel Office, 1907). As moko was a commonly celebrated ritual and event, including tautoko (support) from whānau, hapū, and Iwi (family, sub-tribe, and tribe), the outlawing of Māori gatherings severely impinged on the rights of Māori to live and be Māori, and to carry out traditional cultural and spiritual process. Historian Michael King (1992) notes that according to the Reverend William Williams (1800–1878), a missionary and linguist, moko was revived during early hostilities between Māori and Europeans in the late 19th century. King (1992) adds that moko was more visibly prevalent in areas where Māori resistance to colonial forces was stronger, such as the Waikato, Uruweras, and East Coast of the North Island. Here, there were also strong developments of the Māori spiritual movements Pai Mārire and Ringatu, with the last men of this era to be facially tattooed were also followers of the Pai Mārire religion (King, 1992). Cowan was told by one of the last tattooed men that King Tāwhio himself had asked his young men to have their faces tattooed and to revert to the customs of their ancestors (King, 1992, p. 82). This call to continue moko in the Waikato by King Tāwhio would have also sent a signal to colonizers that Māori resistance prevailed. During the early 1800s, Māori with moko were sometimes killed to order for their heads, known as mokomokai (preserved Māori heads) and sold to overseas museums and European collectors (Higgins, 2013). This practice was later banned. By the time the Treaty of 136

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Waitangi was signed in 1840, trading mokomokai had primarily ceased, but many tīpuna remain in private collections or overseas museums, with an ongoing campaign to return mokomokai to their tribal people.

Moko kauae history In Ta Moko, The Art of Māori Tattoo, Simmons (1997) provides a brief history and account of moko designs which states that the female chin is adorned with motifs such as fish hooks or heart shapes on either side of a center line, creating a mirror image of each half. This may have been different in the lower South Island, as Edward Shortland noted of the wife of Pokeni, an Otago Kāi Tahu chief, that “One half of her face was tattooed in every respect like that of a man while the other half had no more marks than her sex entitled her to” (Shortland, 1851, as cited in Simmons, 1997, p. 111). Simmons (1997) adds that female moko marked tribal ranks and vocations, where distinct moko were placed to distinguish and delineate a particular woman. For example, a partial or half-faced moko, like a man, could indicate that the young woman was to be set aside, or of unparalleled lineage who could not marry or have children. Women who were wāhine tapu, or tohunga, may also be marked by moko above the breasts and women at a lower level, but protected by a person of rank, were marked with a moko accordingly (Simmons, 1997). Women’s tattoo appear to develop from being a reflection of the male styles . . . to being a tradition that can itself be divided into style areas. This development takes place between 1824 and 1840 at the periods when male moko was starting to lose its impetus. The development of female moko compliments almost exactly the decline and disappearance of male moko, then continues to replace male moko entirely into the last quarter of the twentieth century. The female moko became the symbol of identity. The ancient way of emphasising social importance for men of social significance to the tribe was to be tattooed. Women were now fulfilling that role. (Simmons, 1997, p. 151)

Moko as a symbol of contemporary resilience Moko survived the upheaval of colonization, through two intensive revival periods in the 20th century on the North Island, where this cultural practice grew in popularity and prestige, especially for Māori wāhine (King, 1992). The fact “that some Māori practices and institutions survived this transitional period, modified but intact, is a tribute to the Māori’s powers of adaptability” (King, 1992, p. 7). Revitalization of moko in the 20th century can be seen within the larger context of two forms of regenerating Māori identity: first, as a symbol of brotherhood within Māori gang affiliations from the 1970s onwards, and second, as a reflection of the wider Indigenous movement of the 1980s, which helped revitalize Māori culture and language. The global Indigenous context was a platform for Māori to reclaim ancestral land and regenerate many of the traditional cultural practices, such as moko. Riki Manuel, a master carver and tohunga-tā-moko, states that “it shows great commitment to the (Māori) culture; it is an indelible part of how the world sees you as a person” (Diaz, 2012). King (1992) suggests that despite the huge losses experienced, Māori fully embraced this period of cultural renaissance, and yet they carried on and revived Māoritanga (Māori way of being) as something it had never been previously – a proud assertion of minority group identity, and a source of strength for any New Zealander able to recognize it and share it (King, 1996, p. 87). 137

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Iwi throughout Aotearoa are now holding wānanga (higher learning workshops) to revitalize and uphold this taonga (treasure). Honourable Minister Nanaia Mahuta was the first member of parliament in the world to wear moko kauae. She identified three milestone decisions to wear kauae: to mark the anniversary of her father’s death, adopting her traditional Ngāti Maniapoto design, and as a source of inspiration for her Māori daughter. Nanaia Mahuta (in Duff, 2016) states: it is who I am, where I come from, and the contribution I want to continue to make. When I got it done, I felt incredibly calm. I felt like it had always been there. . . . It’s a cultural marker and it says clearly when I’m sitting around a table that I do represent a certain way of thinking. Wearing moko can be not only a socio-cultural marker, but also represent that you belong to a wider movement of resistance and regeneration. Whaea Drina Paratene stated that she “wanted to be part of the collective group of women who are wearing moko kauae to revitalise this tikanga custom so we could normalise it in our society” (Duff, 2016). Māori academic and First Nations advocate Leoni Pihama states that: Moko kauae is a part of a wider political and culture resurgence that is an assertion of tino rangatiratanga and mana motuhake. It is an assertion of our political, cultural, and spiritual aspirations as whānau, as hapū, as iwi, as Māori. Within such context, moko kauae is embedded within a critical cultural regeneration that is deeply influenced by the political context of our time. (Pihama, 2018) The context looks slightly different, but no less important in the South Island, as highlighted in Tā moko rising, an article of personal Ngāi Tahu stories of those who have received facial moko (Diaz, 2012). The voices and stories of nine Ngāi Tahu people who wear their identity, mana, and marks of their bloodlines on their face is discussed in terms of the wider social-cultural shift in attitudes and higher value placed on things Māori in Te Waipounamu (Diaz, 2012). In this article, Te Mairiki Williams acknowledges being gifted this taonga, as a kaitiaki of ancestral lineage who will nurture traditional practices for future generations, also includes keeping the taonga safe. Moko forms a part of the reclamation of Māori culture, language, and arts, definitely not for commercial exploitation or a tourist curiosity (Diaz, 2012). For many it is to acknowledge a milestone, but for one tāua (grandmother), it was a natural progression: I wouldn’t put my tā on a continuum of cultural revival – it was just the right time. You can’t return to a culture if you have not left it. We lived on the kaik and lived the life. There were women with moko in the wider family, and going back further the tradition would have been for women to have moko on half of the face. There were also men with love heart tattoos and the like. It was all just part of the wallpaper of life. (Khyla Russell, as cited in Diaz, 2012) Research into social relationships and ecologies supportive or resistant to contemporary wearers of tā moko is explored by Te Awekotuku (2002). She revealed that “ta moko . . . was, and still is, about metamorphosis, about change, about crises, and about coping too . . . ta moko is a strategy too, a means of encounter, an expression of self ” (Te Awekotuku, 2002, p. 125). Further 138

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research undertaken by Nikora, Rua, and Te Awekotuku (2007) highlights moko as a celebration of cultural resilience. They interviewed 83 people who have moko. Wearers revealed four resistance strategies: (1) educating, representing, and reconstructing; (2) invalidating and minimizing representations; (3) building and enhancing social networks; and (4) securing cultural identity and pride. Their primary interests focused on the way moko wearers engage within their social lives to resist or renew meanings and understandings about moko. They conclude that “it is a mark of critical reflection and conscious choice, and signals an ongoing engagement with the decolonisation project” (Nikora et al., 2007, p. 488). The uptake of moko can therefore be seen as a part of the resistance movement against the dominant Pākehā identities, but more importantly, as revitalizing mana Māori.

Moko kauae as a symbol of contemporary resistance When historian Michael King (1992) enquired as to why Māori wāhine wanted to take their kauae, a common response was “it is the Māori way” (p. 82). Moko was seen by them as a visible embodiment of Māori culture, as an assertion of Māori separateness in a world that was becoming increasingly European in orientation (King, 1992). Moko is more than adornment and beautification. It represents a visual commitment to Māoritanga. It is the living representation of kanohi ora, the living face of your tīpuna, (ancestors), and a commitment to “being Māori” through whakapapa and tribal connections. “It is the proclamation of that self as belonging – to a particular descent line, family or kinship network, to a special and unique group, to a community” (Te Awekotuku, 2002, p. 126). Each kauae is usually created uniquely for each of the wāhine, although wāhine may prefer to adopt the patterns of their māmā or grandmother. Each curve and line carries special meaning and cultural concepts, although much of this knowledge has not been handed down and consequently lost (Rangi Kipa, personal communication, March 3, 2019). King (1992) suggests that in pre-European times, moko may have carried esoteric symbolism, connecting the wāhine to the rafters of their whare tipuna, or tribal meeting house. Moko kauae symbolized many lifetime markers: whakapapa, including ariki lines (high born), ritual of age, a reflection of valued leadership skills in te ao Māori (Māori world), or to mark a historic event. For example, Ngā Kahikatea Wirihana, from the Waikato tribes, was requested by the Māori King Mahuta to take a moko kauae after the King’s daughter died in her arms (DigitalNZ, 1972; King & Friedlander, 1972; National Library, 1992; Te Awekotuku, 2009). As a symbol of resilience, moko kauae is also a reminder of mana (power) and prestige reserved for high birth and a lifelong commitment to te ao Māori. For some, it is a token of love, such as the significant event of 50 Kingitanga wāhine who received their moko kauae in memory of the late Te Arikinui Dame Te Atairangikāhu, the Māori queen, and the succession of her son King Tuheitia (King, 2008; NZ Herald, 2012). The process of receiving a moko kauae is such a personal event that draws on many reasons for adorning a moko. While historically, moko may have been restricted and reserved for the high born in the 19th century, the development of the needle machine has made it more available, with a wide variety of wāhine now able to consider kauae, usually with the support of their whānau and Māori community (King, 1992). Whakapapa genealogy is the birthright that affords the privilege of wāhine Māori to wear moko kauae; it is not for non-Māori (Pihama, 2018). She claims that moko kauae is an affirmation of whānau, hapū and Iwi, “our whakapapa kōrero that we carry visually within the world . . . our fundamental right to wear the symbols of our ancestors.” Pihama (2018) states that moko is part of the wider political and cultural revitalization and the spiritual aspirations that 139

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tīpuna hold for mana wāhine. Tina Ngata (2018) similarly claims that there are too many people having an opinion about wāhine Māori wearing moko kauae and multiple colonial constructs that act as barriers to support these judgments, that wāhine Māori are not enough. Ngata (2018) pushes back firmly to affirm and assert that you are enough, your tīpuna’s greatest joy: That as a survivor of multiple generations of attempted genocide, as a survivor of this very specific battleground of settler colonial racism and patriarchy – you are enough. That as a vessel for the continuation of our existence as Māori – you are not enough. And to that I say: E Hine, you ARE enough. At the most fundamental level, moko was an expression of identity. As Margaret Orbell has written, “wearing the moko was like having your name written on your face in beautiful writing” (Orbell, 1963, as cited in King, 1992, p. 81). “Through these moko kauae patterns, connections are made to whakapapa and whānau, mana wāhine, mana Māori, or ancestral stories, Māori world views, strengths, struggle and identity” (Cracknell, 2014, p. 1). Moko is seen as an expression of cultural strength, power and leadership. Renowned Māori artist Robyn Kahukiwa captures these qualities in her paintings. “It is no surprise to find that her powerful atua wāhine (female deities) and kawai tīpuna (ancestresses), often wear moko kauae as a symbol of their feminine strength and leadership (Cracknell, 2014, p. 6). Moko kauae is one way to express and strengthen the cultural identity of not only the individual, but also as a collective, as expressed by Hinemoa Elder: I feel deeply honoured to carry this intimate and precious sign of our culture. And I think my mother would have been thrilled. I have had many little chats with her about it and the feeling I got was Yeah, go for it for both of us. Perhaps this is truly one of the things that we can give back to our parents and our grandparents, to our tupuna, is to really be strong in our Māori identity, in our reo me ōna tikanga on their behalf also, and to try our best to set a strong example for generations to come to carry on the legacies we have been gifted. (Thomson & Young, 2019, p. 99)

A personal story of resistance and resilience As a child, I was raised in a small, rural, mainly farming community, with an almost invisible Māori community. My connection to te ao Māori grew from visits to my whānau on the east and west coasts, and developed further through Māori studies at the University of Otago. During my university studies, I  became increasingly interested in Māori history, learning more about my pōua (great grandfather), Te Maihāroa. Rangatira (chief) Te Maihāroa (d.1886) was the last Māori prophet of Te Wai Pounamu (South Island) and the last person within the writer’s whānau to wear moko, 135 years ago. Te Maihāroa dedicated his life to lead his people, which included advocating against the ongoing challenges of colonization. He vehemently opposed the illegal encroachment of settlers on Māori land and the domination of colonial values on traditional Māori lifeways, which included alienation of Māori land and disruption of access to mahika kai (traditional food) sources. Te Maihāroa believed that the land from the foothills of Kā Tiritiri o te Moana, (the Southern Alps) to the West Coast, had not been sold and remained Māori land. After decades of trying to protect Māori interests, he decided that only physical occupation of this land would prove ownership, along with the benefits of geographical isolation to prevent the spread of infectious diseases and loss of the Māori language and culture. Te 140

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Maihāroa was seen as a beacon of hope for the southern Māori people and led the peaceful march of resistance against colonial domination through Te Heke (The Migration of 1877–1879) to Te Ao Mārama, commonly known today as Ōmārama, North Otago (Beattie, 1939, 1918a, 1918b; Mikaere, 1988; Te Maihāroa, 2015, 2017). Being raised in relative isolation from my wider whānau meant that I  was bereft of any meaningful connection with my Māori culture. When moko became increasing more visible in the 1980s, our Dad threatened that if any of his four daughters ever got a “tattoo,” then we were not welcome home. As the eldest child, and a stepdaughter, I became a more rebellious and outspoken teenager than my younger siblings. My decision to seek out and wear tā moko on my arm was as much a visible expression and affirmation of my Māori identity as it was an act of resistance against being told what I could and could not do with and to my body. My first introduction to tā moko was through Rangi Kipa and Julie Paama Pengelly, in a Queenstown art gallery in 2005 when I was 35. Surrounded by my three eldest sons, Julie designed my moko, which represents the pouākai (eagle), a design inspired by ancient rock art drawn by my tīpuna in the North Otago caves. This image is also of special significance to me, as the pouākai has five manu pēpi (baby birds) on her outstretched arms, symbolizing to me my five sons that I have held and carried on my shoulders through to adulthood. Interestingly, three of my five sons also adopted a similar moko within the year of me receiving mine. In many ways, adorning moko also signified a cultural shift in how I chose to live my life, as an independent wāhine Māori, following in the footsteps of my tīpuna. To the best of my knowledge, I understand that I am the first in many generations to learn te reo Māori (Māori language) and adopt moko, which represents some of the ancient tribal messages left by my tīpuna, etched into my skin. Although there are multiple interpretations of our rock art (Fomison, 1971; O’Regan, 1994, 2003; Robert McDougall Art Gallery, 2010; Trotter & McCulloch, 1971), I believe that these ancient rock drawings are messages from our past, not art, as they carry ancient messages for those who know how to interpret them. This was a defining time in my life, when I consciously chose to live my life how I wanted to, immersed in te ao Māori as much as I could. As with any wāhine Māori who receives a moko kauae, this decision was not taken lightly. I had been living in New Plymouth, a coastal North Island town of Taranaki, when it was suggested by a tohunga-tā-moko (expert) that I should adopt moko kauae. As I entered my fiftieth year on this planet, I wanted to mark this significant milestone in my life, as a wāhine Māori who was totally committed to mana Māori, secure in my sense of belonging and cultural identity. Moko kauae made visible my commitment to carrying the mana of my tīpuna into the future, but also a sign for my mokopuna (granddaughters) to come, that we come from a long line of chiefs and ancestresses. It is a cultural marker of whakapapa, strength, resistance and resilience. My youngest sister said “it was always a question of when, not if ” I was going to adorn moko kauae. Ngāhuia Te Awekotuku reminds us that moko is a timeless privilege: Moko is about the future, just as it is about the past; it is a graphic accounting of the Māori body, of history and commitment of loyalty and relationships. Moko takes place in the present, but it defies time itself, carrying ancestral values and aesthetics into the consciousness of those yet to come. (Cracknell, 2014, p. 3) It is difficult to capture in words the spiritual connection when receiving a moko kauae. Aunty Maata Wharehoka, from Parihaka, was one of the first wāhine that I spent time with who had moko kauae, and she held the wairua (spiritual) thread throughout this journey. My 141

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Aunty Lorraine represented our whānau, and I was surrounded by my treasured friends. The unfolding of this special event was captured by photographer Katie O’Neill and published in a journal article, alongside the beautiful waiata (song) composed by Moana Maniapoto (Maniapoto & Te Maihāroa, 2019). I wear my pride upon my skin My pride has always been within I wear my strength upon my face Comes from another time and place Be you didn’t know that every line has a message for me Did you know that? (Maniapoto, 2003) As discussed previously, recent debates about who can or cannot wear moko kauae raise valid questions about whakapapa, mana, te reo Māori fluency, and age, among other factors. One of my sisters was not so keen on me receiving my moko kauae. Her questions were largely concerned with a recent loss of mine and how my future would look forever different wearing kauae: it might change you; what if you don’t like it and potential new partners might not like it? Her concerns, although offered with aroha, did not resonate within me one little bit. They represented her fears of being identified as Māori while living primarily within Pākehā society, whereas I only felt compelled to wear my cultural pride as a visible expression of what I felt inside. I received the most valuable blessing from my son Jay, just before I lay on the table, who assured me that my five sons loved and supported me unconditionally. That was all I needed to hear in order to lay in peace and comfort, knowing that my boys had my back. As a mokopuna (grandchild) of a prophet, and an active member of our Iwi forum, Waitaha Tai Whenua Trust Board, I had looked for tohu (signs) to guide me toward the right time. My dream is that we will not only survive to thrive, but that we will flourish as a nation of people, collective in our aspirations to live and be who we are. Moko kauae for me helps to deconstruct the cloak of colonization, to uphold the mana of our people, and to be who we were born to be. I was committed to wearing moko kauae, as a reflection of the woman that I had become, a woman who – for the first time in my life – had finally felt unconditional love of the universe. At this time of my life, I was in love with a man who coincidentally was also set to receive his mataora in the same month, by the same tohunga – they say that there are no coincidences in life, just incidences that are collaboratively designed in the spiritual realm. Sometimes people are born with a wairua and wisdom beyond their corresponding years and need only to taste the richness of this world for a short period of time before returning to the starts (Brailsford, 1994). Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for us, and the man that I loved passed away suddenly at the start of the month that we were both to receive our moko. I received my moko kauae in my whare (home), surrounded by many of the people whom I loved, one month to the hour after the world lost one of our most beautiful souls. Each person that stood around me, encircled me with their aroha (love) and tautoko (support). I always thought that the taking of my moko kauae would be a calling, to represent the time of becoming of a tāua (grandmother), walking the Waitaha pathway and carrying our whakapapa responsibilities, an enhancement of my commitment to Māoritanga (being Māori). It is all of that, but now also reflects a time and space of unbearable pain through loss of a loved one, indelibly etched within my skin. You may lose your most valuable property through misfortune in various ways. You may lose your house, your wife (or partner) and other treasures. You may be robbed 142

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Figure 9.1  Photograph of Kelli Te Maihāroa, March 3, 2019 Photographer: Katie O’Neil

of all your most prized possessions. But of your moko you cannot be deprived, except by death. (Netana Whakaari of Waimana, as cited in King, 1992, p. 81) Each day that I look in the mirror, I am reminded that we are eternal beings – that we do not die, but simply transition from the physical into the non-physical of pure potential. When I reflect on photos of myself over my first 50 years, it looks like something is missing, the void of my journey over the last year and 50 years prior. The invisible has now manifested. I entered fully into te ao wairua, (the spiritual realm) when receiving my moko kauae, and returned to te ao Mārama (the human world), a different person, with a big part of my ngākau (heart) being held in the wairua dimension until it is my turn to return to the stars. My moko kauae has become more than a symbol of resistance and resilience; it embodies te mamae me te aroha (the pain and 143

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Figure 9.2  Photograph of Kelli Te Maihāroa with moko kauae, March 3, 2019 Photographer: Katie O’Neil

the love) experienced over half a century. When people ask me what it means, or what I have accomplished to be able to wear my kauae, I am confident in saying “I am the great granddaughter of the last prophet of Te Waipounamu – I carry his hope for mana motuhake (autonomous self-determination).” I now feel complete, the circle of life continues. He kākano ahau nō Rangiātea, he morehu, (I am a seed of hope from our ancestral lands, a survivor).

References Beattie, H. (1918a). Notebook of Herries Beattie. Beattie collection (1939–1945). Hocken Collection. Dunedin, New Zealand: University of Otago. Beattie, H. (1918b). Traditions and legends: Collected from the natives of Murihiku. (Southland New Zealand). The Online Journal of the Polynesian Society, 27(107), 137–161. Beattie, H. (1939). TIKAO TALKS. Traditions and tales of the canterbury Maoris. Wellington: A. W. Reed.

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Moko Kauae Brailsford, B. (1994). Song of Waitaha: The histories of a nation. New Zealand: Ngatapuwae Trust. Buck, P. (Te Rangi Hiroa). (1924). The passing of the Maori. Transactions and Proceedings of the Royal Society of New Zealand, 1924(55), 362. Cracknell, T. (2014). Momo Kauae: Moko Kauae in Contemporary Art. New Zealand: Hastings City Art Gallery. Diaz, D. (2012, October  18). Tā Moko Rising. Te Karaka. Retrieved from https://ngaitahu.iwi.nz/ our_stories/ta-moko-rising/ DigitalNZ a-TIHI O Aotearoa. (1972). Into antiquity: A memory of the Māori Moko. Retrieved from www. nzonscreen.com/search?search_term=nga+kahikatea+wirihana Duff, Michelle. (2016, September  13). It’s transformative’: Māori women talk about their sacred chin tattos. Retrieved from www.vice.com/en_us/article/9k95ey/its-transformative-maori-women-talk-abouttheir-sacred-chin-tattoos Fomison, T. (1971). Papers relating to Maori rock art. Photocopies and Sketches MS-0928. New Zealand: Hocken Collections Library. Gallagher, S. K. J. (2003). ‘A curious document’: Ta Moko as evidence of pre-European textual culture in New Zealand. BSANZ Bulletin, 27(3 & 4), 39–47. Retrieved from http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/ scholarly/tei-GalCuri.html Higgins, R. R. (2004). He tanga ngutu, he Tuhoetanga te Mana Motuhake o te ta moko wāhine: The identity politics of moko kauae (Thesis, Doctor of Philosophy). University of Otago. Retrieved from http://hdl. handle.net/10523/157 King, M., & Friedlander, M. (1972). Moko: Maori tattooing in the 20th century/text. New Zealand: Alister Taylor. King, M. (2008). Moko: Maori tattooing the 20th century. New Zealand: David Bateman Ltd. Land Information New Zealand Online. (2018, September 6). Rākaihautū – Naming great lakes of the canoe of Aoraki. Retrieved from: https://www.linz.govt.nz/regulatory/place-names/about-new-zealandgeographic-board/nzgb-place-name-maps-and-publications/he-korero-p%C5%ABr%C4%81kaumo-ng%C4%81-taunahanahatanga-ng%C4%81-t%C5%ABpuna/r%C4%81kaihaut%C5%ABnaming-great-lakes-canoe Maniapoto, M. (2003). Moko. Retrieved from www.moananz.com/popups/lyrics/moko.html Maniapoto, M., & Te Maihāroa, K. (2019). MOKO. Scope: Contemporary research topics Kaupapa Kāi Tahu (p. 5). Retrieved from www.thescopes.org/assets/Uploads/moko.pdf Mikaere, B. (1988). Te Maiharoa and the Promised Land. Auckland New Zealand: Heinemann. Moorfield, J. (2011). Te Aka Māori-English Māori-English, English-Māori Dictionary. New Zealand: Longman/Pearson Education. National Library. (1992). Whirihana, Ngakahikatea, – 1974. Retrieved from https://natlib.govt.nz/ records/30623798 Ngata, T. (2018, May 24). In L. Pihama (Ed.), Moko kauae is the right of all Māori women. It is not a right for anyone else. Retrieved from https://thespinoff.co.nz/atea/24-05-2018/moko-kauae-is-the-rightof-all-maori-women-it-is-not-a-right-for-anyone-else/ Nikora, L., Rua, M., & Te Awekotuku, N. (2007). Renewal and Resistance: Moko in contemporary New Zealand. Journal of Community & Applied Social Psychology, 17, 477–498. NZ Herald. (2012, October 25). Tokens of love etched in the memory of their dear lady. Retrieved from www. nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=10842664 O’Regan, G. (1994). Caring for rock art. New Zealand Historic Places, 50, 27–28. O’Regan, G. (2003). The history and future of New Zealand Maori rock art – a tribal perspective. Before Farming, 1, 1–9. O’Regan, G (2008). The shifting place of Ngai Tahu rock art. In G. Clark, F. Leach, & S. O’Connor (Eds.), Islands of inquiry: Colonisation, seafaring and the archaeology of maritime landscapes. Papers in honour of Atholl Anderson (pp. 411–422). Canberra, Australia: ANU Press. Parliament Counsel Office. (1907). Tohunga supression act 1907 (7 EDW VII 1907 No 13). Retrieved from www.nzlii.org/nz/legis/hist_act/tsa19077ev1907n13353/ Pihama, L. (2018, May  24). Moko kauae is the right of all Māori women. It is not a right for anyone else. Retrieved from https://thespinoff.co.nz/atea/24-05-2018/moko-kauae-is-the-right-of-all-maoriwomen-it-is-not-a-right-for-anyone-else/ Robert McDougall Art Gallery. (2010). Māori rock drawing: The Theo Schoon interpretations. Retrieved from https://christchurchartgallery.org.nz/media/uploads/2010_08/TheoSchoon.pdf Robley, H. G. (1987). Moko or Māori tattooing. Papakura, New Zealand: Southern Reprints.

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Kelli Te Maihāroa Sangl, H. (1980). In The Blue Privilege: The last tattooed Māori women: te kuia moko/text and paintings by Harry Sangl; chapters by Merimeri Penfold and D.R. Simmons. (2003). New Zealand: Richards Publishing in association with William Collins Publishers. Simmons, D. R.(1997). The art of Maori tattoo. East Sussex, England: Gardeners Books Limited. Taewa, H. (2012). The Legend of Mataora and Niwareka. Retrieved from: https://vimeo.com/31417517 Tau, Te Maire. (2008). The Discovery of Islands and the Stories of Settlement. Online Thesis Eleven: Sage Journals, 92(1), 11–28. Retrieved from: https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/072551 3607085042 Te Awekotuku, N. (2002). Ta Moko: Culture, body modification, and the psychology of identity. The Proceedings of the National Māori Graduates of Psychology Symposium, 123–127. Te Awekotuku, N. (2009). Memento Mori: Memento Maori – moko and memory. Tangi Research Programme Working Paper. Hamilton, New Zealand: Maori and Psychology Research Unit, University of Waikato. Retrieved from https://hdl.handle.net/10289/3486 Te Maihāroa, K. (2015). Kaore Whakaheke toto, do not shed blood: Looking into the past for messages to create a peace based future. In J. Pims  & P. Dhakal (Eds.), Nonkilling spiritual traditions (Vol. 1, pp. 97–112). Honolulu Hawaii‘i: Centre for Global Nonkilling. Te Maihāroa, K. (2017). Te Ara o Rakimārie, The pathway of peaceful living. Te Kaharoa, 10(1). Retrieved from https://ojs.aut.ac.nz/te-kaharoa/index.php/tekaharoa/article/view/151 Thomson, M., & Young, S. (2019). Woman kind. New Zealand women making a difference. New Zealand: Penguin Random House. Trotter, M. M., & McCulloch, B. (1971). Prehistoric rock art of New Zealand. New Zealand: AH & AW Reed.

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10 RECLAIMING OUR VOICES The power of storytelling in healing trauma Hilary N. Weaver

Introduction Indigenous Peoples around the world have experienced colonization, dispossession, and oppression. Significant trauma has resulted, but ongoing resilience is also apparent. Drawing on cultures, spirituality, and various Original Instructions provides sustenance and guidance, allowing Indigenous Peoples to survive, both in the past and in contemporary times. Beyond surviving, resilience enables Indigenous people to reclaim personal and collective strengths to cultivate better life circumstances for future generations. This chapter explores how storytelling can promote healing from trauma for Native Americans. After providing an overview of Native Americans and their experiences with trauma and resilience, the chapter examines traditional and contemporary uses of storytelling. The chapter draws on a Lakota story to illustrate how stories can facilitate individual healing. An additional example describes how sharing stories about boarding school experiences can challenge colonial narratives and raise public awareness of the ongoing impact of trauma. These examples illustrate the versatility and power of stories and their role in reinforcing Indigenous resilience.

An overview of Native Americans As of 2018, the US Census Bureau estimates there are 6.8 million Native Americans (US Census Bureau, 2019). At the time of this writing, there are 573 federally recognized tribes (National Conference of State Legislatures, 2019). Federal recognition means that the US government acknowledges the existence of these tribes as ongoing, distinct Indigenous Peoples. Some Native American tribes are recognized by the states that surround them, while other Native American tribes have no external recognition, limiting their access to services and funding. There are 326 reservations and trust lands that serve as tribal homelands and locations of tribal governments, but many Native Americans have lived in urban areas for decades. Currently, only 20% of Native Americans live on reservations and trust lands (Norris, Vines,  & Hoeffel, 2012). Relocation to urban areas, sometimes under the auspices of specific federal programs and sometimes guided by individual choices to seek employment or education, has led to multitribal, multicultural, urban Indigenous communities.

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Neither the progress of time nor urbanization has led to the predicted demise of Native Americans and their cultures. Native people and cultures have adapted to new times and locations. Core values often persist despite centuries of colonization and attempts at assimilation. These core values include a deep sense of relationship, connection, and recognition of the sacredness of all beings and aspects of the natural world. They provide a foundation for resilience in the face of trauma.

Historical and contemporary trauma Native Americans have experienced significant trauma, including extreme depopulation from disease and colonial violence. Within 130 years of contact, an estimated 95% of the Indigenous Peoples of the Americas were obliterated (Mann, 2005). Native Americans were often removed from traditional territories and relegated to reservations, subsequently having their land reduced through treaty violations and federal allotment that divided reservations into parcels for individual families then opened remaining land to non-Indigenous settlers (Venables, 2004). Policies that promoted assimilation, such as sending Native American children to boarding schools, compounded trauma (Kristianto, 2013). Trauma is not a thing of the past. Native Americans continue to experience significant poverty, social, and health disparities (Browne et al., 2016). Racism permeates US society, and Native Americans disproportionately experience violence and sequelae such as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) (American Indian Law and Order Commission, 2015; Attorney General’s Advisory Committee on American Indian/Alaska Native Children Exposed to Violence, 2014). Trauma is exacerbated by accounts that deny the truth of our experiences. For example, denial that the Americas were populated by tens of millions of Indigenous people in sophisticated societies perpetuates the myth of empty spaces awaiting the arrival of settlers divinely ordained to tame the wilderness (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014). Schools and media sources continue to promote one-sided, dominant society narratives that fail to acknowledge the brutality of genocide perpetrated by explorers and settlers, committed independently by individuals and often sanctioned as a matter of official government policy. Advancing these dominant society narratives further marginalizes Native Americans and compounds trauma (Harrington & Chixapkaid, 2013).

Ongoing resilience While Native Americans have clearly not remained unscathed by colonization, their survival as distinct Peoples despite consistent onslaughts is a testament to the resilience of Indigenous individuals, communities, and nations. The Indigenous population is a small proportion of the US population, yet has been consistently growing for more than a century since its lowest point around 1900 (Thornton, 2005). Maintaining and restoring balance are key Indigenous values that feed resilience and adaptability in ever-changing times. A sense of balance – rooted in understandings of interrelatedness, community revitalization, and environmental wellbeing – both reflects and supports resilience and wellness in individuals. Rejuvenation of language and culturally based education are prime examples of large-scale efforts that enhance individual resilience. For example, in recognition that language is a core element of culture and its continuity, the Navajo Sovereignty in Education Act of 2005 requires the core curriculum in their tribal schools be infused with content on

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Navajo language, culture, history, government, and character (Gentry, Fugate, Wu, & Castellano, 2014). Likewise, Native American educators draw on multiple strengths to challenge the deficit thinking that permeates colonized educational systems and infuse different ideas about knowledge and how it is constructed including learning from experiences in the natural world (Brayboy & Maughan, 2009). Native people have created their own educational institutions, including tribal colleges, tribal schools, and charter schools that reflect Indigenous priorities and needs. An increasing number of Native professionals, skilled in both Indigenous and mainstream ways of understanding, can build knowledge, services, educational systems, and governance systems that serve Indigenous people and communities. Likewise, Native American researchers guided by Indigenous priorities can generate knowledge to inform a variety of policies and organizations. Furthermore, activism is consistently used to protect sacred sites and medicines and influence mainstream laws and policies leading to the creation of laws such as the Indian Child Welfare Act and Native American Graves Protection Act (Johnson, Nagel, & Champagne, 1997). Resilience is apparent in how Native people have influenced the helping professions, developing culturally appropriate interventions and models. See, for example, the work of the Indian Country Child Trauma Center (www.iccts.org). Traditional ways of helping such as sweat lodge ceremonies and cleansing with cedar or sage are incorporated in some programs and services for Native American people. Storytelling is another traditional practice that can have therapeutic value. Reclaiming stories, traditions, and cultures can boost resilience and buffer the effects of ongoing trauma. Storytelling can be a therapeutic and effective way for individuals, families, communities, and Indigenous Peoples to reclaim our voices and pursue healing from historical and contemporary trauma. Furthermore, by telling our own stories and chronicling marginalized and misrepresented experiences we can disrupt assumptions, dominant cultural narratives, and institutional structures (Rice  & Mundel, 2018). Indeed, storytelling can embody both activism and healing.

Storytelling: traditional functions and parameters Traditional storytelling has ancient roots and can serve multiple purposes. Stories reflect worldviews and belief systems. They are vessels that hold knowledge and values. Stories communicate, teach, and help people make sense of the world (Rice & Mundel, 2018). While often considered an oral tradition, stories can be delivered through a variety of media, including dance and performance art (Lawrence & Paige, 2016). Stories can be powerful, both for those who receive them and those who tell them. Individuals can be empowered through writing or telling their own story. They can also find meaning in traditional stories and teachings in ways that help frame their personal experiences. Additionally, stories can influence decision-makers by drawing attention to marginalized or ignored experiences and making space for cultural voices. Stories can build understanding, shift policies, and promote social inclusion and justice (Rice & Mundel, 2018). They can also shape identity development. Stories not only carry ideologies and discourses, they also author us and give us the means to author ourselves. We live the stories that get planted in us and we also live the stories we plant in ourselves. This cross-fertilization – of stories seeded by others and stories germinated by us – is what allows us to cultivate distinct subjectivities and

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shared identities; to create and express difference even as we create and express community and culture. (Rice & Mundel, 2018, p. 224) Storytelling is a form of Indigenous pedagogy (Hearne, 2017). It is a way of teaching and a process of collective remembering that holds the community together as familiar narratives are retold (Aikau, 2016). Stories reflect a multigenerational oral history and are a survival tool for Native people. Stories must be treated with respect and storytellers acknowledged as keepers of tradition and culture. Stories both entertain and teach about the past and present while guiding listeners to possibilities for a better future (Lawrence & Paige, 2016). Storytelling is a participatory learning process that promotes community ties and mutual understanding. As our ancestors knew, storytelling is a holistic process that engages the heart, body, and spirit along with the mind. Telling our stories is one way of making sense of our own experiences. Listening to others’ stories also helps us to understand ourselves as we identify with their experiences. On the other hand, listening to stories around difference helps to promote empathy and understanding, particularly between people of different cultures. It broadens our knowledge. Storytelling has the power to disrupt stereotypes. It is difficult to judge a person by his or her cultural membership once you have heard his or her story. (Lawrence & Paige, 2016, p. 66) Different Native American cultures have different guidelines around storytelling that include which stories can be shared and appropriate times for storytelling. In some societies, individual families own particular stories (Hearne, 2017). Many Native Americans consider winter the appropriate time for storytelling. For example, stories may be told between the first and last frost or conclude when thunder is first heard in the spring. In other places, storytelling ends when it is time to plant seeds (Lawrence & Paige, 2016). For some Indigenous people, like the Haudenosaunee, the time of day must be considered in storytelling. Within that tradition, stories, like many ceremonies, belong in the morning. Although cultural restrictions are still often heeded in formal storytelling, broader uses of stories as vehicles for communication, teaching, and promoting wellbeing often transcend boundaries. For example, teachers have found incorporating Indigenous content such as stories in the classroom to be a valuable way to engage Native American – as well as other – students, and therefore do not typically follow traditional restrictions on season or time of day (Torrez, Gonzalez, del Hierro, Ramos, & Cuevas, 2019). Likewise, Indigenous programming on Canadian television includes traditional stories year-round. This is something that developers of programming continue to grapple with and do not take lightly. For example, Cree Wesakechak stories are culturally restricted to a particular season – wintertime – and should not be told in the absence of snow. Unlike networks that are organized primarily around the presentation of seasonally unrestricted settler stories, APTN [Aboriginal Peoples Television Network] faces challenges in adhering to seasonal and other community norms for Cree and other tribal narratives. (Hearne, 2017, p. 133) It is important to recognize that cultures have always been and remain living, changing entities, influenced by other cultures and value systems. Accommodation and change are nothing 150

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new for Indigenous Peoples. Changes in when and how Native American stories are told are part of this larger context of adaptation to changing times. That being said, it is important to be sensitive to those who believe restrictions must still be followed and that accommodations around timing of stories are a compromise that goes too far.

Dominant society narratives Large-scale societal narratives shape our understandings of the world, yet often do not reflect the experiences of all people. Indeed, there are often multiple conflicting stories that purport to describe reality. In the United States, Native Americans are largely invisible in the dominant narrative of the country. In the story of the United States, Native Americans are usually relegated to historical artifacts or depicted in stereotypical ways. Settler societies ground their legitimacy in stories of vast continents such as the Americas and Australia as virtually uninhabited lands waiting to be claimed and used by benevolent Christian settlers. The few Indigenous people acknowledged to inhabit the land are depicted as primitive or subhuman in these settler narratives. As colonization advanced, written narratives were deemed superior to oral traditions. This value stance – that written accounts are an indication of civility and intellectual superiority – continues today (Torrez et al., 2019). Historically, written documents were often one-sided, with writers omitting Indigenous people and perspectives from their accounts. The omission of trips made by Shawnee delegations across the Atlantic to negotiate with the King of England present a glaring example of selective recording that influences how people construct and forget the past (Lakomäki, 2016). Shawnee narratives of their journey to England were eclipsed during a time of growing colonial power. The Shawnee cross-Atlantic voyage was documented in council meetings and frequently discussed with American and British officials between 1795 and 1808, but this was not recorded in other documents kept by colonists (Lakomäki, 2016). Shawnee narratives were ignored and not given credence. Furthermore, Indigenous stories and beliefs have been dismissed as myths or fairytales, in ways that deny the power and legitimacy of Indigenous epistemologies and spiritual realities (Hearne, 2017). Dominant society narratives and relegation of Indigenous narratives to marginalized positions need not go unchallenged. Indigenous storytelling pushes back against efforts to position the dominant paradigm as the sole legitimate narrative (Lawrence  & Paige, 2016). Counter stories based on lived experience can empower Indigenous people and educate others. Disrupting dominant narratives opens new possibilities for understanding history and contemporary circumstances (Rice & Mundel, 2018). In this way, storytelling can be a method for reflection, resistance, and community building (Torrez et al., 2019). Indigenous stories, both traditional and contemporary, can challenge dominant narratives, but as they enter the mainstream, they may also become significantly changed to make them more palatable and aligned with mainstream expectations and tastes. Within the Western context that frames stories primarily as entertainment for children, they are often repackaged, leaving out central aspects deemed inappropriate for youth. These modifications may undermine central lessons contained in the original stories. At times, modifications can reach the point of absurdity. For example, The Dzunukwa (Wild Woman of the Woods) story, adapted for episodes of Amy’s Mythic Morning  .  .  .  [transformed] the Kwakwaka’wakw story’s monstrous Wild Woman from child-eating cannibal to lonely outsider who just wants to share her woodcraft knowledge with children. . . . Eliminating cannibalism for the children’s 151

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television audience is also a feature of the Dzunukwa story episode in Raven Tales. That episode, “Child of Tears,” . . . resolves the conflict around Dzunukwa’s hunger for the company of children by turning a narrative about cannibalism into one about day-care, creating a solution to childcare issues that concern all working parents. The lonely Dzunukwa will take care of the children during the daytime in the summer season when adults are busy with fish harvests and other work for the village. (Hearne, 2017, p. 134) The implications of altering Indigenous stories to accommodate broader sensibilities must be thoughtfully considered. In changing the character and nature of Dzunukwa, the traditional lesson is lost. As stories are changed, their original power, intent, and value may be undermined.

Contemporary uses of Native American stories Traditional stories continue to be told in contemporary times, and new stories are created and shared. Indigenous control over how, when, and where stories are told demonstrates both resilience and sovereignty. For example, in film, control of the camera and storytelling processes are an exercise of visual sovereignty, just as Indigenous artists and writers such as Jolene Rickard and Robert Warrior have exerted aesthetic and intellectual sovereignty in their work (Hearne, 2017). Indigenous creative control is demonstrated through choice of visual images, sound, language, and voice. Microphones and broadcast equipment are contemporary tools that amplify Indigenous stories (Hearne, 2017). In classrooms and organizations, stories can promote dialogue and understanding. Stories communicate information and promote learning in distinct ways. Listening to a story that reflects an experience different than your own facilitates understanding other people’s perspectives. It is also important for individuals to be able to share their own story and stories that mirror their beliefs and life experiences (Lawrence & Paige, 2016). An after-school program built around biographical writing for middle school students and implemented by college students studying Latinx and Indigenous histories and storytelling practices helped youth find meaning in their own stories (Torrez et al., 2019). In one boy’s story, he became an Indigenous superhero who was not labeled by the color of his skin tone. Similarly, a girl living in chaotic life circumstances where she had no control over the actions or decisions of adults felt empowered to exercise personal control in writing her own story (Torrez et al., 2019). Like the youth noted previously, people experiencing incarceration often feel little control over their lives or how others understand their experiences. Canadian Aboriginal people serving time in prison have used the overarching theme of genocide to conceptualize their personal stories, as well as stories of their Peoples. Their ability to frame these stories, both personally and historically, was empowering. Telling their own stories of genocide was a way to assert their own survival (Adema, 2015). Stories can be an effective way of engaging and assisting Native people who have not benefited from other types of interventions. For example, digital storytelling has been effective in reaching Indigenous youth in northern British Columbia, Canada whose needs had not been met by mainstream online mental health resources (Ward  & de Leeuw, 2018). Storytelling resonates with young community members in ways that provide stability, hope, cultural connections, and a sense of belonging (Wexler, White, & Trainor, 2015). Sharing stories as an act of decolonization and healing has also been therapeutic for individuals who were taken from their homes and families as part of the infamous ’60s Scoop, a 152

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large-scale removal of Indigenous children that occurred in Canada in the 1960s. Likewise, telling family stories through pictures and spoken word can be a way to explore Indigenous perspectives of wellness and disability, contrasted with the crippling experiences of colonization (Boivin, 2018). When helping professionals are open to understanding and engaging with clients’ stories of illness, they are better able to understand personal and Indigenous perspectives on wellbeing (Crawford, 2018). Indeed, helping professionals can learn a lot from listening to their clients’ stories. It is possible to bridge many societal divides by actively listening to the stories of others. This can facilitate coming to shared understandings (San Pedro, Carlos, & Mburu, 2017). Indigenous people can also seek personal healing through traditional stories as illustrated in the following example.

Case example 1: traditional stories and personal healing The traditional Lakota story of Iyah the Campeater offers a culturally grounded understanding of intergenerational trauma transmission, including how those who experienced trauma may become perpetrators, hurting their own families and communities. The story depicts accepting responsibility, empowerment, moving toward healing, and interrupting the cycle of trauma.

Iyah the Campeater Two hunters were nearing the end of a long day and preparing to return to their village. One paused for a moment, listening intently, then called to his companion, “Do you hear something? There is a sound coming from within the tall grass.” After a few moments, the companion replied, “I hear nothing. We need to get back to the village.” After proceeding a few steps, the first hunter stopped to listen again, reiterating that he was sure something was in the grass nearby. The second hunter cautioned that they needed to return home immediately. The sound coming from the grass might be an enemy or something harmful, distracting them to linger as darkness fell. The second hunter began to make his way back to the village while the first felt compelled to investigate the sound. A few minutes later, the first hunter emerged from the tall grass carrying an infant. Both hunters wondered how it was possible for a baby to be alone, far from any village, but the first proclaimed, “I would not be a true human being if I did not do all I could to care for this child. We will bring him back to the village and ask the Chief what to do.” When they returned to the village, there was amazement and rejoicing. The Chief gave the infant to his daughter to raise and called for preparations for a feast and celebration the next day. That night, the Chief ’s daughter stayed up late making moccasins for her new child while her parents and the baby slept soundly in the tipi. Just as she set aside her sewing and lay down to rest, she was startled by noises. She roused her father, who grabbed his weapons, went outside to defend his family, but returned saying, “daughter, there is no one there. There is no threat. Go back to sleep.” Once again the daughter was disturbed by noises, this time sounding like a variety of frightened voices. Again, her father went outside, but could find no cause for alarm. The daughter tried to let go of her fears and get some rest, but just as she was drifting off to sleep, she once again heard the voices. This time, she woke her mother, explaining that her father had found no threat but she feared the voices were spirits come to harm the baby. The mother listened closely and this time she, too, heard the anguished cries. The voices came from the open mouth of the sleeping baby. In hushed but urgent tones, the mother exclaimed, “This is no baby. It is Iyah the Campeater. He disguises himself to gain the trust of the people then he destroys all beings within 153

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his reach. Quickly, wake everyone in the village so they can quietly slip away before he awakens.” When the monster awoke he found that his intended prey had escaped. He let out a mighty roar, pulled himself up on his spindly legs, then lumbered after the villagers as they ran away. The hunter who brought the baby into the village stood with his spear to confront the monster, allowing others time to get to safety, stating, “I brought this thing into our midst. It is up to me to stop him now.” As the enormous monster Iyah thundered after the people, the hunter stood alone to confront him. The ground shook with the creature’s steps. The hunter stood his ground. As the giant Iyah lumbered with his uneven gait, he stumbled forward, becoming impaled on the hunter’s spear. As the spear ripped through the monster’s belly, out tumbled villages of people startled to find themselves alive. The monster Iyah was killed and the people were saved. Although the people rejoiced that day, we know that far in the North is an ice cave where the sons of Iyah sleep, waiting for their chance to awaken. Each time Iyah is killed, one of his sons sets forth from the ice cave. We must always be careful what we bring into our lives and families. That which seems innocent, pure, and good, may not be.

Finding personal meaning in the story This story resonates with survivors of the intergenerational trauma that continues to ripple through Native American communities. This particular story was instrumental in helping a mother come to terms with family violence. After recognizing that her children had been abused by their father, the mother became distraught and immobilized by the fact that she had not been able to protect her own children and interrupt the cycle of violence. Furthermore, she felt that she was the one who had set the circumstances in motion that ultimately harmed her children by marrying a man who turned out to be a perpetrator of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. As in the story, the perpetrator/monster came in disguise – in this case, as a traditional person who cared about community, worked against social injustice, and followed cultural and ceremonial practices. Although coming from a background of family disruption and foster care, he also came from a family who were mainstays of the tribal ceremonial practices and were well known for maintaining traditional roles. Similar to the characters in the story, the woman believed in welcoming those who came from difficult or unusual circumstances. The man who reclaimed a traditional life after growing up in foster care estranged from traditions paralleled the infant found alone in the tall grass. Both were brought into a family, but ultimately threatened to destroy it. Neither acted with malice, but rather out of circumstances that were not of their own making. The nature of Iyah is to be a monster with insatiable hunger. He knows no other way. The man, a victim of physical and sexual abuse from multiple perpetrators including family members, neighbors, and members of foster families, lived out a legacy of intergenerational trauma begun long ago in Native communities. The legacy of intergenerational trauma has created an ongoing cycle whereby those who experienced trauma may become perpetrators, hurting their own families and communities. The story embodies different facets of responsibility. The mother felt responsible for bringing someone into her home who abused her children. She was wracked with guilt and selfblame. The story helped her make a distinction between blame and responsibility. Although still challenged by feelings of guilt for the things that happened within her home and family, she continually works to view the blame for violence as resting with the perpetrator. Like the 154

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hunter who brought the baby into the village in the story, once the truth was revealed, she stood to confront the perpetrator. Still feeling guilty for not initially recognizing the abuse happening in her household, she takes some consolation that she did act, once the violence became clear. She still struggles with the fact that the legacy of violence continued under her roof and fears it may carry on in the next generation. The sleeping sons of Iyah may awaken, even though she has done what she can to keep this perpetrator at bay. Confronting the perpetrator is an act of empowerment. In some ways, it is the instinctual act of a mother recognizing a threat to her children. Additionally, she worked to help her children come to grips with the impact of the violence they experienced. The impact of child victimization can be intense and long-lasting. Members of this family have grappled with years of self-harm, multiple suicide attempts, and psychiatric institutionalizations, yet each family member survives and tries in their own way to find a path forward that interrupts the cycle of trauma. Much harder for the mother is finding forgiveness and moving toward healing for herself. The story of Iyah is one that she returns to regularly to sort through her own feelings of guilt and grief. Although the way forward is likely to be long and filled with twists and turns, this and other traditional stories provide a foundation for healing. Ultimately, the blame is not hers to shoulder. Rather, the blame is firmly grounded in the violence of colonization that has manifested in wounding generations of Native children who pass a toxic legacy to subsequent generations. She finds a meaningful role in the story: standing as a guardian ready to confront the monster and free those who have been consumed. As evidenced by this case, our traditional stories are a powerful way to help us grapple with atrocities. They help us find the resilience to continue amidst adversity.

Case example 2: truth telling and challenging dominant narratives Stories have power, both for those whose life is represented within them and for outsiders. Large numbers of Indigenous children were removed from their families and communities around the world. The stories of these massive child removals are not well known in the narratives of settler societies, but are receiving increasing attention as Indigenous people who have survived these removals raise their voices and share their stories. In some regions, these stories have been named, as illustrated by the titles The ’60s Scoop in Canada and The Stolen Generations in Australia. In the United States, no title has yet emerged, but there are growing narratives that describe how families and communities lost children to boarding schools and how the traumatic experiences that happened in these institutions created and continue to perpetuate intergenerational trauma. By sharing stories of loss and resilience, Indigenous people promote their own understandings and healing while challenging the dominant narratives that omit these stories.

Surviving residential schools and institutions Forced removal of Native children and placement in residential schools was policy in many parts of the world, including Russia (Kulikova, 2015), Finland, Sweden, and Norway (Svonni, 2017), Australia (Murphy, 2018), Canada (Park, 2016), and the United States (Gram, 2016). Removal policies were implemented as a means to break cultural continuity in Indigenous communities and assimilate children into mainstream cultures. Residential schools were frequently sites of physical and sexual abuse where children were forbidden to speak their Native languages or continue spiritual and cultural practices. Often, children were not allowed contact with family members, including siblings in the same institution, for extended periods of time. 155

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The stories of residential schools, those who survived them, and those who did not are largely absent from the general consciousness. At the time these schools became national policy in the United States, their narrative was represented by their infamous slogan, Kill the Indian and Save the Man, attributed to Richard Pratt, founder of Carlisle Indian School (Pitcher Hayes, 2018). Pratt’s view on Native Americans was shaped by his time as a military officer in Indian Territory after the US Civil War and his time at Fort Marion, a prisoner-of-war camp for Southwestern Native Americans in the 1870s. At Fort Marion, Pratt experimented with the idea that savage Indians could be remolded into Christian citizens through manual labor and immersion in American values (Pitcher Hayes, 2018). By highlighting his experiment at Fort Marion, Pratt secured private donations and federal funding to begin an Indian education program at Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute. He subsequently opened a residential school exclusively for Native Americans in Carlisle, Pennsylvania in 1879. A former fort turned into a military prison was the prototype for residential schools. In turn, residential schools became the accepted model for Native American education (Pitcher Hayes, 2018). The rise of residential schools in the United States in the late 1880s occurred concurrently with the development of penitentiaries, and their histories are intertwined. There are striking parallels in the visions of redeeming savages through values-based American education and penitentiaries (a place to be penitent) as a mechanism to transform prisoners and make them fit for civilized society. Likewise, institutions for people with disabilities and mental illness became common during this time. Often institutions of all types were underpinned by the philosophy of saving and redeeming those in their care, but they functioned as places to keep people separate from mainstream society, unless or until they were able to adequately conform. While the developers of residential schools promoted a humanitarian narrative, boarding school survivors and their descendants tell a vastly different story characterized by heinous abuse and intergenerational trauma. While not all boarding school residents experienced violence and trauma, most Indigenous stories of residential school experiences stand in stark contrast to dominant society narratives.

Challenging the dominant narrative Telling Indigenous stories of boarding schools can bring personal validation to those who directly experienced them as well as their family members and communities. Likewise, publicly sharing this information can alter societal understandings of these policies and their impact. There is validation and truth in our stories. As boarding school survivors tell their stories, the truth of their experiences can be acknowledged, allowing them to let go of oppression and begin their healing (Dionne & Nixon, 2014). In Australia, some members of The Stolen Generations have returned to visit the institutions where they were housed. This has provided opportunities for them to tell their own personal stories and listen to the stories of others who were institutionalized or adopted. Telling stories and listening to stories are both important. These are stories of forcible removal, institutionalization, abuse, and loss. They are also stories of hope, strength, resilience, and moving beyond the pain of the past (Murphy, 2018). Telling stories can be an aspect of personal reconciliation and healing. Residential school survivors take power in authoring and communicating their own stories. They make sense of their traumatic past and craft their stories as tools of resistance and empowerment as they shape their future. Stories can ultimately become political statements about identity and belonging (Murphy, 2018).

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Telling stories is not a passive act. We have choices in how our stories are presented, framed, interpreted, and understood. Stories can be framed as vehicles for healing, calls to action, or both. Those who hear our stories are also called to take on roles and responsibilities. While many discussions of storytelling for social change focus on the importance of individuals telling their stories, of talking back to dominant narratives, what we find equally important is the work that this process does in recentering the necessity of listening, and through attending closely, of revising our relationalities with each other. (Rice & Mundel, 2018, p. 226) Outsiders hearing the stories of survivors of The Stolen Generations, The’60s Scoop, and the boarding schools should feel compelled by the narratives to acknowledge the painful legacy of child removal in Indigenous communities around the world. We must decolonize the truth and transform the official narratives of the boarding schools (Park, 2016). Once this story is heard and its truth acknowledged, it is time to take action. In one example, Canada developed a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to explore and document the impact of the residential schools and to identify specific actions to acknowledge and respond to this painful legacy. While much remains to be done, Canadian universities are striving to be more responsive to Native students (Lewington, 2018). Another action that has followed the Canadian Truth and Reconciliation process is the Statement of Apology and Commitment to Reconciliation issued by the Canadian Association of Social Workers. This statement explicitly acknowledges the complicity of social workers in implementing residential schools and promoting discriminatory child welfare policies with the ultimate motivation of dispossessing Indigenous Peoples from their lands (Canadian Association of Social Workers, 2019). While efforts are underway in the United States to push social work organizations to acknowledge responsibility for their role in unwarranted removal of generations of Native American children from their families and communities, these have not yet come to fruition. As in many areas related to social justice for Indigenous Peoples, the United States continues to lag behind many other nations.

Conclusion Stories are versatile. Not only can they change in light of the context and what needs to be taught or learned at any given time, but different people can hear different lessons, themes, or messages within the narrative, depending on what they need to hear at that time. It is within these nuances that individuals can find therapeutic value aligned with their particular needs. Likewise, the content of the story, how the message is delivered, and how it is heard can resonate on a larger scale, with a power that can alter societal narratives. Stories are multifaceted. Traditional stories have long blended seemingly disparate forces like sacred and profane within one character. Coyote, Iktomi, and Raven are examples of tricksters that appear in many stories and embody seemingly incompatible characteristics. As trickster and divine comedian, Raven is the first thief, the original creative disruptor, and the ultimate outside-the-box thinker (literally releasing the sun from its box in the world-making story “How Raven Stole the Sun”). Raven teaches us that survival is about adaptability. This tension – between the specificity, sacredness, and sociopolitical work of Indigenous stories on the one hand and the humorous

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creativity of story-play on the other – accounts for some of the complex dynamics that unfold . . . [in Indigenous] stories. (Hearn, 2017, p. 131) In traditional Native American stories, Creator and bumbling fool can be aspects manifested within one being. A self-interested trickster and savior/healer can be one and the same. In the natural world, different properties are also present within one entity. Medicinal plants have powers that contain healing potential as well as destructive properties. Different characteristics are present within people, as well. Individuals can struggle with trauma from their own experiences, experiences in their communities, and things that occurred in past generations. Likewise, resilience is present in all these forms and at the same time as distress. Colonial societies that have caused harm can recognize wrong and work toward justice and healing. There is always potential. The nuanced, multifaceted lessons contained in stories provide guidance for moving forward.

References Adema, S. (2015). Not told by victims: Genocide-as-story in aboriginal prison writings in Canada, 1980– 96. Journal of Genocide Research, 17(4), 453–471. Aikau, H. (2016). Telling stories at the kitchen table, or lessons from my father. Biography, An Interdisciplinary Quarterly, 39(3), 499–503. American Indian Law and Order Commission. (2015). A roadmap for making native America safer. Retrieved February 1, 2018, from www.aisc.ucla.edu Attorney General’s Advisory Committee on American Indian/Alaska Native Children Exposed to Violence. (2014). Ending violence so children can thrive. Washington, DC: US Department of Justice. Boivin, L. (2018). Image-based storytelling: A visual narrative of my family’s story. CMAJ: Canadian Medical Association Journal, 190(37), 1112–1113. Brayboy, B. M. J.,  & Maughan, E. (2009). Indigenous knowledges and the story of the bean. Harvard Educational Review, 79(1), 1–21. Browne, A. J., Varcoe, C., Lavoie, J., Smye, V., Wong, S. T., Krause, M., . . . Fridkin, A. (2016). Enhancing health care equity with Indigenous populations: Evidence-based strategies from an ethnographic study. BMC Health Services Research, 16, 1–17. Canadian Association of Social Workers. (2019). Statement of apology and commitment to reconciliation. Retrieved from https://www.caswacts.ca/sites/default/files/Statement_of_Apology_and_Reconcilia tion.pdf Crawford, A. (2018). Dene and Western medicine meet in image-based storytelling. CMAJ: Canadian Medical Association Journal, 190(36), pE1085–E1086. Dionne, D., & Nixon, G. (2014). Moving beyond residential school trauma abuse: A phenomenological hermeneutic analysis. International Journal of Mental Health & Addiction, 12(3), 335–350. Dunbar-Ortiz, R. (2014). An indigenous peoples’ history of the United States. Boston: Beacon Press. Gentry, M., Fugate, C. M., Wu, J., & Castellano, J. A. (2014). Gifted native American students: Literature, lessons, and future directions. Gifted Child Quarterly, 58(2), 98–110. Gram, J. R. (2016). Acting out assimilation: Playing Indian and becoming American in the federal Indian boarding schools. American Indian Quarterly, 40(3), 251–273. Harrington, B. G., & Chixapkaid, (D. Michael Pavel). (2013). Using Indigenous educational research to transform mainstream education: A guide for P-12 school leaders. American Journal of Education, 119(4), 487–511. Hearne, J. (2017). “I am not a fairy tale”: Indigenous storytelling on Canadian television. Marvels & Tales, 31(1), 126–146. Johnson, T., Nagel, J., & Champagne, D. (1997). American Indian Activism: Alcatraz to the longest walk. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Kristianto, B. (2013). The notion of the body and the path to healing. The International Journal of Religion and Spirituality in Society, 2, 41–52.

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PART III

The power in Indigenous identities

The chapters in Part 3 explore the collective strengths of families and communities while highlighting how youth, elders, and women embody the resilience of their Peoples. The authors draw from different parts of the United States, Southern Africa, and Pacific regions to provide examples of leadership, collective strength, and social and economic support in weathering adversities of youth, aging, and health challenges. The authors explore responsibilities to people and the environment as they present research results, describe family lineages, and recount spiritual and cosmic knowledge. We are reminded that there are many ways of knowing. Readers learn through stories of resilience described through the eyes of youth and recounted with the laughter of elders. Enhancing our understanding through testimonials, timeless teachings, and stories is powerful. Truth telling is both an expression of resilience and a path toward healing. The narratives in this section illustrate how we continue to follow our Original Instructions.

Connections and reciprocity Connections, collective structures, and reciprocity are defining characteristics of Indigenous Peoples. Authors describe connection as a core feature of resilient, healthy families. Accordingly, health and wellbeing are viewed relationally. In many Indigenous societies, “family” is defined inclusively beyond nuclear units and blood kin. These broad networks of relationships foster reciprocity. Families are often close-knit, extended, and highly connected. Connections to others, both human and beyond human, are important. These relationships exist in the present, as well as across past and future times, with people, other beings, lands, oceans, and cosmos. The spirit of reciprocity is apparent in relationships such as those between a mother and her unborn child, and people and the land. Indigenous Peoples and their homelands are linked in perpetual, interdependent relationships. The authors of Chapter 13 describe a form of communal social support they refer to as flocking that flows from a strong sense of connection and relationship. Flocking is culturally congruent and develops in post-colonial settings of high marginalization. Relationships endure and foster resilience in ways not often expected in colonial societies. For example, authors in Part 3 highlight how separated parents, blended families, and divorced spouses remain important relationships in times of need. DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-14

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Connections have multiple meanings and broad applications. Youth testimonials highlight tools for resilience, including relationships with other people, connections to the natural world, spirituality, support programs, and testimonial justice, all of which also support healing. The authors encourage readers to engage in relationship as they read these chapters and develop their own connections to ideas of land and mothering that resonate for them. Indeed, they note that Indigenous practices like flocking have broader resonance beyond Indigenous Peoples and can inform social policies and crisis responses. Distress and wellbeing are both collective endeavors, a fact that must be considered in weighing development and policy options.

Buffering and transcending adversity The authors describe how elements of Indigenous identity can buffer and assist in transcending adversity. Transcendence is possible despite chronic adversity rooted in historical oppression. Building relationships through stories and sharing can encourage positive change and transformations to meet life’s challenges. Mutual aid helps fill gaps and buffer disparities. Coping mechanisms such as laughter can deflect questions and ease tensions. Examples from Southern Africa and the Southeastern United States describe caring for people in need, providing transportation to medical care, caring for invalids in their homes, providing various supports, and sharing resources. Colonization emphasized patriarchal power and redefined women and nature as possessions and status symbols, and as disposable, emphasizing separation of mind and body, as well as ideas of domination and control, concepts foreign to Indigenous societies. Although extensive damage was done, destruction was not complete. The author of Chapter 14 uses the image of a fishing net. Different strands weave together to support resilience. Holes in the net represent vulnerabilities and require attention, but we are reminded we can repair damage. Strands in the net of resilience include laughter, humility, optimism, humor, strength, and passion. Woven together, these provide a foundation for healthy living and resilience.

Spiritual centering and the power for change We are all related. Everything has a lifeforce. The authors remind us that rituals help us enter consciousness and connection. We recognize our spiritual and cosmological center as a source of strength for wellbeing and leadership. As we attune ourselves to our original sources, we draw from more than thought and logic. Our breadth of knowledge comes from deep attachment to land and water. Indigenous understandings of wisdom are embedded in the multidimensional world of ritual. The authors remind us of the regenerative qualities of power, place, and belonging. Spiritual elements nurture resilience. Healing is possible through songs and prayer. There is continuity across generations. As authors note in Chapter 15, when we take care of our regalia and its spiritual life, we will always be protected. Chapter authors note the power for change and solutions to many of the world’s challenges exist in Indigenous Knowledge and traditions. Neither socialism nor market-driven approaches have successfully addressed colonial legacies of inequity and exclusion. Indigenous approaches can help address heretofore intractable structural disparities. Helping others is a core value in many Indigenous societies. Cultural knowledge can inform policies to support people in distress and can shape community responses. Such approaches have proven records of success, especially in the absence of public safety nets.

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Both Western medicine and healing can help alleviate distress. Both land and body possess power and can play a role in restorative regeneration. Indigenous people have the power and resilience to provide leadership in the face of the unknown in an ever-changing world. The chapters in Part 3 offer a form of testimonial justice, a validation of knowledge and experience. They remind us of our power and the importance of finding joy in life.

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11 FAMILY CONNECTEDNESS An intricate web of support and aspect of Indigenous family resilience Catherine E. McKinley and Jenn Lilly

Funding acknowledgments This work was supported by the Fahs-Beck Fund for Research and Experimentation Faculty Grant Program [grant number #552745], The Silberman Fund Faculty Grant Program [grant #552781], the Newcomb College Institute Faculty Grant at Tulane University, University Senate Committee on Research Grant Program at Tulane University, the Global South Research Grant through the New Orleans Center for the Gulf South at Tulane University, The Center for Public Service at Tulane University, and the Carol Lavin Bernick Research Grant at Tulane University. This work was supported, in part, by Award K12HD043451 from the Eunice Kennedy Shriver National Institute of Child Health & Human Development of the National Institutes of Health (Krousel-Wood-PI; Catherine McKinleyBuilding Interdisciplinary Research Careers in Women’s Health [BIRCWH] Scholar). Support is provided in part by U54 GM104940 from the National Institute of General Medical Sciences, which funds the Louisiana Clinical and Translational Science Center. The content is solely the responsibility of the authors and does not necessarily represent the official views of the National Institutes of Health.

Introduction Recognizing the primacy and nature of family connections among Indigenous peoples of the United States (the scope of this inquiry is limited to American Indians) is essential to understanding, working with, and advocating for these populations. Research has shown that the dimensions and characteristics of family connectedness vary across cultures (Dwairy & Achoui, 2010). This variability demonstrates a need for examinations of family connectedness that are culturally and contextually specific. Using the Framework for Historical Oppression, Resilience, and Transcendence (FHORT), this chapter investigates how Indigenous family members across two tribes experience family connectedness as a key component of family resilience. Previous research has shown that Indigenous family connectedness – or the extent to which family members feel connected to one another – is a defining feature of Indigenous perceptions of resilient, healthy families (Burnette, 2017; Martin & Yurkovich, 2014; Red Horse, 1980; Smokowski, Evans, Cotter,  & Webber, 2014; Weaver  & White, 1997). Indigenous families tend to be tight-knit, with close relationships spanning across immediate and intergenerational extended family units (Burnette, 2017; Martin & Yurkovich, 2014; Red Horse, 1980; Robbins, Robbins, & Stennerson, 2013; Weaver & White, 1997). Indigenous Peoples often conceive of family as inclusive and fluid, fostering a sense of relatedness among community members that transcends traditional Western notions of the nuclear family (Tam, Findlay, & Kohen, 2017). 165

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Intergenerational households are common within Indigenous communities, and any individual who plays a significant role in one’s life is generally viewed as a family member (Weaver  & White, 1997). Interconnectedness is highly salient, with identity being closely linked to membership in social groups, such as family, clan, or community (Weaver & White, 1997). The FHORT, which provides the theoretical basis for this chapter, draws attention to the ways in which Indigenous peoples have demonstrated resilience and transcendence in spite of their experiences of chronic adversity rooted in historical oppression (Burnette  & Figley, 2017). Research has shown that colonization undermined social cohesion and intergenerational communication among Indigenous Peoples (Goodkind, Hess, Gorman, & Parker, 2012; King, Smith, & Gracey, 2009). Thus, historical oppression, which includes both historical trauma and contemporary trauma and oppression (Burnette & Figley, 2017), is believed to have impaired the degree to which Indigenous families are connected. Indigenous families have long endured a history of family disruption and impairment, such as during the Boarding School Era, resulting in the removal of one-quarter of the US Indigenous youth population from their families and communities (O’Sullivan, 2016; Weaver & White, 1997). These removals were often characterized as assimilative and coercive, socializing children into abusive and oppressive contexts. In spite of such systematic attempts to dismantle Indigenous families, contemporary Indigenous peoples continue to maintain close connections to family members, bearing testament to their resilience (responding to, adapting to, and recovering from adversity) and transcendence (going beyond recovery and coping well, to thriving) (Burnette & Figley, 2017). This chapter explores the protective and very present role of Indigenous family connectedness.

The protective role of family connectedness The importance of family connectedness is a salient perception among Indigenous People, and research has affirmed that family connectedness plays a protective role within Indigenous communities. Research has found that connectedness among family members provided instrumental support for women who had experienced intimate partner violence (Burnette, 2017), and buffered Indigenous families from the negative consequences of having limited access to needed resources within the community (Martin & Yurkovich, 2014). Thus, there is reason to believe that family connectedness may promote resilience, protecting Indigenous families from the negative effects of violence and poverty, as well as other social and health disparities that Indigenous populations disproportionately experience. Family connectedness within Indigenous families has also been found to play a protective role in the lives of youth. In a systematic review of risk and protective factors related to wellness among Indigenous youth, family support was found to be instrumental to youth wellness, protecting against substance abuse, depression, suicidality, and hopelessness (Burnette & Figley, 2016). Another systematic review focused on factors that promote health among Indigenous adolescents found 11 studies indicating that family connectedness is a protective factor (Henson, Sabo, Trujillo, & Teufel-Shone, 2017). This research suggests that family connectedness plays a significant role in buffering Indigenous youth and adolescents from potential harms and negative outcomes, while promoting health and wellness.

Methods This study employed a community-based, critical ethnography with two Southeastern tribes (Carspecken, 1996). A critical ethnography explicitly focuses on power dynamics in its analysis, prioritizes participants’ voices, and uses participants’ perspectives in disseminating knowledge, 166

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making it an appropriate choice for community-engaged research with tribal communities (Burnette, Sanders, Butcher,  & Rand, 2014). The purpose of this project was to examine participants’ perspectives on family connectedness as a source of resilience, guided by the overarching research question, “What do Indigenous people perceive to be the most important components of family resilience?” Ethnographic data was collected in the forms of interviews, focus groups, and field notes (Carspecken, 1996).

Setting This research was conducted with the support and participation of two tribes in the Southeastern region of the United States. Merging qualitative data collected from two distinct tribes allows for identification and analysis of universal themes, as well as differences across these communities. In accordance with resolution agreements (documents detailing how and for what purposes research may be conducted) made with the tribes and the Toolkit for Ethical and Culturally Sensitive Research (Burnette et al., 2014), the tribes’ identities are kept confidential; potentially identifying information has been removed from the results. The “Inland Tribe” is a federally recognized tribe located inland from the Gulf of Mexico, while the “Coastal Tribe” is recognized at the state level only and located near the Gulf Coast. These tribes have distinct – but interconnected – experiences of historical oppression, manifested in common experiences of poverty, racism, and educational discrimination. As a federally recognized tribe, the Inland Tribe has access to resources and decision-making processes that are unavailable to the staterecognized Coastal Tribe. The Inland Tribe has its own criminal justice and law enforcement operations, and provides social/family services, healthcare services, and tribal schooling to its members. The Coastal Tribe offers several programs for youth, education, and employment.

Data collection All research procedures were approved in advance by the tribes and the university Institutional Review Board (IRB). Participants were recruited for the study primarily through word of mouth, as well as through the distribution of fliers online (through Facebook and tribal websites) and in person (at community agencies), and within tribal newsletters. Qualitative data collection consisted of interviews (both individual interviews and whole family interviews), focus groups, and participant observation within both tribal settings. As compensation, participants received a $20 gift card to a local department store for participation in an individual interview, and a $60 gift card to the same department store for the whole family for participation in family interviews. Following recommendations for culturally sensitive research and critical ethnography, a life history approach was employed for individual interviews (Carspecken, 1996). Focus group and interview questions were informed by a semi-structured interview guide that included questions and probes connected to our research questions and aims. Examples of probes from the semistructured interview guide include: “What are important values of strong families?”; “Describe how your family gets through struggles”; and “What helps family harmony and unity?” A copy of the individual interview transcript was provided to all participants who could be reached.

Sample Across the various forms of data collection (individual interviews, family interviews, and focus groups), our sample included 436 participants across the two tribes. Participation across the two tribes was approximately equal, with 228 participants from the Inland Tribe and 208 participants 167

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from the Coastal Tribe. In an effort to include the perspectives of participants across the lifespan, interviews were conducted with elders, adults, and youth. Additionally, human services workers engaging tribal members in their work were able to provide professional perspectives. On average, individual interviews lasted a duration of 64 minutes, family interviews averaged 70 minutes, and focus groups averaged 57 minutes.

Data analysis As extensive ethnographic data was collected for this study, team-based, collaborative analysis methods were employed (Guest & MacQueen, 2008). For data processing, interviews and focus groups were transcribed, cleaned, and entered into NVivo qualitative analysis software. The data analysis team was comprised of the first author, as well as two Indigenous Ph.D. students (one from each tribe that participated in the study), and three non-Indigenous Ph.D. students (one of whom is the second author). These team members engaged in reconstructive analysis, a specific form of thematic analysis used for qualitative data, which proceeds according to the following steps: 1) arriving at a holistic conception of the data through repeated immersion in the complete transcripts; 2) using a consensus process across team members to develop a hierarchical coding scheme of codes and sub-codes; and 3) examining implicit and explicit meanings within the data through in-depth analysis of transcripts and codes. Cohen’s Kappa coefficients (McHugh, 2012) were calculated to assess interrater reliability – a statistic assessing the degree to which research team members agreed. Reliability among team members was extremely high (.90 or above). As both unifying and culturally specific themes were identified in the data, we have organized the results according to theme and tribe. The theme of family connectedness was coded across 156 sources (i.e., individual interviews, family interviews, and focus groups) and referenced 158 times. Broken down by tribe, this theme was spoken about by 64 sources from the Inland Tribe and referenced 76 times, and by 92 Coastal Tribe sources and referenced 82 times. More specifically, for the Inland Tribe, themes were reported across 39 female participants and 15 male participants, seven focus groups, and ten family interviews. For the Coastal Tribe, themes were reported across 44 female participants and 14 male participants, four focus groups, and 22 family interviews. The overarching theme of family connectedness included several sub-themes, and those coded most frequently are included in results.

Rigor To enhance the rigor of this study, in addition to providing interview transcripts, all participants who were able to be reached also received a summary of results and were given the opportunity to participate in member-checking by reviewing transcripts and results and suggesting changes. Many participants used this opportunity to elaborate upon their responses and extend interpretations, and no participant disagreed with interpretations. Results were also disseminated to the tribes more broadly on more than ten separate occasions through presentations and trainings provided to tribal agencies, tribal councils, and community groups. Throughout the data analysis phase, research team members met weekly for consistency checks, ensuring that participants’ feedback was incorporated into the research write-up. More than half of study participants (55.5%) were interviewed on more than one occasion.

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Results In our interviews with individuals and families, and conversations within focus groups, the words “close” and “family” were brought up together over and over again – a testament to the salience of this theme among participants across both tribes. This finding alone demonstrates participants’ perspectives that having a closely connected family is a sign of resilience and is considered an important component of what makes families healthy and strong. Within participants’ conceptualization of family connectedness, several sub-themes emerged that warrant consideration based on the frequency with which they were discussed: families “taking care” of each other, frequency of interactions, strong family ties, and extended family closeness. These themes increase understandings of how family connectedness is perceived across the two tribes, illuminating the ways in which participants experience a sense of connectedness to those they consider family.

Families “taking care” of each other Inland Tribe Even when asked about community strengths, a professional who worked in the criminal justice system replied, “It goes back to the same thing. It’s a family. The family ties everything together.” She added: I’m still close to my family. They’re family. . . . if I ever need somebody, I know that I can count on them. They’re all there for one another. I guess they’re cooking on the Sunday or they’re all there at the baseball, softball game. Everybody is trying to keep all the children in line and trying to support them. This participant’s remarks show not only how important the family system is to her idea of strengths within the tribal community, but also the caretaking roles family members fulfill for one another. When asked about what memories stood out about her childhood, this same participant replied, “Just the family being together. The tight-knit, and we still are.” Thus, connectedness was strongly maintained within her family throughout her life. This participant went on to describe their primary form of recreation as: “Taking a trip down south to visit family members. That’s all we basically did, was visiting families that are living out in other towns. Just going places.” Clearly, maintaining close family ties was highly valued by this participant. Another participant’s primary memories growing up were: Family. It was just the family gatherings. It was, you know, Grandma was the main cook, and everybody gets off work. Everybody gets the children from school. And everybody would just gather at Grandma’s house for supper. And we would play at, you know, with the cousins and then, you know, they would talk, and then it’s time to go home. . . . . We’re there every night. And then Sunday dinners when she, when we go to a church, my mom would be there, and they cook. Her comments emphasize the ways in which family members care for one another, by sharing responsibilities in the household, helping care for children, and being there for one another.

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Taking care of one another is a core role that family members perform for each other, in good times and in bad. One participant shared how her family members learned to step up in the face of losing a beloved family member, stating: When Mamma died this past year, we had our first get-together. And so, I  said, “Who’s going to pray?” To my brother, I said, “It’s your turn,” and everybody started passing the buck. They finally said, “Since you’re the eldest, you pray.” So, we do work together. . . . So, each of us know what our strengths are. I know that our brother, the older one, he gardens, like Mom and Dad used to do. And then he feeds us with it. . . . So, everyone kind of gives what they can. We share a lot. Her story illustrates how family members continue to be there for one another over time, taking on new roles as needed when the family system changes. A male participant emphasized, “Yeah. Everyone’s family. We’ll help each other when we need it. . . . Like I said, everybody feels welcome when they come here.” This quote emphasizes the commonly held perspective among Inland Tribe members that family connectedness is often demonstrated through caretaking among family members.

Coastal Tribe Caretaking roles among family members was a prominent topic of discussion related to family connectedness among Coastal Tribe members, as well. The act of caretaking was not only extended to blood relatives, but also to other community members with whom families shared strong ties. A grandmother in a family interview recounted what her grandson said recently, at a graduation: “ ‘Granny, this is my family. . . . He said, ‘You all my family. You all my true family.’ ” The participant went on to explain: Our family’s always taking in all the strays. People said that. It’s because we’re always open to help anybody. I mean it’s not just with relatives. My mom’s taken in family friends, some of my friends, you name it. Just whatever. We take in the strays. Like a stray dog or a stray cat. I don’t know if it’s just the way the closeness of our family. It draws people to us. It’s like I was explaining, we still a very close family. Some might get away a little while. We don’t hold grudges. When asked how their family became this way, the participant explained, “Mostly, my family was close. My mother and all. My mother took in two of her nephews. She took in my grandma. My grandma was living with my aunt. She would take in, too.” Another participant in this family interview added, “It’s almost like a family tradition with us. Taking in and helping people.” Taking care of each other was a common sentiment, and when it was reflected to one participant that her family seemed to do so, she replied, “The community, too. [The] whole community.” Thus, taking care of family members, as well as extending this care to other members of the community, was a shared value and a part of family connectedness among many participants.

Frequency of interactions Inland Tribe The frequency of contact with family members tended to be high among participants. One youth participant reported seeing her grandparents “every day” and living close to them. When 170

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she sees them, they, “Ride the [golf cart]. We, um, eat. We clean up. We just see wherever there’s to do. And then they take us out to eat and then we leave.” These everyday activities with her grandparents convey the regularity with which she spends time with them. This youth continued, “I got good grades,” adding that this was not easy for her and, “My aunt helps me.” Again, her comments illustrate the frequency with which she spends time with family members, engaged in day-to-day activities. This youth also mentioned what stuck out in her memory was: “My dad always taking us to church and always taking us for ice cream afterwards.” This youth found herself in an intricate web of support from parents, grandparents, and her aunt, with whom she interacted regularly. Another youth mentioned his fondest memories included, “Oh, hanging with my family.” When asked what his family does together, he replied, “Play sports, watch movies.” When describing his dad, he stated: “He’s fun. . . . He know I play basketball, so he’ll give me tips about it. My brother . . . he’ll give us tips about that because we all play sports.” Clearly, family members were a big part of this young person’s life.

Coastal Tribe Among the Coastal Tribe, living in proximity to one another seemed to be one of the key features that enabled families to interact with one another frequently, maintaining their connectedness. As one participant stated, My mom’s family lived further down here, and we were always at their house. You know with the brothers. Her brothers and sisters and uh, their children. That’s why we’re so close to them because that’s who we grew up [with] . . . So, we were close to Mom’s family. Living in proximity to family, even if only by marriage, fostered deep connection and closeness, as a participant recalled, “They were living next door. They were like sisters. They’d go trapping together. They’d go fishing together. They’d do everything together.” Oftentimes, a family member tended to host the family get-togethers that fostered closeness. As stated, “This is the main headquarters. They all come here if something goes on in the family. . . . Our family is close.” Sometimes family interactions would center around activities, such as fishing and hunting. One participant recalled their camp and her time growing up, remembering, “Always visiting family. It was always the family. We would bring my grandparents out there [to camp] and then other families would come out there. We would have people sleeping in the kitchen, just everywhere, everywhere.” Frequent contact with family members was facilitated by living close to one another and visiting those who lived farther away. Another participant shared her experience living on the same lot as her family and extended family. When asked with whom she was closest growing up, she replied, “About the same with all of them. My brothers, my sisters, my mom, my dad. I mean, I feel close to all of them.” This included her grandparents, as she explained, “We were closer to my dad’s mom because we lived in the same yard. My mom’s mom lived further, so we were closer to my dad’s family . . . in the same yard.” Her remarks show how living with or nearby her family members created strong bonds between them. Today, she continues to be close to her family, stating, “My kids are like my best friends, besides my sisters.” For fun, she said, the family goes on “Road trips with my family, my kids and my husband. My niece. My sister’s daughter. She follows us a lot. She’s 25. She has three little kids. They’re 6, 4, and 2.” Her niece’s kids spent a significant amount of time at her house, she explained, demonstrating their frequent contact. 171

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Spending time with family on a regular basis was also a source of joy for participants. When asked about joyous times in life, one participant replied: “All of the family being together . . . I enjoyed that. Mom and Daddy would cook, and then all the family would show up. I enjoyed that – all the family talking to each other.” Another participant mentioned she felt the most joy with family, as stated, “When we all together.” She added: My mom lives right across the road from me because she’s sleeping by my house every night. Then when my brothers come home, some of them come sleep with her by our house so she goes and sleeps home. She’s always by my house. Even when my dad was alive, they was by my house, back and forth. We never lost the habit. She added how her closeness with her brothers stemmed back to her infancy, recalling, “If one would cry, all three of us would cry. It was tight, close, real close. One would do something to one, while the other two would help the other one.” She affirmed she felt she had a collective family-based identity, identifying with her family as much as her individual self. Even today, she is close with her three brothers, as she stated: We bonded. Like my brothers, the last three, it’s like they [working] on the boat but every day I  talk to them. The one after me, every night he calls me and tells me, “Goodnight, I  love you,” and my other brothers, the little ones, they call. We just close. It seems as though this participant’s early experiences of closeness with her brothers fostered a lifetime of closeness among these siblings, maintained through daily communication.

“Close-knit” and strong family ties Coastal Tribe As one participant stated, “We’re pretty close-knit to where we stay all together.” Participants stressed connectedness with family over connectedness with friends, demonstrating how strongly tied to family members they felt. As one participant stated, “I just hang out with my family. I grew out of hanging out with friends. . . . It’s just mostly my family. I have get-togethers with my family and stuff, and I don’t really have friends over or anything.” She added, Yeah, and as far as me having somebody to turn to if I need something, I talk with my mom a lot. I talk to her on the phone maybe 20 times a day. She is just on the other side of the [body of water]. For this participant, strong ties with family members provided social engagement and support. Another participant emphasized the importance of families, stating: “Just being a part of each other’s life because you can be in the home and not be a part of each other’s life. I think just being involved with each other and everybody.” She also remarked on the importance of: “Just simple conversation, supper together, taking interest in each other.” Her comments show how strong ties between family members are maintained.

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Another participant explained how her partner did not experience family connectedness growing up but experienced that sense of connection among family members with her family and her. She explained: When he first moved in, we would all sit down to eat supper at the same time. He’s like, “Oh, you all sit down at the same table and eat?” He had never done that before. I’m like, “How could you not? Why do you eat supper without doing that?” That’s what we do in my house. We all sit down to eat supper at the same time because that’s when you talk. That’s how you talk about how your day went . . . and things like that. This participant’s story reveals how family connectedness was maintained through shared meals within her family, something her partner experienced with them for the first time. SIBLING SUPPORT

Sibling relationships were often crucial to family connectedness. One participant emphasized the closeness she felt with her siblings, stating, “It was me, my brother, my sister that was close, like we’re best friends.” A mother spoke about her children’s relationship: They’re close. You can’t talk bad about their sister. Oh my goodness. They will protect her for their only sister. And she’s like that for her brothers. You know, her brothers is her world. So, they’re very close. They always was. Another participant described how, in the absence of her parents, she was close to her siblings and their children: My sister and brother was still around. They didn’t live with us, but they was still around. My sister had kids that was almost my age. Her oldest daughter, me and her oldest daughter is like nine years apart. It’s like we used to talk, me and my niece, she’d say, “I can talk to you better than I can talk to my momma!” We were close to each other’s age. My brother was around, too. My momma had a sister that lived nearby. . . . I was raised in this neighborhood. Thus, aunts could provide instrumental support, offering alternative supports for children. Similarly, another participant stated that sibling support was instrumental, particularly in the absence of parents, “Oh, yeah. We [siblings] was close. We was close because we didn’t have a mama, so that made us close.” This statement shows how siblings could stand in for parents, creating a sense of family connectedness through their closeness with one another.

Inland Tribe One participant shared how her current partner’s family values were very important to him, which was a significant departure from her previous partner, stating: I notice he doesn’t talk down to me or he doesn’t talk bad about me. When it comes to my family, he’s family-oriented like I am. He’s close to my family. My mom and

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dad, he can call them and talk to them. It was different with my son’s dad. He lived with my mom and dad, and never talked to them. This participant relates how family connectedness was important to her and her partner, and he made efforts to form connections with her family. Still another participant spoke about how, despite coming from dysfunctional families, she and her partner have chosen differently for the family they’ve created together, explaining: You have two dysfunctional people, in a way, coming together. We had the same mindset and the same wants. For our future. For the future of our children. We had the same goals. The biggest thing was not to repeat that family cycle of mess. . . . He was willing to work on that with me, and I was willing to do the same thing to give our kids something completely different. . . . Even with my son; he’s raised my son. My son’s natural father is not involved. He’s raised my son; my son calls him Dad. The kids are very caring. They’re very aware of things, so there’s not really much of anything that they do other than do what they’re told. This participant also reflects how family connectedness was cultivated in her family, extending beyond biological connection. FATHER INVOLVEMENT

A participant noted that fathers’ involvement with their children has increased, stating: Something happened in, uh, as far as child-rearing, like the 80s, where all of a sudden, you know, husbands or, or fathers got involved. I don’t know what happened because when my dad was growing up, it was totally separate. He didn’t do any diapers or anything. But something happened, you know, and, and all of a sudden it was something that you did, too. As this participant notes, fathers became more connected to family life in recent decades. Another participant emphasized the role of a father in fostering connectedness through shared activities, stating: “So, every time an activity comes up like season change, sports change like basketball, they’ll [father and son] be out there shooting basketball . . . every day. . . . I mean, that boy, he rather have Daddy than Mama.” She added, “Where he never had a father growing up, but he is going to make sure that boy’s got a father.” This participant’s statements show how fathers have become more actively involved in their children’s lives, fostering a deep connection with them and breaking the cycle of uninvolved, disconnected fathers.

Extended family closeness The closeness of family was not limited to nuclear families; rather, tribal definitions of family seemed to be much broader.

Coastal Tribe As one family explained, “Good times would be big family gatherings, spending time with my cousins and their family. . . . Oh, grandma’s family, my mom’s whole family, they’re all great. 174

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Yeah, we’re a pretty tight-knit family.” Even cousins and extended family could grow up close. As stated, “They’re growing up real close. They call each other sister cousins.” Often, extended family members shared child-rearing activities. When asked who took care of her growing up, a woman in a family interview remembered, “Well, I had a cousin that was living with us. Mom was there, and I had a cousin that was older. . . . She was taking care of us.” When asked the same thing of her male partner, she stated, “His mom and his grandma, probably. Because he was close to his grandma. His grandma lived not too far from them, and they’d walk over there maybe three, four times a day.” Similarly, another participant related how she was very connected to her cousins, stating: So, growing up I’ve always had a small family, but my mom has a brother and a sister. My aunt has three kids, and her brother has two kids. So, there’s always a bunch of cousins and stuff like that. Then on my dad’s side, his mom was one of 13. There’s a bunch of cousins. Even though I was an only child, I always grew up around my cousins and everything like that. So, I was never alone, being an only child. Even today, this participant is close with her family, stating, “Really, we stayed close, relatively close to everyone in our family.” She added: To this day, my Grandmom on my mom’s side, on Sundays, we go eat dinner over there and just always have contact. My little cousins now, I’m the oldest on that side, so they all text me now for school or whatever, about advice and just things of that nature. We’re really a tight-knit family. These quotes demonstrate clear family connectedness among extended family networks.

Inland Tribe When asked about her family, a participant emphasized that even as adults, she and her family are close, stating: We get along. We still go on vacations. . . . We go as a group. Meet at a condo or two and everybody and their kids. The cousins get together. . . . I think the reason being because my mom and dad kept emphasizing the fact that no matter what, family is family. That when it comes to push and shove, the only people that you can depend on are your family . . . family always made sure we stuck together. The emphasis on maintaining connections to extended family members is clear in this participant’s statements. Another participant expressed how close her family was by explaining that all family members are equally valued. She stated: “In my family, we’re not allowed to really learn the names because we call our aunties and uncles hiya or uncle. We don’t say their names because everybody’s basically brother, sister, auntie, or uncle. There’s no separation. We try to keep everyone close.” Another participant shared that even after her loved one passed away, she felt his presence, stating, “Sometimes I, you know, I feel like he’s around me. I mean, I think Natives feel that way anyways. That he’s still around.” This participant’s experience shows how her conception of family transcends Western notions of a nuclear family by being inclusive of immediate and extended family members who have died. A male participant explained that he has a “Very tight 175

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family. Big family. My family is huge. . . . A big majority, and even if you’re not related, if you call yourself a [family name], you’re family. If you’re not blood, you’re still my family.” He added, “We have something in common, I believe a core value. I hold true to this, and you hold true to this, and that makes us together, blood. We’re brother and sister.” Thus, strong connections were felt among extended family members and kin networks based on a common value and belief system, rather than biology. Blended families were common, but did not have to mean fragmentation, as one participant in a focus group explained: I come from a big family. I have eight brothers, nine brothers, something like that (laughter). And, you know, they’re not – five of us come from the same mom, and the other four have four different moms, and so, you know, you just – yeah, they come from different areas, but nonetheless, they’re still your family. She added: Well, see, in that area was my dad, because he was like – he wasn’t gonna let us just grow separate, you know – he always had his time where he picked all of us up and we went out, we played softball, volleyball, basketball, or just go riding around, but all of us together, you know? This participant’s reflections show how connections were created and maintained within her blended family system. Another participant in a focus group explained: “Family stay family. It don’t have to be Mama or Daddy. Auntie or Uncle can, can become Mama and Daddy. That’s a strong, that’s a strong bond there.” When asked about joyful times, a man in a family interview stated: The joyous time that I, I  can look back to is, you know, enjoying times with my aunt . . . both my aunts and my . . . in-folks and stuff like that; but, you know, if I had to pick any joyous time . . . it probably would be the time when, you know, knowing my aunt didn’t have much to give, but she would give us everything she would have just to, just to please us. These participants demonstrate the importance of extended family bonds in providing support and joy. Because of the family-oriented nature of this community, a human services worker recommended addressing affairs in a family-oriented way. As stated, I think they want to handle things in a more family-oriented way. They don’t want to have the court system involved or anyone else involved. They’d rather handle it as a family instead of having outside people coming in and trying to tell them what to do.

Discussion The qualitative findings presented here shed light on how Indigenous Peoples across two tribes experience a sense of family connectedness. This study shows that family members experienced a sense of connection through family members “taking care” of each other, interacting with one another frequently, feeling strongly tied to one another, and being closely connected to extended family networks. Participants across both tribes shared experiences of family members 176

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taking care of one another, providing mutual support to one another. This theme revealed how strong connections between family members allowed them to rely on one another. Having family members act as an informal support system was particularly important, given the inconsistency of available effective supports through formal support structures like social services and family programs (Burnette, 2015a). Frequent interactions among family members also helped to foster a sense of connectedness, as family members were an important part of one another’s daily lives. Living in close proximity to one another contributed to the frequency of interactions among family members. When possible, family members stayed physically close to one another, which helped them to develop a deeper sense of connection. Importantly, the Coastal Tribe was still able to live in proximity to family members, though, due to coastal vulnerability and relocation, this ability was tenuous. The Inland Tribe did not as often live in such close proximity to family members, which was, in part, due to housing availability and federal programs. For example, the US Department of Housing and Urban Development allocated housing to tribal families based on a waitlist that did not consider the location of other family members (Burnette, 2015b). Through these programs, tribal members sometimes had to accept a house located away from other family members in order to receive housing at all (Burnette, 2015b). Participants also reported feeling “close-knit,” strong family ties. Participants in this research conveyed a belief in the primacy of family, which has been supported by other research with Indigenous families (Martin & Yurkovich, 2014). For one tribe, strong ties were experienced among siblings, and for the other, an increase in fathers’ involvement in their children’s lives helped to strengthen intergenerational ties. Family connectedness was experienced not only within the household, but across large extended family networks. Extended family members played an important role in one another’s lives, and participants often grew up and remained very close with cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and blended family systems.

Conclusion These findings confirm and extend upon previous research that shows that Indigenous Peoples view family connectedness within immediate and extended family units and across generations as a key characteristic of strong and healthy families (Burnette & Figley, 2017; Martin & Yurkovich, 2014; Red Horse, 1980; Robbins et al., 2013; Smokowski et al., 2014; Weaver & White, 1997). However, it should be noted that results from this inquiry cannot be generalized, and identified themes require further investigation across distinct contexts for a fuller understanding. Participants within these two Southeastern tribes highlighted the ability of families to adapt to, withstand, and transcend historical oppression through resilience, consistent with the FHORT (Burnette, 2017). It is important for professionals working with these populations to understand how important family connectedness is and how specific tribes perceive and experience that sense of connection, to work with Indigenous family systems in ways that are culturally congruent and strengths based. The findings from this study reveal several ways in which family connectedness is demonstrated and experienced among Indigenous families, which has implications for working with Indigenous families. First, findings show that when working with Indigenous peoples, family programs and interventions are needed, especially those that recognize the more inclusive conceptualization of family that Indigenous Peoples tend to experience. As family members play an important role in providing support and taking care of one another, a family systems approach to working with Indigenous Peoples is recommended. Additionally, these findings underscore the limitations of Western conceptualizations of family when working with Indigenous Peoples. Family 177

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connectedness within these two tribes was experienced within large extended family networks, as well as among community members who share no biological relationship. Thus, practitioners must allow for a more inclusive, fluid, and culturally congruent notion of family when working within Indigenous communities. Finally, family connectedness characterized by frequent interactions and strong ties should be considered a strength, rather than as a deficit or problem among Indigenous populations. While such a sense of connection may be viewed as enmeshment or co-dependency within non-Native populations, these findings attest to the ways in which a strong sense of connectedness among Indigenous families is experienced as a healthy source of strength, support, and resilience. Thus, family connectedness within Indigenous families should be promoted and nourished as a culturally specific strength and important aspect of resilience that may promote greater health and wellness.

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Family connectedness Smokowski, P. R., Evans, C. B., Cotter, K. L., & Webber, K. C. (2014). Ethnic identity and mental health in American Indian youth: Examining mediation pathways through self-esteem, and future optimism. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 43(3), 343–355. Tam, B. Y., Findlay, L. C., & Kohen, D. E. (2017). Indigenous families: Who do you call family? Journal of Family Studies, 23(3), 243–259. Weaver, H. N., & White, B. J. (1997). The native American family circle: Roots of resiliency. Journal of Family Social Work, 2(1), 67–79.

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12 COMMUNITY AND FAMILY SUPPORT ENHANCING THE RESILIENCE OF US INDIGENOUS WOMEN’S HEALTHCARE EXPERIENCES “They always took care of me” Jessica L. Liddell and Catherine E. McKinley Introduction Indigenous people experience significant health disparities such as a lower life expectancy and higher rates of many diseases, including cancer, cardiovascular disease, and diabetes (Indian Health Service [IHS], 2018; Jones, 2006). Indigenous women experience extensive health disparities (Gurr, 2014; IHS, 2018; Jones, 2006) and often have worse health outcomes than both white women and Indigenous men (Burnette, Ka’apu, Miller Scarnato, & Liddell, 2020). Indigenous women are at a higher risk for depression, anxiety, PTSD, suicide (Burnette et  al., 2020), postpartum depression (Baker et  al., 2005), maternal morbidity and mortality, and infant mortality (Gurr, 2014; Theobald, 2019). Additionally, little research explores which factors promote or undermine their health (Burnette et al., 2020; Canales, 2004; Gurr, 2014). Indigenous women have also experienced extensive reproductive oppression throughout their history, including coercive sterilization, barriers to accessing sexual and reproductive healthcare, and having children removed (Gurr, 2014; Liddell, in press; Theobald, 2019). Poverty and discrimination in access to and administration of healthcare services have contributed to these disparities (Burnette et al., 2020; IHS, 2018; Jones, 2006; Liddell, in press; Liddell, Burnette, Roh, & Lee, 2018), and family and community support may be vital for filling in resource gaps (Canales, 2004; Canales et al., 2011). Women may, in part, be disproportionally impacted because of their increased economic, social, and family responsibilities compared to men (Ciciolla & Luthar, 2019; Henderson, Harmon, & Newman, 2016). Theobald (2019) and Gurr (2014) documented how US health policies, despite not being focused on women, inadvertently had far-reaching consequences for the health of women. These health policies alternated between neglecting the healthcare needs of women and acting to control and restrict healthcare options. Indigenous sources of support, such as Indigenous midwives and healers, have frequently been discouraged and undermined (Gurr, 2014; Liddell, in press; Theobald, 2019). In spite of these barriers, Indigenous women have demonstrated resilience and have DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-16

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acted as leaders and advocates for themselves and their communities (Gurr, 2014; Liddell, in press; Theobald, 2019). Resilience, conceptualized as an individual’s, family’s, or community’s capacity to recover or bounce back following hardship or adversity, is increasingly being studied, yet infrequently used to understand healthcare experiences (Burnette et al., 2020; Burnette, Roh, Liddell, & Lee, 2019). Women’s resilience in recovering from and bouncing back from illness and negative healthcare experiences is an important component of understanding women’s health. Research indicates that Indigenous women use one aspect of resilience – their social networks – for support for a variety of health issues (Burnette et al., 2020; Canales, 2004). Feeling connected to and supported by one’s family and community is one key form of resilience and has been linked to being protective for health (Mohatt, Fok, Burket, Henry,  & Allen, 2011). Social support among Indigenous people is often comprised of emotional (e.g., companionship, advice, listening) and instrumental (e.g., financial, transportation, running errands, household maintenance) forms of support (Lee, Burnette, Liddell, & Roh, 2018). Indigenous resilience tends to be relational in nature (Burnette & Figley, 2017; Kirmayer et  al., 2011). Community resilience recognizes communities can respond to, adapt to, and bounce back from negative experiences (Burnette & Figley, 2017). This resilience features the importance of extended family networks, caring for and respect for others, generosity, and passing down knowledge (HeavyRunner & Morris, 1997). Elders often pass down this cultural knowledge, and cultural knowledge is a key component of Indigenous community resilience (Kirmayer et al., 2009). Despite the importance of social networks and community for Indigenous resilience and wellbeing, less research has explored how social support is protective or promotes resilience for Indigenous women in health contexts (Burnette, Roh, Liddell, & Lee, 2018; Lee et al., 2018; Walters & Simoni, 2002). Although an individual’s particular level of resilience is impacted by factors such as baseline hopefulness or optimism, family and community support and resources also impact resilience (Coughlin, 2008). Social support may be important for Indigenous women living in rural areas or in areas with limited healthcare services. These women may experience challenges not only related to healthcare infrastructure barriers, but may also be more vulnerable to social isolation following a healthcare issue (Doorenbos et al., 2010). The Indigenous tribe in this study is state but not federally recognized, which contributes to institutional barriers related to healthcare, as well as economic and political access to resources and autonomy (Salazar, 2016). Though the IHS has been frequently criticized in its provision of healthcare services (Gurr, 2014; Theobald, 2019), tribes that are not federally recognized do not receive any of the benefits and resources of federal treaty agreements to provide for the health of Indigenous people (US Civil Rights Commission, 2004). The majority of state-recognized tribes are in the Southeastern region of the United States, and many do not have land reservations (National Conference on State Legislatures, 2016; Salazar, 2016). Although spread out throughout the coastal region, community plays a central role for this tribe (Maldonado, 2014). Tribal members are often employed in fishing or the oil industry (Maldonado, 2014). The first language of many elders is a language other than English, and some do not feel as comfortable using English (Maldonado, 2014). Many tribal members use traditional Indigenous healers, though this practice has become less common, in part due to changes in the environment and knowledge not being passed down as frequently (Johnson & Clarke, 2004; Maldonado, 2014). Important tribal values include valuing community and family, being generous, extended family support, family closeness, spending time together, selfsufficiency, and self-advocacy, among others (McKinley et al., 2019). This research is one of the few known studies to address the healthcare experiences of members of this tribe. 181

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Purpose Sparse research has explored Indigenous women’s health experiences, and even less which factors explicitly facilitate or undermine the resilience of Indigenous women in accessing healthcare. Knowing what factors promote resilience allows for the development of interventions and programs that center Indigenous women’s needs. How tribal members use aspects of resilience – namely, family and community support – to address existing healthcare gaps and to provide for community wellness has been under-researched. The focus of this study is to identify the role of family and community support as aspects of resilience in the healthcare experiences of Indigenous women who are members of a Gulf Coast Indigenous tribe. The overarching research question was: what reproductive and sexual healthcare experiences do Indigenous women in this tribe describe? The specific research question addressed here was: what roles do two aspects of resilience – family and community – play in women’s healthcare experiences?

Methods Research design A qualitative descriptive methodology approach was used. This is a pragmatic form of naturalistic investigation frequently used in semi-structured interviews to explore health topics because of its focus on using low-level interpretation, maintaining cultural nuance, and using participants’ voices in research (Sullivan-Bolyai, Bova, & Harper, 2005). It is also a culturally appropriate and congruent approach to use with Indigenous groups (Burnette, Sanders, Butcher, & Rand, 2014). This approach prioritizes participants’ words over more abstracted understandings of experiences, and it is especially useful for producing findings translatable to interventions (Burnette et al., 2014; Sullivan-Bolyai et al., 2005).

Setting and participants Thirty-one semi-structured qualitative interviews were conducted with women who identified as members of a state-recognized Indigenous tribe in the Gulf Coast Region of the United States. Proof of enrolled membership was not required because of the extensive difficulties many tribal members have had historically proving their tribal membership (Cochran et  al., 2008). The identity of this tribe remains confidential due to research agreements with the tribal council and in accordance with advice when conducting culturally sensitive studies (Burnette et al., 2014). Participants were recruited through purposive snowball sampling. Inclusion criteria included being adult, female, and an enrolled member of the tribe. The age of participants ranged from 18–71 years (M = 51.71 years). The majority (87.1%) had either a general equivalency diploma (GED) or high school degree. Around half of the participants (51.61%) reported having some form of additional training or education following high school. Most (93.54%) reported having some type of health insurance. The majority (83.87%) reported having at least one child. On average, participants reported having 2–3 children, with their first child being born when the mothers were about 20 years old.

Data collection Approval from the university’s Institutional Review Board (IRB) was obtained, in addition to tribal council IRB approval. A  community advisory board (CAB) of two women tribal 182

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community members informed the development of interview questions. They ensured that the research approach and implementation was culturally relevant and appropriate, and assisted with recruiting participants and disseminating results. Example interview questions included: “Can you tell me about the last time you saw a doctor?” and, for women who had children, “Were any family members present during your labor and delivery?” and “If so, what role did they play?” The first author conducted all interviews after completing informed consent, and based on the CAB’s recommendation, interviewees were compensated with a $30 gift card to either Walmart or Amazon to thank them for their time. Interviews were completed at participants’ preferred locations and primarily took place in tribal community buildings and interviewees’ homes. Interviews occurred between October 2018 and February 2019. With participants’ permission, interviews were recorded and then transcribed verbatim. Interview length ranged from 30–90 minutes, with an average of 66 minutes. NVivo software (QSR International, 2015) was used in data analysis to analyze transcriptions.

Data analysis Qualitative content analysis, a form of data analysis often used in qualitative descriptive studies, was used (Milne & Oberle, 2005). Qualitative content analysis allows for theory to inform results, while also allowing for the emergence of codes related to participants’ voices (Milne & Oberle, 2005). The PI listened to recorded interviews three times before reviewing interview transcripts to develop a list of broad codes and themes. Following this initial process, more refined coding was performed to create a coding scheme made up of discrete codes (SullivanBolyai et al., 2005). Milne and Oberle’s (2005) strategies for encouraging high standards of rigor in qualitative studies were employed, including: (1) sampling that is both flexible and systematic; (2) facilitating participants’ ability to speak freely and openly; (3) accurate and verbatim transcription; (4) coding driven by participants’ actual language and experiences; and (5) centering context in analysis. In addition, member checks – whereby all participants who desired to be contacted following the study were provided with a summary of the results – were completed. The PI contacted participants and provided a summary of results to each individual participant at least two times. Results were also presented at tribal council meetings and other tribal events.

Results All women described the importance of community and family support when dealing with medical or health issues. The forms of community support most frequently described included: (1) tribal members as healers; and (2) community support with medical or health issues. Women also described the importance of family support, including: (1) support with medical or health issues; (2) taking care of ill family members in the home; (3) support during pregnancy and childbirth; and (4) family members as advocates. In the presentation of results, participants were given ID numbers to demonstrate how themes arose and were represented across participants, while also maintaining participant anonymity.

Tribal members as healers in the community Many community members described family members or community leaders bolstering women’s resilience by acting as healers. Many participants also expressed preferring to visit these 183

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community members instead of a formal medical facility or doctor. Participant 12 described how people would visit her grandmother to get medical care: So, people from everywhere would come to her. So, she was like a doctor. . . . So, she would treat [heal] them. She would get herbs and all kind of stuff and lots of times she would tell us, “Go by the steps and go pick up certain kinds of herbs.” . . . And then she would make them some medicine and stuff like that. . . . We would go to the doctor if it was something she couldn’t do. But most of the time it was her. . . . People . . . would come in their boats and stuff, because a lot of people didn’t have cars then. This woman assisted her grandmother in picking herbs to be used for treating community members. She said her grandmother took care of everyone, and people only went to the doctor if there was an issue she could not resolve. Participant 17 also described going to local healers when she or someone in her family was sick: When I was growing up, my mom did, they, um, believed in [local healers] more than doctors, then again, you know, like my mom and dad never had a car . . . they had, uh, uh, this old lady . . . and, you know, you would go get treated [healed]. We, we didn’t go to the doctors like we do now. This participant described her family’s preference for seeing local healers, but also identified an important barrier for many community members: transportation. This barrier highlights the importance of local healers when regular access to medical care might be limited. Participant 19 also recalled their mother providing home remedies: “I remember when I was younger, my mom used to always do home remedies for everybody. . . .” Though not all local healers were women, almost all participants described receiving some form of natural or traditional medicine from their mothers, even if this was done informally and their mothers did not consider themselves healers. Generosity, an aspect of Indigenous resilience, was also a central part of this tradition of local healers. Participant 30 recalled healers would generally not accept money for their services: And so, you pretty much just got treated, if you wanted to leave a gift, whether it was um, money or some other, you know, bushel of green beans or something like that, then they can do that . . . but you didn’t have to. Participant 1 echoed this norm of generosity: “My grandpa took on . . . a lot of people used to come cause he didn’t accept money, but he would accept coffee, sugar, flour, and rice.” Not only did these local healers provide an important service for the community, but they demonstrated generosity by not expecting community members to pay for services. These healers played a prominent role in the childhood experiences relayed by participants, and interviewees noted it was harder to find healers in the present day.

Community support with healthcare Participants also spoke about how community promoted resilience when dealing with the adversity of health challenges. Participant 11 described how important community support was for her recovery and resilience after experiencing a severe car accident:

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I had a lot of friends, family and friends, that came to the hospital that came to my house . . . it was a close community and we all like, it wasn’t really like I was gone because people were always coming over. . . . Um, uh, so I wasn’t left out of . . . I wasn’t isolated. . . . I was still involved in everything. It’s just people came to me. . . . Um, my, my uncle had got, um, rented out a whole hospital bed for me and put it in the middle of our living room, in our trailer. For this participant, community and family were instrumental in promoting her connectedness, sense of belonging, and resilience. Participants also spoke about seeing the norm of helping out community and family members when they would get sick, starting from a young age. Participant 19 described learning the importance of taking care of fellow community members who were ill: When I was very young, I just kind of watched to see what my mom and them would do about it . . . as I grew older, if I had somebody who was sick that was close to me, we would either go out to help . . . go to their home and help them with their kids, help them with their dinner, help them clean their house, whatever they needed. This participant described how a variety of essential supports could facilitate the recovery and resilience of women when they were sick, including visits, taking care of errands, and helping with chores around the home. This experience reflects tribal values that promote resilience, including being generous and taking care of family and community members. Participant 10 also described the importance of social support in caring for family members with medical issues: I think the sense of community is still super strong, even though we’re not in super close, tight-knit communities anymore . . . people always help each other out here, in the tribe, and so even if you don’t have like a brother or sister, you know, you have close family . . . like my grandmother . . . she had a stroke and she’s still paralyzed, so she can’t do for herself. She refuses to move out of her, her home. She wants to stay by herself. So, we let her stay by herself . . . [if we go travel] we don’t worry about it because people in the neighborhood will come and bring my grandmother food. They’ll come and check on her and they will fold her clothes or do whatever little “knickknacky” thing she wants around the house. This participant described feeling comfortable leaving their home because they could rely on the community to check in on and assist her grandmother with any of her needs. This quote also illustrates the importance of being self-sufficient and cared for at home, which was central for many tribal members. Instrumental community support was also described in promoting access and the ability of tribal members to get to and from medical appointments. Participant 21 reported this form of instrumental support: They [elderly community members] all have neighbors that’s got vehicles and stuff like this, so they can get help. They can run to the doctor. . . . Like I have a friend that’s going to the doctor today. She has [a] blockage in her legs, and she’s going for a procedure today, and she said, “Well, so-and-so’s going to come with me. So-and-so’s

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going to come with me.” And she just lost her husband a few months ago, and she’s by herself, and her kids live away. Although the woman this participant described did not have family close by, she had someone go with her to appointments because of the strength of the community. This finding reflects tribal values of taking care of community members and being generous and kind. Others echoed the importance of providing transportation and attending appointments as a form of community support, as Participant 22 described: My mom would bring them to the doctor. When I was growing up, it’s not everybody had vehicles. . . . We had [a] car. Our neighbors didn’t have no car . . . so anybody got sick, or need to go grocery shopping, my mom . . . we would take them. This participant described seeing her mother provide transportation to community members by getting them to and from doctor appointments. Despite existing barriers to accessing healthcare, such as a lack of transportation, community members demonstrated their resilience in tribal norms of taking care of these members. Women overall indicated community support was important for their own resilience and also for assisting other community members.

Family support with medical or health issues Family provided both instrumental and emotional support for tribal members when they were ill. Participant 1 recounted her family bringing her food and making sure she had enough to eat while she recovered from surgery: “So I had both of them [family members] bringing me food. . . . They take excellent care of me.” This participant recounted her children staying at her home to support her while she was recovering from a hysterectomy: “My boys took care of me . . . they came in and slept on the floor . . . one of them would sleep right there next to me because . . . you know, they want to try to do everything. And he said, you got to step on me. . . . It was like, those boys, they always took care of me.” Children supporting parents when they became ill was an important source of support many participants described and reflects tribal values of commitment to and supporting family members. Many participants described learning the importance of taking care of each other and family members from a young age. Participant 7 shared: When I was younger . . . I had a grandma that would come to stay with us a lot, and I’d take care of her. Then I had her sister that didn’t live too far, and I’d take care of her, also. They’d go to hospital. I’d go stay in the hospital with them . . . I probably was 13, 14 then. I was still young. But I did my caretaking a lot. A lot . . . I used to love to take care of my grandma. I’d take care of my old aunt, too. This participant reported fond memories of taking care of family members throughout her childhood. This interviewee described her role as caretaker in her family, emphasizing this role was something that began when she was young and continued into her adulthood: I was caretaker for both [my ex-husband and husband who passed away] . . . plus my dad. . . . My grandmother used to always tell me when I was younger, “You need to go be a nurse. You need to go be a nurse.” Now, my grandmother was a [healer] . . . and she wanted me to pick it up . . . but I didn’t. I didn’t get it. I should have picked it up. 186

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This participant appeared to have learned the importance of healing and caring for others from her grandmother and expresses regret she did not more formally take on the healing tradition in her family. Many interviewees echoed this sentiment, wishing these healing traditions were as common in the tribe as they used to be. Even when participants no longer had access to official healers in the tribe, however, participants frequently described the importance of taking care of each other. Interviewees described a variety of experiences where family members took care of them or they took care of others when they were sick or recovering from an illness.

Taking care of ill family members Many participants also reported a desire to take care of ill family members suffering from chronic ailments rather than having them in a formal healthcare setting. In part, many participants preferred this because they felt ambivalent or concerned about the quality of care they felt their loved ones might receive in a healthcare facility. Older participants in particular often described hospitals as where someone went to die. Taking care of a loved one at home was preferred to having family members remain in hospitals or other institutions, and it is congruent with tribal values of taking care of each other. Participant 7 described taking care of several family members throughout her life: And my brother . . . he flipped the big truck. . . . And he flipped off the bridge [be] cause he had an aneurysm. . . . So, he was, like, paralyzed and we had to . . . so that’s where I  learned my training, cause my sister was in the medical field  .  .  . and she took me in and we had to do the tubings [medical tubing used to administer fluids or medicine], set up the machines, and we had to feed him from the tubing and his meds from the tubings. . . . So, I had to learn everything. And then Papa had dementia. So, I worked in the home for over two years with him. . . . Though this participant did not have medical training initially, she described learning it from her sister so she could care for her two family members. This participant’s drive to receive formal medical training so she could take care of her family members was motivated by Indigenous values of having close-knit families and caretaking. Participant 3 recounted being told she would not be able to care for her husband at home and described challenging the providers who told her this: People in the hospital used to tell me that they did not think I could take care of him at home by myself. I just wanted to hit them . . . I said, “There is no way this man is going anywhere except to my house as long as I am there.” That is when the lady said, “I do not think you can take care of him by yourself.” What I heard her say in my upset state of mind was, “We are going to have to stick him in a nursing home.” That is what I heard. My anger was just . . . so, I took him home. . . . That is where he has been. This participant was determined to take care of her husband and not have him placed in a nursing home. Participant 7 also described their determination to take care of family members, even when hospital staff expressed concern about their ability to meet the intense caretaking duties required: It’s hard . . . but for my first husband, the doctors had told me . . . “You don’t have anything there. You just going to put him in a home.” And I told him I didn’t want 187

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to. He said, “You need to put him in a home.” . . . “If you want to take care of him it’s going to be rough.” . . . They said they didn’t think I could do it. Well, I’ve proven them wrong . . . I took care of him. He was bedridden for eight months. And I did it. And he was well taken care of. This participant’s motivation to take care of their family member may be driven by the strong values of caretaking and advocacy that exist in the tribe. Interestingly, Participant 7 expressed a desire to not have their own family members take care of them because of concerns they would be a burden on their family, despite their own willingness to take care of family members themselves, perhaps reflecting the value of being self-sufficient and valuing the wellbeing of her family: Because I know how hard it is. I mean, I’ve taken care of a lot of people, and I know . . . how hard it is. My husband had passed away, going to be four years in January. A lot of times at night I wouldn’t sleep . . . wouldn’t sleep but two and three hours. . . . I knew what I went through. I don’t want them to go through that. Although this participant was generous and caring for their husband, they were concerned about putting too much pressure on their own family members. Participants expressed a strong preference for taking care of family members themselves and taking care of them in the home, as opposed to having them be in a medical facility. These desires existed in part because of the long history of negative healthcare experiences reported by these and other Indigenous people, in addition to important cultural values related to caregiving and being generous with oneself.

Family support during pregnancy and childbirth Participants often recounted stories of family members assisting them during complicated pregnancies, during labor, or following childbirth. Participant 6 remembered her grandmother giving her medicine to keep her from miscarrying and described support she received from family when she was bedridden: Then my grandma, I don’t know what kind of stuff they’d ball [create a ball out of herbs, used for infusions or to press on injuries], [it was] suppose[d] . . . to prevent you from miscarrying . . . I had my mom, and then my oldest brother was always at my house. This woman attributed keeping her pregnancy to the support she received from her family. Participant 9 also recalled being put on bedrest and reported her family was instrumental in supporting her during that time: The last month and a half of my pregnancy I was on bedrest. They didn’t want me to do anything, because I was so sick. . . . So, my sister-in-laws packed up my house and moved me, and . . . unpacked everything in the new house. Many other women also described the importance of family support when they were pregnant or recovering from labor.

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Participant 2 described her family caring for her children while she recovered from her hysterectomy following a complication in pregnancy: My sister-in-law and her husband, when I was going through all of this and they kept my kids . . . for like three, four months . . . because like, when I, when they did the hysterectomy, they cut the urethra to my kidney. . . . Um, like I couldn’t hold her [new child], I couldn’t pick her up. I couldn’t do anything . . . and so when I was sent home, my Mama would get the baby and brought her home to us, you know, to where I was at. And she would put my son on the bus and in the mornings get him ready for school. When my dad was home from work, he would get him off the bus. This family support was instrumental for this participant while she recovered from her complicated pregnancy and included taking care of both her newborn and her older children. Participant 6 also reported the support her family provided when she was dealing with a sick child in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU): “[When at the hospital], my mom . . . she’d take care of them.” This participant depended on her mother to take care of her other children while she spent time with her ill newborn. Interviewees also described female elders from the community, along with family members, passing down knowledge of how to take care of themselves and what to expect when they were pregnant, during labor, and in raising their children. Participant 12 spoke about the importance of community when she was pregnant and how knowledge from the community allowed her to feel more confident about what to expect during pregnancy: I asked my mom [about pregnancy]. And my mom, every morning they had, the women in the neighborhood would always come to her house. . . . And they would drink that coffee and stuff like that. And I would ask them questions and stuff. This communal wisdom of women in her tribe promoted her resilience and recovery from the pregnancy and childbirth experiences. They provided knowledge beyond what a formal medical provider could offer, enabling her to feel more comfortable in asking questions from peers. Transmitting cultural knowledge is also a key component of community resilience and was important to this woman’s experience of her own pregnancy.

Family members as advocates Tribal members also described the importance of having family members as medical advocates, which is also congruent with tribal values of self-advocacy and taking care of family and community members. This often entailed being present at medical appointments or ensuring family members received appropriate medical care. Participants reported that the presence of friends or family members was needed not only to ensure patients received an accurate diagnosis and care but also ensured any communication issues, either due to language barriers or medical jargon, were mitigated. Participant 1 described acting as an advocate for her father after he had a missed cancer diagnosis: I get a call, my dad is going through a colonoscopy. . . . And come to find out he had cancer. And they had to do emergency surgery, and then they wanted to send my dad at home with hospice . . . and because of the cancer rate in my dad’s side of the family,

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I mean my dad’s one of nine, and all nine of them had cancer. . . . So, cancer is really bad on my side, and daddy would go to the doctor faithfully to make sure he was on top of everything and they missed and they missed it. . . . I was so mad. . . . I went to the doctor’s office to his doctor, they wouldn’t let me see him. I said, I’ll tell you what, I said, if I gotta make an appointment, I will see this doctor. I will pay to see this doctor. And he would hear what I have to say to him . . . what you did to my daddy, you allowed this to happen, because my dad put faith in you. And you didn’t even do it, the basic, 101, basic, preventative. This participant acted as a defender for her father and kept him from being separated from his family and placed in hospice, in addition to advocating for her father’s medical care. This participant demonstrated resilience, perseverance, and strength, despite the barriers set up to keep her from acting as an advocate for her father. This participant also noted how, in spite of a long history of cancer in her family, she continues to value her and her family’s health, and she is committed to taking action to protect their wellbeing. In her statement, the participant also noted some of the existing gaps in preventive medical care in her community. Participant 1 went on to describe ensuring her other family members regularly go see the doctor and get screened for cancer: And, so, my sister and I, my sister’s in her thirties, early thirties, and thank God she went because they pulled 16 polyps out of her. And, if that, she’d have waited ’til the age, at 50, she wouldn’t have made it . . . and, so, her and I, we both go to, we’d go regular now and every single time, there’s polyps being pulled from us. This participant encouraged her other family members to receive regular medical care because of their family history of cancer. Other women spoke about going with family members when they would visit the doctor to help make sure they understood what was going on. Participant 19 relayed: When I can go, I go. And the doctor says that, too. He says, “I need somebody there, so I can talk to you and so I can let you know what’s going on.” Because he’s [expartner] 69 years old, and he don’t understand, you know, what the doctor’s saying, so, we go and hear what the doctor’s got to say. The doctor can tell me in easier terms, so I can relate it to him, you know what’s going on with his body. This participant believed that it was important that she attend the appointment so she could act as a liaison between her ex-partner and the doctor, and make sure they understood each other. Some participants described even attending doctor’s appointments for their adult children, as Participant 24 discussed: “I go, and my daughter’s 25 years old, and I still go, if she wants me to go over there, I go . . . just to, yeah, be there.” Participants described taking on a variety of advocacy roles with family members related to receiving medical care and attending medical appointments. Themes of being resilient in the face of community and healthcare barriers and the importance of tribal values, such as taking care of each other and being generous, emerged throughout these findings. These results indicate family and community members provided important support for tribal members when they experienced medical or health issues. These services included both instrumental and emotional support.

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Discussion In the face of chronic health problems, inadequate healthcare access, and negative experiences with medical providers and healthcare facilities, these findings indicate that Indigenous women in this tribe are highly resilient. Family and community resilience was key for women in this study, and primarily took the form of family and community support. Resilience here is comprised of an ecosystemic view of interconnected interactions between individuals, families, and the community (Kirmayer et al., 2009). Reflected in Indigenous views of resilience, important tribal values motivate the actions of tribal members in taking care of their own, their family’s and community members’ health and wellbeing, such as values of being tight-knit, selfsufficiency, self-advocacy, and family closeness. Family and community support play a key role in supporting tribal members who are ill or recovering from sickness, in addition to providing support to women who are pregnant or in labor. Women indicated that community members provided both emotional and instrumental support for other tribal members, and this support allowed tribal members to stay in the community instead of being institutionalized. Instrumental support often came in the form of tribal members transporting family or community members to appointments or attending appointments and acting as advocates. Interviewees also frequently described their family members or other tribal leaders acting as healers for the community, either in formal or informal capacities, which is congruent with tribal values of valuing tradition and enculturation (McKinley et al., 2019), in addition to the importance of passing down cultural knowledge as a form of community resilience (Kirmayer et al., 2009). Participants also expressed concern that although family members continued to take care of each other, it was harder to get care from recognized healers in the tribal community. Women also indicated an important role they and other family members played was acting in the role of advocate when tribal members attended doctor’s appointments or interacted with medical institutions. It is important to note that, though women were not asked directly about resilience, themes of resilience arose organically when women described their healthcare experiences. These results offer insight into ways to promote resilience in tribal communities and indicate that community and family supports may fill gaps in the healthcare system. Considering health and wellbeing for many Indigenous people includes their social environments, these findings suggest that healthcare providers should incorporate and assess their patients’ family and community support systems, and interventions should attempt to bolster and use these systems. Promoting these support systems may be especially important among Indigenous communities because of the long history of inadequate and inappropriate healthcare services (Canales, 2004; Canales et al., 2011), and some Indigenous people have ambivalent emotions about accessing these services (Broome & Broome, 2007; Canales, 2004; Canales et al., 2011; Liddell et al., 2018). In some cases, formal medical services have been used to weaken these social support systems (Broome & Broome, 2007; Canales, 2004), which is especially concerning since social support has been linked with increased resilience for Indigenous people (Burnette et al., 2018, 2019). Women frequently described acting as advocates for their own health and wellbeing, and also advocating for others. This is congruent with research that shows women have long been resilient and involved in activism related to their own healthcare and health in the community (Gurr, 2014; Theobald, 2019). Women’s participation and input in healthcare programs and policies should be encouraged and facilitated, as women often know the specific healthcare needs in their communities. The long history of women acting as formal and informal healers

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in their communities should also be promoted, perhaps through community-led initiatives that promote teaching Traditional Knowledge to tribal youth. These results also indicate family and community play an important role in facilitating and promoting resilience and wellbeing for women’s health. Women often described turning to women in their family and community for advice and support, especially related to pregnancy, labor, and child-rearing. These informal support systems should continue to be valued and supported.

Limitations Though this study is unique in using resilience and a strengths-based approach to explore women’s healthcare experiences, this study is limited by its use of self-reporting and cross-sectional data. Future studies would benefit from interviewing women longitudinally. Interviews were also only conducted in English, which may have excluded elder tribal members who may not speak English as a primary language. It is also important to note that these results are not necessarily generalizable to other tribes.

Conclusion These findings have important implications for addressing healthcare disparities among Indigenous people in the United States. Importantly, these results indicate healthcare interventions should include community and family support. Studies with Indigenous cancer patients have found family and community support is linked with better health outcomes and higher levels of resilience, making it a promising area of future research (Burnette et al., 2019; Doorenbos et al., 2010; Lee et al., 2018; Liddell et al., 2018). Research also indicates Indigenous women prefer community and family support in healthcare contexts (Burnette et  al., 2018), further emphasizing its importance. Incorporating family and community relationships into healthcare may lead to better outcomes for Indigenous Peoples, and healthcare professionals may want to consider including these individuals in treatment plans when desired by their patients (Burnette et al., 2018, 2019). This is also consistent with this study’s findings, as participants described attending medical appointments to act as advocates and to better care for the needs of their loved ones. This is congruent with Indigenous models of health, whereby, in contrast to the Western model, health and wellbeing are often viewed relationally (Canales, 2004; Cochran et al., 2008). This is also consistent with the values of this tribe, whereby community, family, and individual resilience is comprised of strong connections and being close with others, among additional protective factors (McKinley et al., 2019). Resilience-focused health research for Indigenous people is infrequently employed, making the results of this study important for exploring ways to address the ongoing health disparities Indigenous people experience. Family and community support are important aspects of resilience, and the women in this study reported this support was key in facilitating their ability to recover from and bounce back from illness and healthcare barriers in their community. These results indicate not only that Indigenous women are highly resilient, but also that family and community support are key to facilitating and promoting health and healthcare access for tribal members.

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13 COLLECTIVE DISTRESS CALLS FOR COLLECTIVE WELLBEING MEASURES The case of social support as a resilience‑enabling Afrocentric Indigenous pathway Liesel Ebersöhn, Margaret Funke Omidire, and Motlalepule Ruth Mampane Introduction Collective distress is commonplace in highly unequal, post-colonial Southern Africa with people who are Indigenous to Southern Africa carrying the brunt of structural marginalization. Most Indigenous Southern Africans do not have support to access clean water, stable electricity, schooling options, and/or healthcare services. Indigenous values and belief systems are not considered in healthcare services. In Southern Africa, in the absence of structural support and in the presence of severe collective distress, an Indigenous social technology, flocking, that enables communal wellbeing has developed (Ebersöhn, 2019). Flocking denotes communal social support action for resource management aimed at communal wellbeing. Given the prominence of an Afrocentric other-focused ideology, namely Ubuntu, everyday responses to collective challenges often aim at enabling collective resilience. In Southern Africa, there are four broad groupings of Indigenous people, as indicated by home language: the Nguni, Sotho-Tswana, Venda, and Tsonga. Two of the groups are further divided into clusters. The Nguni are comprised of the Zulu, Xhosa, Swazi and Ndebele people. The Sotho-Tswana are comprised of the Southern and Northern and Western Sotho or Tswana people. These groups form about 76.5% of the population (Borchert, 2018). Among the Indigenous people, the philosophy of Ubuntu is widely known and acknowledged. Ubuntu is a Southern African philosophy guiding culture and lifestyle that emphasizes the importance of community and interdependence. Letseka (2012) explains that an individual’s humanity is expressed in relationship with others and socio-emotional responsibility to others: literally being your brother’s keeper. It is established that social support is resilience-enabling (Marriott, Hamilton-Giachritsis, & Harrop, 2014). In this chapter, however, we argue that social support (flocking) is an Afrocentric Indigenous pathway of choice. Resilience-enabling pathways constitute opportunities to access 195

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and mobilize available resources to buffer against adversity and support better-than-expected outcomes (Rutter, 2012). Pathways of choice are influenced by values and beliefs of culturally salient practices and outcomes (Ebersöhn, 2019) and signify a “comfort zone” of default ways in which to respond to adversity. Besides local, Southern African relevance, we propose that flocking behaviors can be a resilience-enabling strategy used globally to deliberately manage collective distress  – as has been evident during the COVID-19 pandemic. We propose that flocking, as familiar, tried-and-tested Indigenous social technology, can be added to a known repertoire of the fight, flight, freeze, faint, or swarm (Schmidt, Richey, Zvolensky, & Maner, 2008; Zolli & Healy, 2012) responses to challenges. Global distress requires alternative lenses to inform development agendas. When one considers that high levels of unemployment, poverty, and structural inequality are worldwide phenomena, it makes sense to consider evidence of strategies that foreground distress and wellbeing as collective endeavors. Current development options do little to promote equitable SouthNorth progress. In Angola, South Africa, and Namibia, for example, neither bureaucratic, statecentered, socialist forms of government nor market-driven approaches have been able to redress colonial legacies of inequality and exclusion (Jauch & Muchena, 2011). Rather, evidence of structural disparity, as espoused by Young (2001) prevail. The cumulative effect of the social positions of marginalized people, in comparison with others in similar positions who have more options or easier access to benefits, still mean that they encounter constraints to their freedom and experiencing material wellbeing. The global scourge of extreme inequality is starkly evident in South Africa. Here, poverty is mostly intergenerational because of colonialism and apartheid, as previously disadvantaged groups are trapped in a cycle of chronic poverty (Aliber, 2003). Without relevant and meaningful policies to redress structural disparity, chronic poverty and expected negative health outcomes are likely to remain. Addressing chronic and intergenerational poverty demands more than creating and redistributing resources. One way in which health and wellbeing policy could be relevant to promote equitable development – as demonstrated by better-than-expected health outcomes despite dire structural disparity – may be to consider cultural knowledge. Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKS) exist on collective social support to assist marginalized people to access sparse and unequally distributed resources in order to promote their quality of life. This cultural knowledge is evident in interdependent populations in Southern Africa (Ebersöhn, 2019), Asia (Flavier, De Jesus, Navarro, & Warren, 1995), Canada (Tait & Whiteman, 2011) and Australia (Gale & Bolzan, 2013). Embracing Indigenous Knowledge on supporting people in distress champions communitylevel responses. This stance places cultural conventions at the center of progress. It creates a development space where Indigenous people have the freedom to engage in progress using familiar strategies and where there is confidence, ownership, and pride in mobilizing Indigenous Knowledge to promote quality in life. Knowledge of prominent cultural beliefs and practices that habitually guide citizens’ responses might help to craft policy that could address structural inequalities that are deeply rooted in a colonial past. In other words, knowing how people who experience the brunt of marginalization have used their cultural capital to support one another intergenerationally to achieve unexpected outcomes may be useful for crafting relevant state-level pathways to more opportunities. In this chapter, we share the evidence of how people from Indigenous populations in Southern Africa use Indigenous Knowledge to provide social support in community-level responses to address identified needs related to health. The question directing this chapter is: how does community-level social support of Southern African elders and young people enable betterthan-expected health outcomes in the absence of public safety nets? 196

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Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKS) and flocking lens in social support Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKS) represent knowledge systems alternative to the dominant Western ways of understanding people and their environment (Odora Hoppers, 2008). Since IKS falls outside the dominant Western worldview (Hart, 2010), it is poorly represented in scientific literature, resulting in an inadequate understanding of certain non-Western contexts. Globally, non-Western societies are becoming more vocal about the need to document IKS. The rationale behind the outcry for IKS documentation is to readdress the incorrect and inadequate understanding of Indigenous environments, cultures, and people (Wilson, 2008). Several attempts to define IKS are visible in literature (Battiste, 2008; Goduka, 2012; Odora Hoppers, 2008). Odora Hoppers (2008) argues that IKS are the total knowledge and skills people possess and use to manage their environment in such a way that they benefit from it. IKS are embedded in Indigenous culture and originate from interaction with a specific environment over a long period of time. IKS are passed on from one generation to the next and evolve as the relationships among people – as well as between people and their environment – change. IKS appears to infiltrate every part of people’s existence as it forms part of their Indigenous culture, social structure, economy, livelihoods, beliefs, traditions, customs, customary laws, health, and relationships (Wilson, 2008). We use an Indigenous psychology theory, relationship-resourced resilience (Ebersöhn, 2013), as a theoretical lens to frame our argument. This theory proposes that people with interdependent (other-focused) worldviews use flocking as a resilience-enabling social support pathway for resource management to address resource scarcity and high need in spaces of extreme inequality and to promote better-than-expected outcomes for the collective. Flocking has both structural and cultural roots. Chronic structural constraints in a highly unequal context informed the intergenerational development of flocking as a resilience-enabling, interdependent, socioecological process. Culturally salient interdependent values predispose the choice of flocking as a relational pathway to resilience. Flocking requires culturally salient socio-emotional competence to maintain culturally valued relationships and retain access to this pathway to resilience (Ebersöhn et al., 2014).

Community-level constraints to positive health outcomes The growing challenges related to health risks in Southern Africa have a variety of devastating effects on individuals, families, schools, and communities. In this section, we discuss the structural roots of a community-level response to chronic and cumulative risk in a post-colonial space such as Southern Africa. We discuss non-medical (e.g., socio-economic risk, urbanization, equitable healthcare reach, and access) and medical health risks (e.g. diseases like human immunodeficiency virus [HIV], acquired immune deficiency syndrome [AIDS], and tuberculosis [TB]) that constrain the human and economic development of Southern African people and their families and communities. A study by Braveman, Egerter, and Williams (2011) documented the effects of social and economic risk factors on health and wellbeing as non-medical factors. Family and parental socio-economic factors (e.g., poverty, low education levels) compound a multiplicity of unequal environmental risk factors which children are exposed to (e.g., poor health services, low-income residential environments, inadequate schools and social services) (Braveman et al., 2011). Urbanization exacerbates socio-economic distress and has a vast impact on health in Southern Africa. According to a United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) report (2012), South 197

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Africa is the most urbanized country in Southern Africa, with more than half of South African children living in urban settlement areas with insufficient infrastructure for  – among other things  – clean water, electricity, and transportation. Health risks and challenges abound in heavily populated, urban informal settlement areas. Infrastructure and services are not keeping up with the fast pace of urbanization. People are likely to have high disease burdens, have less access to healthcare services, and generally have poorer knowledge of health-related issues. Children are not always fully vaccinated, and malnutrition is severe. The high level of air pollution is a major risk for acute respiratory infections, which are one of the major killers of children younger than the age of 5 (UNICEF, 2012). Equity in health represents more than only equal access to health services. Equity is closely related to human rights, and carries a nuance of social justice. Equity in health represents the right to health in the form of physical and mental wellbeing, which is important in overcoming the effects of being socially disadvantaged (Braveman & Gruskin, 2003). Another equity issue is that many support interventions do not reach the groups they are intended for. Children, for instance, are required to present a birth certificate and their parents’ death certificate to qualify for such interventions, but often these documents are not available. Equally important, schools in remote areas are usually not aware of the interventions available, the procedures to attain them, or the children’s rights. The very children whom the resources are directed at are usually overlooked in programming. A context of high vulnerability to multiple risks signifies high need for support and begs for accessible mental health services and psychosocial interventions, yet factors related to affordability, proximity, and cultural relevance mean that access to mental health services remains a challenge in South Africa (Williams et al., 2008). To promote access, services in South Africa were decentralized to rural areas (Petersen et al., 2009), yet addressing cultural relevance in psychosocial interventions remains problematic. HIV, AIDS, and associated diseases (especially TB) continue to be a huge impediment to human development, economic growth, and poverty relief in much of Africa. The direct costs of HIV and AIDS, which are already substantial, are likely to be overshadowed by the indirect costs related to loss of income and decreased productivity (Cross & Whiteside, 1996). Furthermore, Southern Africa has the greatest number of recorded TB cases in the world, including elevated TB and HIV and AIDS coinfection rates, which together with inadequate and expensive treatment, remains a challenge (New Partnership for Africa’s Development, 2016).

Social support as resilience-enabling response to community risks Social support is a complex concept and has many definitions based on the perspectives of different authors and contexts. However, most definitions include notions of belonging to a mutually beneficial social network with rights and obligations for community members. Cohen (2004, cited in Sippel, Pietrzak, Charney, Mayes, & Southwick, 2015) sees social support as psychological and material resources provided by a social network for supporting an individual’s ability to cope with stress. Social support requires conversing and interacting with someone experiencing a problem and providing information on probable solutions, along with other resources needed to cope with the problem (Gumani, 2014). This suggests that people who have received high levels of social support from either friends, family, or community may experience lower stress and are better able to cope than people who have not. Contextually, the multidimensional nature of social support has been explained by (Sippel et al., 2015) as structural support, the size and frequency of social interactions within a social

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network; functional support, an individual’s perception regarding the emotional and instrumental needs obtained from social interactions; emotional support, the behavior showing feelings of comfort because of the care and love received from others; instrumental or material support, which focuses on solving practical problems through goods and services; and informational or cognitive support, whereby individuals are guided through the provision of relevant information needed to cope with current problems, understand the problem, and adjust to any changes that may have occurred due the problem itself. Despite these categorizations, the success of social support is contingent upon the bond between its source, type, and timing, as well as the needs and level of the individual, groups, or communities involved (Sippel et al., 2015). Social support inconsistent with the extant needs of the people involved will not be effective or helpful (Bonanno & Diminich, 2013). Therefore, the types of social support provided change continuously, depending on the nature of the risks – and hence, determine the effectiveness of coping. It is known that social support at the levels of both families and communities enables resilience (Marriott et al., 2014). Social support received from one’s community can contribute to resilience in the individual, to such a degree that coping strategies adopted by one community can strongly influence another community to prepare for and handle serious events and conditions. Supporting this assertion, Sippel et al. (2015) noted that social support can be linked with resilience through different psychological and behavioral mechanisms. Relevant mechanisms include adopting healthy behaviors, shunning risky behaviors, using the right coping strategies, experiencing increased self-esteem, conceiving difficult problems as easy to deal with, and having feelings of being understood. Community social support policies and programs that encourage good and affordable housing, the provision of food, access to healthcare, disaster readiness, physical exercise, and relaxation centers also strengthen resilience (Sippel et al., 2015). In the face of chronic adversity, lack of holistic interventions involving care and support, limited quality service access, and limited provision of services, many Southern African communities in high-risk contexts are forced to provide their own forms of coping. Chronic risk and adversity often run deeper than are visible on just the surface, and often require addressing by means of care and support on a psychosocial level. Psychosocial care and support often include Indigenous Knowledge Systems that are in contrast with the dominant Eurocentric and Western worldviews. Understanding, acknowledging, and mobilizing these existing Indigenous systems and practices is essential for coping effectively with adversity and high risk (Odora Hoppers, 2008).

Methodology Case selection and participants sampled This comparative case study draws on participatory reflection and action (PRA) (Chambers, 2013) data from a Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund (NMCF) study on Indigenous pathways to care and support in extremely challenged Southern African contexts; spaces with major inequalities in living standards and access to resources (Dados  & Connell, 2012). Regional partners who assisted by providing access to research sites in the reported study include the Red Cross, Lesotho; Save the Children, Swaziland; Church Alliance for Orphans, Namibia; Albertina Sisulu Special School, Gauteng; Diaz Primary School, Eastern Cape; Sepanapudi Traditional Authority, Limpopo; and Emmang Basadi Advocacy and Lobby Organisation, North

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Liesel Ebersöhn et al. Table 13.1  Overview of the sample of participants Regional case

Older men Older Younger Younger Men per Women per Elders per Youth per Total per women men women region region region region region

Gauteng (GP) Swaziland (SD) Limpopo (LP) North West (NW) Lesotho (LS) Eastern Cape (EC) Namibia (NM) Totals

16 21 16 5 8 5 7 78

37 29 27 20 6 14 29 162

16 19 9 3 10 8 7 72

26 11 31 8 10 12 20 118

32 40 25 8 18 13 14 150

63 40 58 28 16 26 49 280

53 50 43 25 14 19 36 240

42 30 40 11 20 20 27 190

95 80 83 36 34 39 63 430

West province. We leverage comparative participatory reflection and action (PRA) case study data generated with a snowball sample (n = 430: men = 150, women = 280) of elders (n = 240) and young people (n = 190: men = 72, women = 118) with a dominant African home language (Siswati, Sepedi, Sesotho, Setswana, Afrikaans, isiXhosa, Otjiherero, Oshiwambo) in seven severely socio-economically challenged urban (n = 3), peri-urban (n = 2), and rural (n = 2) Southern African sites. The target sample was older and younger men and women from Indigenous populations in urban and rural settings of extreme adversity in Southern Africa. We excluded young people under the age of 18  years. Based on consultation with NMCF partners, we operationalized younger people as between 18 and 30, and older as older than 30. Indigenous was operationalized in terms of regional ethnicity, as indicated by Indigenous home languages. As indicated in Table 13.1, there were seven (n = 7) sites in four Southern African countries (Lesotho [rural]; Namibia [urban]; Swaziland [rural]; and provinces in South Africa: Eastern Cape [urban], Gauteng [urban], Limpopo [peri-urban], and North West [peri-urban]). The sample has an oversupply of cases in South Africa, and excludes Indigenous perspectives of Indigenous people from spaces of social advantage. During each of the regional data generation sessions, everyone convened in the same venue – usually a community center. Participants were asked to self-classify in terms of age and gender groups (Indigenous older women [OW], older men [OM], younger women [YW], or younger men [YM]). Lesotho and the North West and Eastern Cape provinces in South Africa were underrepresented. Older men’s and younger men’s groups were smaller than their female counterparts.

Data collection Based on consultation with a reference team, a content expert, and regional partners, an informed consent form, demographic questionnaire, and PRA questions were developed to explore traditional care and support strategies, which were translated into regional languages. The PRA questions elicited communal conversations on Indigenous care and support to people in need. The PRA questions posed to groups of participants at each site were: (1) what would you do traditionally when a neighbor or friend is in need?; (2) write down what children need at which times in their lives to grow up happy; (3) who is responsible for providing all the different care needs of children, and why does this person play this specific caring

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role?; and (4) share examples of types of traditional care that are bad or not good for people. Discuss examples where traditional care and support are not good for people’s happiness and wellbeing.

In-case and cross-case analysis During a five-day session, the research team of six coders developed initial codes on psychosocial care and support practices. In-case analysis included the thematic analysis of all PRA group presentations and visual data. Cross-case analysis followed, with the aim of comparing regional cases regarding African psychosocial support practices. Reflexivity during consultation enhanced confirmability.

Ethical considerations In line with the University of Pretoria’s policy, ethical approval was obtained prior to any engagement with the participants. An informed consent letter was discussed with participants. In cases when researchers were not conversant in a regional language, translators co-facilitated the informed consent process. Participants who could not read or write provided verbal consent.

Results: social support to enable collective positive health outcomes Across sites and genders, participating Southern African elders and young people explained that healthcare was viewed as a collective endeavor whereby all – at one time or another – experience vulnerability, and that everyone pitched in to help each other experience health and wellbeing. Themes on collective health enablement include: Afrocentric views on collective health enablement, providing hands-on assistance to those in need, and Afrocentric-relevant care and support.

Afrocentric views on collective health enablement This theme includes culturally salient existential values and beliefs that underpin collective health enablement responses. In this theme, other-focused, interdependent group existence (spiritually and physically) is viewed as a continuum. The interconnected belief is that a person is born because he/she is needed and similarly dies because the ancestors need him/her. So, death and birth fulfill a particular need, and during life and death, the way in which one responds to the need to be “there” (living or dead) is greatly valued. It follows that participants cherished being needed by others. Similarly, participants prized being able to respond to need. Assisting those with health needs was obvious – and not providing support inconceivable. The following vignette illustrates how the existential ebb and flow of need, help, and meaning in life plays itself out during social support: It is when a person is needed. It is our view in Setswana that a person that is born, in the end, he will have to go (die). This is why we had the definition that a person is needed when they are born. . . . They are identified, we need them on earth, and they are needed by the dead. (NW-OM)

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Hands-on collective health enablement: monitoring wellbeing and providing hands-on care and assistance Afrocentric beliefs and values on collective distress and wellbeing become observable in instances of care and support practices. The theme of hands-on collective health enablement includes: (1) mechanisms to monitor the health status of significant others (indicated as neighbors); (2) home-based care and assistance; (3) financial and transportation assistance; and (4) spiritual care and support for those with health needs. Participants were vigilant in monitoring the needs and wellbeing status of community members. Instances in this regarded were evident among the different age groups and genders at five sites: Eastern Cape, Limpopo, Lesotho, Namibia, and Swaziland. In their daily lives, people would be on the alert to observe where they may assist one another (EC-YM). “If my neighbour is sickly, I must check on him daily so that if he needs help, I must assist him” (LP-OM). In instances of illness, it was customary to provide hands-on healthcare in each other’s homes – be it assistance with house chores, cooking and cleaning, bathing a patient, or overseeing medication adherence. According to young women from the Eastern Cape, North West, Swaziland, and Lesotho, cleanliness acted as medication to weaken whatever virus may be attacking the sick (EC-YW, SD-YW, NW-YW, and LS-YW). Elders were vocal about patterns of home-based care to others. Whereas older men from Lesotho mentioned that: “We assist such people by bathing them and washing their clothes” (LS-OM), older women from Namibia also indicated the provision of house-based care for the sick. “We give food; we look after the person by washing him/her. Because different diseases attack people, some cannot even help themselves, more especially single parents with young children; we help by cooking for the patient” (NM-OW). Participants provided financial assistance so others could access healthcare. The young men from the Eastern Cape reported assistance in the form of looking out for the afflicted person and using their own medical benefits to assist others without such benefits: “When he is sick, it’s our duty to look out. If he needs a doctor, we sign (using our medical aids) for him, we avail our medical aid scheme” (EC-YM). Although legally, medical aid is provided as a resource for one person or family, individuals treat medical benefits as a pooled resource that can be mobilized to assist others – a clear example of flocking as collective wellbeing in response to collective distress. Participants explained how they mobilized transportation to enable access to healthcare. Younger men in Namibia: “You assist them, take them to the nearest health care centre” (NMYM). Several elders described their fundamental role in assisting those in need of health care with transportation: When he is sick, or one of his family members is sick, . . . we assist by taking [those] . . . who are sick to see the doctors where they will get medical assistance. It might be at the clinic or the hospital, wherever they will get appropriate help. (LS-OM). [And] if [they are] very sick and need an ambulance, I will get an ambulance to take [them] to the hospital (LP-OM). [We] accompany [the] sick person to hospital/clinic. We choose one woman who volunteers to accompany the patient to the clinic. That’s how we assist as community so that the person concern[ed] won’t go alone (EC-OW). As with providing bedside support and assisting with access to healthcare services, there was also evidence of hands-on spiritual support to friends and families in need. Men and women 202

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made use of prayer for spiritual support. Whereas older men shared that “When sickness befalls our neighbour we bring them a word of prayer and hope . . . and hold a short service and pray for them so that they know they are not alone” (LS-OM; EC-OM), younger men stated that: If a couple breaks up or they have a fight? So, we looking into a prayer guidance where the neighbour prays with the kids and have a spiritual moment with the kids that even if your mom and dad are not together, this is how life is and this is how you prosper. (NM-YM) Also, younger women indicated that: “We can also encourage them by prayer. When we go as neighbours and conduct a praying session that is how we can help encourage them” (NWYW), and “What we do is that we try to pray, you know, give that emotional and spiritual strength to that family so that they can be uplifted and it’s easier for them to go through that pain” (NM-YW). Generally, older women seemed silent about prayer. However, in Namibia, it was only older women who mentioned prayer as way in which to support others in need: “we also go to the churches to speak to the elders of the church or to the pastor just to give moral support to the person” (NM-OW); “if you know your neighbour very well and the death occurs, you go to your neighbour and give them your spiritual support; luckily, from our church, we got a wonderful . . . we used to have a wonderful pastor” (NM-OW).

Afrocentric-relevant care and support This theme includes instances demonstrating how people ensured that the healthcare they receive mirrors who they are – be it by including knowledge and practices on traditional medicines or for nutrition. There was evidence of the use of African traditional medical treatment across the age groups and genders at five of the seven sites: Eastern Cape, Limpopo, Lesotho, North West, and Namibia. It was apparent that participants drew on traditional African knowledge on food and nutrition to support positive health outcomes: I believe that the foods we eat these days are the reason we suffer from many illnesses. Because we no longer eat wild vegetables, we are prone to illness. When your friend gets sick and you start giving him/her those vegetable[s], you help build his/her immune system and she/he truly becomes better. (LS-OW) It was also evident that participants valued including traditional African medication and practices to support positive health and wellbeing outcomes. Whereas older women noted how they balance the use of African and Western medicine: “OK, but why don’t you try this medication?; why don’t we go to a traditional healer somewhere or come, let’s go to the hospital” (NM-OW), a young Namibian man indicated that “you provide the sick with traditional medicines prepared from the recipes of the old people” (NM-YM). Including African medicine in healthcare was emphasized in descriptions of caring practices during childbirth. A qualified midwife, usually elderly women with a number of years of successful deliveries (NM-YW), would be called at the start of labor pains. After delivery, the new mother would be given special dishes, “lipitsa” (extracted from herbs and roots), with properties 203

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believed to restore nutritional body substances lost during delivery and meals that could help her to produce adequate milk for breastfeeding (NM-YM).

Discussion Illness targets vulnerability and vulnerability is rife in Southern Africa. Here, as in many other post-colonial countries, vulnerability remains the highest among Indigenous populations who continue to experience structural inequities. Where vulnerability is high the need for healthcare and support is similarly high – especially healthcare that supports positive health outcomes. Healthcare can benefit from understanding existing Afrocentric Indigenous support practices. Results of this study show that collective distress and collective wellbeing are core existential assumptions from an Afrocentric position. Afrocentric beliefs are that there is no shame in need, and that there is significant pride in helping. Inherent in this philosophy is acknowledgment that distress and wellbeing are collective. Need, vulnerability, and assistance target everyone throughout the lifespan. Appreciating that both need and wellbeing are collective in nature informs an Afrocentric way of care responses. Evidence in this study showed how a philosophical position on collective distress and wellbeing plays out in hands-on support to those in need – be it prayer, house chores, or resource sharing for financial aid and transportation. It was furthermore evident that care providers ensured relevance and inclusivity in healthcare provision. Those who gave the care realized whom they were assisting. They incorporated relevant knowledge and practices on African medicine into healthcare practices, as the recipients of the care were African. A collective wellbeing position assumes inclusion of both African (Indigenous) and Western practices. This is especially the case when the primary beneficiaries of healthcare – those with the highest levels of vulnerability – are African (Indigenous). In this regard, others found that including spiritual support and the use of traditional medical treatment benefited positive outcomes in healthcare (Gonçalves, Lucchetti, Menezes, & Vallada, 2015). Given the unequal distribution of services and resources, elders and young people (regardless of Southern Africa region, structural disparities, or cumulative needs) drew on socio-cultural strategies to respond to the many structural disparities and challenges experienced daily. In all the responses, the participants responded with collective, social support strategies to buffer their collective against health challenges and buoy collective health outcomes. Health was prioritized as a need, which is not surprising when one considers that in 2016, the number of South African people living with HIV was an estimated 7.03 million (Statistics South Africa, 2017), many of whom lived in poorly resourced communities. Despite the high prevalence of HIV, TB was the leading cause of natural deaths in 2014 (Statistics South Africa, 2017). Diseases such as HIV/AIDS and TB often affect people in high-risk contexts, as they do not have access to healthcare resources. Despite high need for healthcare access to and resourcing of healthcare remains problematic. According to the general household survey of 2011, 61.2% of the general South African public had access to public clinics, 9.5% to public hospitals, and only 2% of the public had access to private hospitals (Statistics South Africa, 2017). The Southern African Development Community (SADC) region is also affected by a shortage of healthcare professionals which, according to Crush and Pendleton (2011), is exacerbated by skilled professionals leaving the region to obtain a better quality of life. The scarcity of healthcare professionals in many instances has led community members to rely on social support and traditional medicines to enhance their health and wellbeing. The Policy on Quality in Health Care for South Africa (National Department of Health, 2007) confirms this lack of resources and indicates resource constraint as a problem 204

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to providing quality healthcare, and accordingly includes strategies to increase health-related resources and improve the quality of existing ones. Some policy and practice is already informed by Afrocentric knowledge. For example, the Policy on Quality in Health Care for South Africa (National Department of Health, 2007) highlights the importance of community participation in improving the overall health status of the population, which to an extent correlates with the identified hands-on collective health enablement strategies. Other examples include a government-funded HIV/AIDS awareness campaign, titled Kohmanani; trained healthcare workers providing household care; and a community healthcare initiative, called Woza Moya, which trained identified primary caregivers to use health toolkits and include culturally appropriate tools and training partners in communities to provide psychosocial support. Although these examples exist, they were not mentioned in the data from this study, raising questions about whether socio-culturally relevant initiatives actually reach Indigenous populations with high health needs. The silence aligns with discourses on significant gaps between healthcare policy and practice in Southern Africa (Matikanya, James,  & Maksud, 2006). Thus, although healthcare is included in policy agendas of civil society, development partners, and governments in Southern Africa (Matikanya et al., 2006), the mode of delivery remains problematic.

Conclusion Findings from this study may be useful when considering healthcare policy and practice in Afrocentric communities. Policy developed to support Indigenous Afrocentric people can build on a tenet that, philosophically, community members would be eager to participate in care; will have structures in place to identify needs and provide home-based assistance; know how to find and mobilize relevant resources to assist access to healthcare; use Afrocentric knowledge on medicine, food, and nutrition to support health outcomes; and revere the value of spiritual support. Policymakers and program developers can include these themes to capitalize on ordinary community resources and support healthcare that is informed by Indigenous Knowledge. The strategies that work for Indigenous people could be effective more broadly. In a time of widespread challenges, such as the COVID-19 pandemic, much of the responses to manage resources in a resilience-enabling response did mirror the Afrocentric Indigenous response of flocking. On a global level, governments shared models of healthcare, caucused on solid economic reform strategies, and placed collective restrictions on global citizen rights. At the country level, nations constituted changes to policy on welfare and unemployment to support multitudes facing disaster. Towns and cities changed leisure and employment practices to benefit communal health and wellbeing outcomes. Families and friends used social media to remain socially connected, albeit while physically distanced. These alternative platforms and adjusted practices all scaffolded collective responses to serve as a buffer against communal shock. COVID-19 responses were not self-protective and self-promoting. In this way, responses reflected Afrocentric Indigenous Knowledge on care and support. The collective wellbeing response worldwide to address COVID-19 thus shows the global value of Indigenous Knowledge. Capacity to respond to future widespread distress is enriched by including Indigenous Knowledge of, for example, flocking to harness collective resources to promote collective wellbeing and respond to collective distress. Indigenous Knowledge of Indigenous responses to distress broaden the bouquet of choices policymakers, healthcare professionals, and development agencies can tap into for valid alternatives when they respond to need. 205

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Pursuing Indigenous Knowledge is not “just” about the local space, but also has global relevance. It is not about understanding how and who people in Africa are in order to help “them.” Pursuing Indigenous Knowledge is about understanding how knowledge (often marginalized) from Indigenous people matters for health and wellbeing globally. Indigenous Knowledge is acknowledging that knowledge which is alternative to mainstream thinking enriches “us and others” – whoever the “us” or the “others” may be.

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14 THE ROLE OF LAUGHTER IN THE RESILIENCE AND WELLBEING OF ALASKA NATIVE ELDERS Jordan P. Lewis Introduction As an Alaska Native who grew up around family, friends, and Elders, I was raised around the sounds of laughter, being teased, having optimistic outlooks on life, and sharing stories of resilience and successful aging. I have fond memories of my Elders and family sitting around the kitchen table sharing stories over tea, smoked fish, and aqutak (Alaska Native ice cream), and laughing late into the night. As a child, my cousins and I would tease our moms because our parents would visit and laugh all night, but now as adults, we find ourselves at the kitchen table visiting and laughing late into the night. Looking back on those childhood evenings, I believe we teased our moms because they seemed to spend more time laughing than talking, acting like little kids who found everything funny. It did not make sense to us why you would visit only to laugh until you were crying. These visits taught me the importance of finding joy in life, the value of communication, the healing power of laughter, and nurturing relationships with your family and community. Being raised in a commercial fishing family in Bristol Bay, Alaska, fishing nets are a critical tool to our way of life and livelihood. Periodically, nets needed to be repaired because a fish, or another object, tore through them, leaving a hole in the webbing. These holes allow fish to swim through and escape. Some Native Elders know the art of mending fishing nets and use new nylon string to pull together the webbing, creating a stronger net. They carefully examine the tear, think of how to mend it so it is a stronger net, and their hands work swiftly with the twine to mend the broken strands. The fishing net, as a metaphor, consists of different strands of nylon string that represent the characteristics and values that enable us to be resilient and healthy. For purposes of this chapter, these strands represent laughter, humility, optimism, humor, strength, and passion. All of these strands woven together create a foundation for healthy living and remaining resilient in times of stress or disruption. The holes in the net are the stressful events that damage our web of resilience, making us vulnerable to stress. With repairs from our community, we are able to mend our nets to become whole again, stronger, and more resilient. This chapter focuses on the “laughter” strand of our nets, which is a critical source of optimism, resilience, connection, and coping; when this strand breaks and we are not able to laugh, the surrounding net strands are loosened or damaged, and our ability to remain resilient and age successfully is weakened. DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-18

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Laughter is a universal expression (Wood & Niedenthal, 2018) used to convey feelings of joy (Hofmann, Platt, & Ruch, 2017) and maintain relationships and connections (Dezecache & Dunbar, 2012), as well as serving as a protective factor for mental health and wellbeing (Kalaivani & Rajkumar, 2017). Laughter is a common characteristic of Alaska Native and American Indian people, and one that portrays an image not always associated with Alaska Native or American Indian Peoples, families, or communities. Based on a decade of research with Alaska Native Elders, this chapter explores the role of laughter in successful aging and how laughter is used to cope with challenges we face as we grow older and help us age successfully. The chapter concludes with a summary on the role of laughter among Indigenous populations and its role in their resilience and wellbeing.

Figure 14.1  Photograph of Dr. Elizabeth Fleagle, Iñupiat, of Fairbanks, Alaska, USA Photographer: Sarah McConnell, of Fairbanks, Alaska, USA, 2020

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The Alaska Native context Alaska is the northernmost US state. It is disconnected from the US mainland and shares a border with British Columbia, Canada. Today, Alaska’s diverse Native Peoples remain a strong presence and much of Native culture is still practiced across the state. In many areas of Alaska, especially rural villages, Alaska Natives hunt, fish, and gather plants for subsistence and continue their traditional cultural values, practices, and beliefs passed down to the younger generations through stories and leading by example. Alaska Natives living in cities, such as Anchorage or Fairbanks, have connections to relatives in villages who share Native foods. It is common to see celebrations and ceremonies practiced in communities and many of the Elders are making an effort to pass on knowledge of traditional activities (such as hunting, gathering, survival skills, ivory and wood carvings, beadwork, and kayak building) to younger generations. Many of the cultural values and beliefs of Alaska Natives are similar to other Indigenous Peoples across the globe – for example, the value of caring for your Elders, teaching the youth, respect for the animals and land, respect for others, and sharing what you have. These values may be universal, but what makes Alaska Native cultures unique and distinct from others is the strong relationship to the land and the interdependent relationship between the people, family, community, spirituality/religion, and the land. Most of our traditional songs, dances, spiritual beliefs, creation stories, sources of food and wellbeing, and sense of identity originate from our relationship to the land. The relationship to the land is an important aspect of American Indian and other Indigenous people’s identity and wellbeing, but Alaska Natives’ relationship, I believe, is also survival-based, given the harsh environment of Alaska. A second distinction is the recent history of Alaska with the missionaries, boarding schools, and introduction of Western ways of being and living. The State of Alaska is a young state in comparison to the Lower 48 United States, and this history means many Alaska Native Elders are old enough to remember when they first met a non-Native person, were introduced to electricity and television, and witnessed the changes in community structures, governance, and ways of life as the Territory of Alaska became a state.

Alaska Native elders – achieving eldership A particularly important distinction in the later life role for Alaska older adults – shared with many other American Indian groups – is that of Elder. In this chapter, “Elder” is capitalized to differentiate between these two roles. In Indigenous communities, community and family members respect their Elders, and this cultural convention distinguishes those who have lived traditionally, engaged in healthy behaviors, taught others, and served as an integral part of their community and as role models (Lewis, 2011). The Indigenous conceptualizations of an Elder are not Western, nor based on chronological age, but rather based on lived experiences, Traditional Knowledge, and their commitment and passion to teach the future generations. Living in a society that is youth-oriented and fears growing older, the lessons passed down from the Elders I have visited differ from what US society teaches us. For example, I have learned they may not be conscious of their own aging until someone asks them about it or they realize their family and community refer to them as an Elder. I learned they do not fear growing older; they embrace Eldership because growing older is a gift that is denied to others.

Successful aging Although the concept of successful aging goes back more than 50 years (Butler, 1974; Baker, 1958; Pressey & Simcoe, 1950), the term received only minimal use until popularized in a 1987 210

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article in Science by John Rowe and Robert Kahn, who argued that what many viewed as effects of aging were, in fact, effects of disease. They proposed that people aging successfully would show little or no age-related decrements in physiologic function, whereas those aging normally would show disease-associated decrements, often interpreted as the effects of age (Strawbridge, Wallhagen, & Cohen, 2002). Rowe and Kahn’s (1997) definition of successful aging is based on the biomedical model of aging and focused on three components: low probability of disease and disease-related disability, high cognitive and physical functional capacity, and an active engagement with life. This definition, which served as the basis for other research on successful aging, was criticized as being less focused on the entire person and the person’s physical and social environments (Strawbridge et al., 2002). This definition has also been criticized for being overly biomedically deterministic, not taking into account the whole person (e.g., emotional, spiritual, cognitive dimensions). Even though Rowe and Kahn’s (1997) model is the most widely used approach to successful aging by researchers and psychologists, it fails to address the implications of the fact that a disease-free older age is unrealistic for most people. Bowling and Dieppe (2005) state that while the biomedical model emphasizes absence of disease and the maintenance of physical and mental functioning as the keys to aging successfully, sociopsychological models emphasize life satisfaction, social participation and functioning, and psychological resources. In order to capture the complete picture of successful aging, all aspects of the individual’s life need to be considered, including physical, emotional, cognitive, and spiritual dimensions. There is very little research on American Indian/Alaska Native Elders and how they define a successful older age; nor is there is a well-accepted definition or explanatory model of successful aging for racial and ethnic minorities. Developing a definition of successful aging that includes the perspective of older adults would be useful. “First, the perceptions of older adults may help researchers develop their own definitions of successful aging. Second, the knowledge of older adults’ beliefs would improve the ability of providers to offer patient-centered care” (Phelan et al., 2004, p. 211). According to Jeste (2005), there are difficulties in studying successful aging. For example, there is no agreement on the nomenclature – let alone the definitions and criteria – for this concept. The terminology used includes not only successful or healthy aging but also productive aging, effective aging, aging well, robust aging, and positive aging. However, none of these terms is entirely satisfactory, because they all suggest that people who do not meet the specified criteria have somehow failed to age successfully. In addition to the absence of rigorous definitions of what it means to age successfully, there is very little research on Indigenous Elders and how they subjectively define a successful older age. The lack of a definition of successful aging for minorities risks labeling them as aging less successfully than their nonminority counterparts. As an Alaska Native gerontologist and cross-cultural community psychologist, I have spent the past decade exploring Alaska Native Elders’ understanding of successful aging (BrooksCleator & Lewis, 2019; Lewis, 2011, 2013a, 2013b, 2014a, 2014b; Lewis & Allen, 2017), translating those lessons into programs and services to help others age successfully, and share with the youth to help ensure they will age successfully (2011, 2013a, 2014a). My research with Elders across Alaska highlights the elements of successful aging among Alaska Natives, which consist of community engagement, physical health, spirituality, emotional wellbeing, family, and Native way of life, or engaging in subsistence activities, arts and crafts, and passing down cultural values and beliefs (Lewis, 2011, 2013a, 2013b, 2014a, 2014b, 2017). Gerotranscendence, whereby a person shifts their “perspective from a materialistic and pragmatic view of the world to a more transcendent one, normally accompanied by an increase in life satisfaction” (Tornstam, 2011, p. 143), is also a key element of successful aging for Alaska 211

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Native Elders. One of the foundations of Alaska Native successful aging that supports the elements discussed earlier is laughter, which Elders described as being the most important because without this mindset, their ability to age well would not be possible.

The five strongest strands of the successful aging net To provide more context on Alaska Native successful aging, the following section will briefly discuss the strands in the net of successful aging and provide direct quotes from Alaska Native Elders. These strands include emotional wellbeing, community engagement (generativity), physical health, spirituality, and Native ways of life (gerotranscendence). Emotional wellbeing is a key element of successful aging. The wellbeing of elders is highly impacted by contextual factors, including their living environment, family, traditional foods, physical health, and religion. Being able to age in the place where elders were raised is highly associated with positive emotions. The importance of place was expressed by this Elder: “I love it here. I was born and raised here. I like the quietness. I love the clean air and the ocean. I love the birds.” Community engagement (generativity) is another element. Sharing, giving, and receiving support, and social engagement, was important for successful aging. Sharing includes giving away subsistence food, recipes, knowledge, skills, guidance, and comfort throughout challenging times. An Elder shared, “Passing on what I know, being able to share this and not holding it back. If we hold everything back, we won’t age well; we won’t be healthy.” Physical health is also important. A holistic approach to health was expressed by many elders. This includes “exercise, maintaining, keeping healthy mentally, physically, [and] spiritually.” Another important strand is spirituality. Religious or spiritual beliefs were helpful in accepting and managing health challenges. One Elder shared, “you’ve got to believe, whether it’s God or a higher power, or in other people.” The fifth strand is Native ways of life (gerotranscendence). These traditional ways were being passed down by Elders to family and community. One participant shared, “They pass down things to you and you’ve got to pass it on down to your kids, everything you learned. Where you learn is your home. That’s where you first start, from you, your parents, grandparents, elders. You pass that on.” Laughter is woven throughout each of these strands of successful aging and without its presence, each of these strands would be weakened. The following section will discuss laughter, its impact on health and wellbeing, and its role in helping Elders age successfully.

Laughter People use laughter to communicate positive emotion and signal friendliness and playful intentions (Mora-Ripoll, 2011). Laughter also indicates that one is in a nonserious frame of mind, and not taking oneself too seriously. More recently, researchers have suggested the purpose of laughter is not just to communicate that one is in a playful state, but to actually encourage others to laugh, as well (Owren & Bachorowski, 2003). Laughter is infectious, and when you are surrounded by others engaging in laughter and humor, it is difficult not to join in, or find a smile spreading across your face as you listen to their stories and remember your own funny stories. Some scholars have found that Native humor is considered a spiritual tradition by certain Indigenous Peoples (Garrett, Garrett, Torres-Rivera, Wilbur, & Roberts-Wilbur, 2005), meaning laughter has a healing force in their lives. The many forms of laughter and Native humor are situation dependent, including teasing, stories, songs, dance, art, and cultural symbols (Garrett 212

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et al., 2005) – for example, laughing with your cousins while they tease you about your childhood nickname, laughing during storytelling because the story is both funny and instructional, and laughing alongside Elders as they perform silly songs and dances. These forms of laughter assist with healing, bringing family and community together, and teaching everyone to find the humor during difficult situations as a coping strategy. Alaska Natives, and other Indigenous Peoples across the globe, have experienced a history of trauma, abuse, exploitation, and violence at the hands of others (Brave Heart, Chase, Elkins, & Altschul, 2011; Duran, Duran, Brave Heart, & Yellow Horse-Davis, 1998). When these topics arise in conversations, they may bring up feelings of pain, trauma, and deep sadness. In some situations, these topics may be met with discomfort and further discussion halted with an awkward laugh or joke to redirect and change the topic from one of embarrassment or discomfort to one of healing and sharing. Despite atrocities and losses, Elders maintain an optimistic outlook on life and continue laughing (Lewis, 2013; Lewis & Allen, 2017), which is a testament to their resilience (Garrett et al., 2005). A conversation about boarding school trauma provides an example that illustrates the use of laughter to shift the focus to healing. One Elder shared the atrocities they experienced during their time at a boarding school; the sexual abuse, mental and physical abuse, and disconnect from their family, Native language, and foods. These stories are punctuated with laughs and jokes to either ease the trauma to the listener or reduce the impact of the trauma on their own lives. After sharing their story, the Elder shifted their conversation to the unforeseen benefits of their experiences: the friends they have maintained since boarding school and the government efforts to bring awareness and resources to the survivors, as well as the funny stories from the boarding school that made the day-to-day trauma bearable. Despite the trauma and abuse, the Elder’s ability to use humor to cope during times they did not think they would survive enabled them to begin their healing journey and be able to share these stories without breaking down. Elders continue to experience challenges and losses. Laughter helps them cope with stress, recover from illness, decrease their feelings of anxiety and discomfort, and overcome disappointment or loss (Garrett et al., 2005). Laughter is one of the fundamental character strengths and virtues proposed by Peterson and Seligman (2004), which makes the human condition more bearable by sustaining good cheer in the face of stress and adversity, fostering and strengthening social bonds and interactions – all of which enable people to remain resilient (Radomska, 2011). By modeling the ability to continue laughing, family and community are learning how to use humor and/or laughter when faced with difficult situations. They do not forget or reduce the impact of what happened, but focus on the lighter side of the situation, laugh about it, reduce any negative feelings, and process the situation later. While Alaska Native Elders do not directly report that laughter contributes to their health and ability to age successfully, studies have found that laughter positively impacts physical health across the lifespan. For example, different physiological effects of laughter have been reported, such as decreasing pain, strengthening immune function, mitigating stress, and improving social support (Bennett & Lengacher, 2006; Mora-Ripoll, 2011). Laughter can also decrease levels of stress hormones, and is theorized to buffer the effects of stress on the immune system, resulting in improved bodily functions, a stronger immune system, and an elevated mood (Bennett & Lengacher, 2006). Individuals with a greater sense of humor report less depression, exhibit better immune functioning, and experience fewer respiratory illnesses (Mora-Ripoll, 2011), which contribute to their ability to age successfully. For example, I visited with an Elder who has physical limitations that impact her ability to walk long distances or engage in many subsistence activities like berry picking. When she is not able to walk the distance to her favorite berry patch, she gets frustrated when she has to stop and rest, but then laughs because she notices she 213

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sat in the middle of a large berry patch and fills her bucket while sitting there. Her ability to laugh reduces her frustration with the physical limitations she experiences, as well as improving her mental health. A few studies within the successful aging literature have discussed laughter as one of the contributing factors to a person’s ability to age successfully (e.g., Baskin & Davey, 2015; Pace, 2013). Several studies have demonstrated laughter’s impact on mental and physical health for older adults (Mora-Ripoll, 2011; Penson et al., 2005; Savage, Lujan, Thipparthi, & DiCarlo, 2017; Yim, 2016), which may contribute to their ability to buffer the impact of aging-related changes to their health (Marziali, McDonald, & Donahue, 2008), thus enabling them to age successfully in their own terms. The positive psychological impacts of laughter include decreased levels of depression and negative emotions, and increased positive emotions. Laughter reduces feelings of tension, anxiety, hatred, and anger (Bains et al., 2015; Ko & Youn, 2011; Takeda et al., 2010) among older adults. It also improves relationships and strengthens connections with family and community (Takeda et al., 2010), all of which are key elements of successful aging (Lewis, 2011). Alaska Natives have varying traditional practices and ceremonies around death or passing on. During these times of mourning and loss, family and community come together to support the family and share food and stories, as well as laughter. During these difficult times, laughter can be heard, and funny stories shared. The sharing of a laugh brings family and community together, remembering the happy times, reducing the sadness and negative emotions for that moment, and celebrating life. The use of laughter by Alaska Native Elders is distinct from other ages, and I would argue there are generational differences in the use of laughter. Laughter is also an attachment behavior for babies and young children, creating a bond with their parents (Nelson, 2008), and youth engage in laughter when they are silly, tell jokes, spend time with friends and family, and have fun (Nelson, 2008). As we grow older, the use of laughter for joy and happiness remains the same, but laughter may take on new functions, such as relieving tension and stress (Kuru & Kublay, 2017). Laughter in adulthood may be a result of having fun, spending time with family and friends, joking with others, and coping during stressful times (Kuhn, Nichols, & Belew, 2010), especially when they step into the role of new parents or experience a loss, divorce, or trauma. Laughter may also be a result of positive life changes, such as birth of a child, starting a new relationship, or career milestones. In addition, as we age, the reasons we laugh and what we find funny changes, so our patterns and reasons for laughing change across the lifespan (Rothbart, 1973). Laughter has been used by Alaska Native Elders and has supported their ability to age successfully and remain resilient. Over the years, I  have learned how Alaska Native Elders use laughter in conversation to protect themselves, including redirecting conversations, practicing humility, taking away the power of stressful topics, and sharing happiness and laughter with others. These laughter types are the different strands in the fishing net, and when they are woven together, they create a strong net that withstands adversities and stress and can be repaired by others in our lives who weave in a new strand and strengthen our net. These types of laughter are not exhaustive and not representative of all of populations, but can provide insight that can assist with future work on laughter, resilience, and successful aging.

Laughter and redirecting conversation When asked personal or invasive questions that may elicit unpleasant memories, Elders may laugh uncomfortably to redirect the conversation, to make light of the question, or to avoid 214

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giving an answer. This type of laughter differs from other types of laughter in that it may be quieter and less jovial and bubbly. It may not always be recognized as a laugh because it is short and quickly followed up by a comment that the question is not a good one, or they look away and have no follow-up comments. When sharing stories of successful aging and bringing up events in their life that have shaped their journey, follow-up questions about their life story may result in a laugh and no answer. In these situations, Elders may not feel comfortable sharing more details, they may feel shame or fear, or they may not be ready to share their story until they have healed. They will typically provide a short answer and not provide additional details that might lead to follow-up questions. Laughter can be used as a healthy way of placing distance between themselves and the problem or topic being discussed (Garrett et al., 2005). Laughter may also be a polite and indirect way of redirecting the conversation because they do not feel the question or conversation topic is important or relevant to their experiences. Following their laughter will be a short discussion about their current physical ailments and past poor health behaviors (e.g., smoking, drugs and alcohol, not eating a traditional diet) to discredit themselves. Laughter may also be used throughout a conversation to ease tension when they experience stress. They may not wish to stop or distract from the conversation, but laughing during a stressful discussion reduces the physical arousal and takes the power away from the situation, reducing their stress (Yim, 2016). When you can laugh at an event or topic, you are not reducing its importance in your life, but rather encouraging others to laugh with you. Being able to reduce the impact of an event decreases the feelings of stress and anxiety, enabling you to create distance and have time to process the event at a later time. This use of laughter prevents Elders from being controlled by their physiological response to stress and helps them gain mastery of their feelings in the moment (Freud, 1928). The use of laughter also enables people to look at the stressful event from a different perspective, and when sharing their experiences, they are able to reframe the situation, making it less threatening. Sharing negative events experienced earlier in life brings healing to Alaska Native Elders, and may also help others avoid similar experiences. While these experiences may be difficult to say out loud to another person, sharing it brings people together and the laughter woven throughout the difficult story is a teachable moment. These Elders are also modeling how they use the power of laughter and finding the silver lining – to heal and become resilient as they age.

Laughter and humility As mentioned previously, in my research, we work with Elders nominated by the community as respected Elders, and when they learn they have been nominated to share about successful aging, they laugh it off because they do not identify as an Elder. One of the key characteristics of an Alaska Native Elder is humility and not talking about oneself and one’s accomplishments. Part of this humility is the commitment to lifelong learning and realizing that we never stop learning. Therefore, they do not consider themselves an Elder because they are still learning. Elders are those people older than us who have a lifetime of knowledge, cultural values, language, and commitment to sharing with others; every Elder has a role model who they look up to as their Elder, so when Elders hear this title, they laugh and refer me to someone else with more knowledge because they do not view themselves as an Elder. When I asked for their advice on successful aging as someone viewed as an Elder, they laugh because they do not want to acknowledge they have stepped into this role for their family and community. For some, this acknowledgment forced them to think about their changing role 215

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and responsibilities now that they have achieved this status. They reflect on the Elders they knew growing up and what was expected of them, and they model their behaviors after them. They also do not believe they have the lived experiences, Traditional Knowledge, or cultural values necessary to pass down. They do not believe they have lived with the same integrity and knowledge their Elders had when growing up.

Laughter and stress There is the saying, “have a sense of humor,” indicating that making jokes of current circumstances may help individuals overcome stressful situations (Leist & Muller, 2013). Many Alaska Native Elders have endured stress, anxiety, abuse, and trauma in their lifetime, and some have adapted and learned to cope through different strategies. For many Elders, the ability to age successfully is possible because they have been able to manage stress with healthy behaviors, including laughter, spirituality, social support and connections, and reconnecting to cultural beliefs and practices (Lewis & Allen, 2017). Elders share stories of strength and resilience, but also stories of trauma and abuse that pushed them to their limits and placed doubt in their ability to parent or be a productive and respected community member. These stories of hardship included struggles with addiction, domestic violence, homelessness, or trauma related to boarding schools, culture and language loss, and family loss (Hamby, Schultz, & Elm, 2020; Reinschmidt, Attakai, Kahn, Whitewater, & TeufelShone, 2016). They laugh out of fear of the changes they have witnessed that differ from the lives their Elders lived, including technology, dietary changes, climate change, increase in mental health and substance abuse challenges, and more community members adopting Western lifestyle behaviors. One Elder I  have known for several years shared a story about the food preferences of his grown children and grandchildren. One fall, he harvested a moose and told his son to come pick up his share of the meat. To his surprise, his son passed on this generous offer and let his father know his family was purchasing beef at the grocery store, which his own children preferred. While disappointed and worried about the health of his family in eating store-bought meat, after the initial shock, he laughed and let me know there was now more moose for him and his wife. Another Elder shared with me the lack of understanding of history and Native ways of life by the young children in his community. He spoke of a time he spent with his granddaughter and they were talking about four-wheelers and snow machines, and that she wanted one when she was older. The Elder shared that he used a dog sled as transportation when he was younger, and his granddaughter was unfamiliar with them, so they used his smartphone to look at photos of sled dog teams. These two stories illustrate rapid socio-cultural changes, the concern among the Elders, and the importance of these topics of conversation in many Alaska Native communities. While Elders wish to maintain connections to traditional ways of life, they are recognizing the need to weave together the traditional with modern cultures and embrace these changes. When these topics came up in discussions, they would laugh to defuse the tension in the conversation, but also to highlight the fact they had survived these adverse events. These stories stay with me long after my visit; they haunt me, but they also fill me with awe and admiration as I think of the Elders’ strength and will power to heal to become leaders and healthy Elders. In some situations, the events being shared may still threaten their wellbeing. Using laughter and making light of the situations turns them into something less threatening that can be laughed at, alone or with others (Martin & Ford, 2018). This does not prevent them from facing the event, or remove its power; rather, it enables them to address it when they are ready. The 216

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use of laughter shifts perspectives by placing the event in a different, or neutral, context, and provides time to determine the best course of action to process and begin the healing journey. Using laughter in these situations promotes self-efficacy and gives the Elder control over the situation, as well as the ability to manage stress (Marziali et al., 2008).

Laughter and connection While laughter can be used to manage stress and assist in the healing process, it is also a social lubricant and brings people together. The birth of a grandchild, marriage of their children, college graduations, a high school basketball team winning a game, or a fruitful subsistence season are all reasons to be happy and celebrate with family and community. The previously discussed forms of laughter are more forced or less genuine, used as a coping or avoidance strategy, whereas this form of laughter comes from the pit of the stomach, echoes across the room, and dances in the soul. Literature highlights laughter’s numerous benefits, and when shared among others, it creates an atmosphere of sharing and coming together as a community (Martin & Ford, 2018). Whether you have known each other your entire lives, or are meeting for the first time, laughter creates a way to break the ice and establish a bond. Laughter and feeling connected strengthens our desire and commitment to making contributions to the community, participating in activities, and helping others in the community (Shah & Marks, 2004; Yim, 2016). We laugh and feel connected. When Alaska Native communities host gatherings and celebrations, the sound of laughter fills the room. As a participant, I always had an overwhelming feeling that I would soon be a part of the community, immersed in a story filled with laughter and teasing. As a newcomer to one of these gatherings, you may experience teasing, but only because they “tease the ones they love” – and this is their way of showing you respect and acceptance into their family and community. When you are sitting in the gymnasium for a basketball game or a community feast and you catch the twinkling eyes of an Elder who is laughing, you feel the connection; you are drawn to the laughter, and while you hesitate to smile back, the Elder waves you over to join them and introduce yourself. One of Interior Alaska’s respected Native leaders was a very traditional man who was raised on the river by his mother, hunted and fished his entire life, and was a supporter of Western and traditional education. He was a guest in our home a few years before he passed. While we were enjoying a cup of tea, we gave him a colored sugar crystal stick to sweeten and stir his tea, which turned his Lipton tea blue. Before we could explain why it happened, a huge smile spread across his face, he let out a hearty laugh with twinkles in his eyes, and he turned to my partner and said, “See, like I always say, ‘white men are good for something.’ ” This was his way of teasing my partner, as well as approving of the tea and the new ways things are done, such as using sugar crystals. My partner took this as a compliment and also felt accepted by the Elder and part of his family. Laughter removes some barriers, judgments, and differences that exist between people, and soon the room is filled with people who have shared a laugh and swapped stories. For example, when I was conducting research in my home region of Bristol Bay, I was required to present to our Native Health Corporation Research Ethics Board. Several board members were friends with my family. They knew I had left Alaska for education and work, and had only spent summers commercial fishing in Alaska, so they teased me about not really being from the region. Initially, I was defensive and justified my connections, but also felt hurt. After sitting there a few seconds, they laughed and shared their feelings of pride to have someone from the region 217

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doing this work. This experience has stayed with me, and when I am back in the region and see a board member, we remember the teasing and know we are proud members of the region.

Conclusion Laughter helps people restore their happiness by healing their body and soul, resulting in improved quality of life and higher levels of self-esteem (Mora-Ripoll, 2011). Laughter has long been seen as a particularly healthy and effective coping strategy for people who have experienced hardships (Samson & Gross, 2012). Laughter is also a protective factor against negative emotions (Freud, 1928, as cited in Samson  & Gross, 2012), because it re-focuses attention away from the negative or stressful emotions to positive emotions and the immediate feelings of laughter. As I have learned from Alaska Native Elders over the past decade, the use and benefits of laughter are similar to what is found in the literature. For example, it helped people endure stressful events, re-evaluate their problems objectively, and realize that laughing with others is therapeutic and a way to bring everyone together. Laughter is a key element of Alaska Native successful aging, and a character strength and value that contributes to their ability to find meaning and purpose in life through relationships with family and community (Arminen & Halonen, 2007; Yim, 2016), and remain resilient as they age. The laughter at the kitchen table is their way of connecting, sharing the pain of loss and stress together, as well as celebrating good news and focusing on the joys in life. These moments strengthen family systems, create and enforce community connections, and create a unified vision that everyone will survive and thrive through shared laughter. This chapter discussed how laughter enabled Elders to remain resilient and age successfully. Laughter was used to avoid difficult topics, relieve painful events, and engage in humility, but also share happy events and reflect on life’s blessings with others. Laughter has served as a protective mechanism for Alaska Native Elders, enabling them to remain resilient during difficult times and accept what has happened in their lives. Elders shared lessons with others with a smile on their face and remind us to find the silver lining in all situations. Feelings of agency, or having control over one’s actions (Moore, 2016), are strengthened through laughter by enabling Elders to process their experiences and control their reactions and feelings. Old age is often associated with a reduced sense of agency (Moore, 2016), so it is important to maintain a sense of agency to be considered aging successfully, or resilient, which Elders in my research have been able to do through laughter. Feelings of communion are also created by sharing laughter with others (Leist & Muller, 2013), strengthening their bond with family and community members, which increases their support network and feeling that they will have support when needed. All of these activities and experiences contribute to Elders’ resilience. Elders remind us that sharing your story of healing helps others, but also supports their own journey of healing and remaining resilient. Alaska Native Elders remind us of the importance of reflecting back on our lives and seeing where our fishing net was repaired. Reflecting on the Elder repairing the fishing net at the beginning of the chapter, the Elder holds our net in their hands, thoughtfully observing the broken strands that represent our trauma(s) and difficult life experiences. When they are ready, the Elder selects new, stronger twine and begins the repairs, introducing the new twine to the net, reinforcing the existing net, and repairing the tear to make the net whole again. The currently existing net represents our behaviors and characteristics that keep us healthy, and the new twine represents the new knowledge we acquire from our Elders’ teachings. As we go through life, our net will continue to experience tears. The wisdom needed to repair our net is the same 218

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knowledge our Elders share with us to improve our lives, be healthy, find the silver lining, and adopt healthy behaviors. The Elders remind us how fragile each strand of the net can be, but also how strong we can be when the strands work together. As I remember my childhood and the importance of laughter in my own life, images of my great grandparents, grandparents, and mom flood my memories. Memories of my mom and aunt laughing at the table all night are now accompanied with memories of my cousins and I laughing at the kitchen table all night, feeling like kids and strengthening our bond. Today, I reflect on my fishing net, where I have made repairs or had the support of my family and community to make repairs. Laughter is a universal emotional experience, but as we have learned from Alaska Native Elders, it has different functions that enable us to be resilient and age successfully, surrounded by family and community.

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Jordan P. Lewis Kuhn, C. C., Nichols, M. R., & Belew, B. L. (2010). The role of humor in transforming stressful life events. In Handbook of stressful transitions across the lifespan (pp. 653–662). New York, NY: Springer. Kuru, N., & Kublay, G. (2017). The effect of laughter therapy on the quality of life of nursing home residents. Journal of clinical nursing, 26(21–22), 3354–3362. Leist, A. K., & Muller, D. (2013). Humor types show different patterns of self-regulation, self-esteem, and well-being. Journal of Happiness Studies, 14, 551–569. Lewis, J. P. (2011). Successful aging through the eyes of Alaska native elders: What it means to be an elder in Bristol bay, AK. The Gerontologist, 51, 540–549. Lewis, J. P. (2013a). The future of successful aging in Alaska: What can we learn from our elders to ensure a healthy future. International Journal of Circumpolar Health, 72, 21186. This paper is part of Supplement 1, 2013, ICCH15 Proceedings. http://dx.doi.org/10.3402/ijch.v72i0.21186 Lewis, J. P. (2013b). The importance of optimism in maintaining healthy aging in rural Alaska. Qualitative Health Research, 23(11), 1521–1527. Lewis, J. P. (2014a). The role of the social engagement in the definition of successful aging among Alaska native elders in Bristol bay, Alaska. Psychology of Developing Societies, 26(2), 263–290. Lewis, J. P. (2014b). What successful aging means to Alaska natives: Exploring the reciprocal relationship between the health and well-being of Alaska native elders. International Journal of Ageing and Society, 3(1), 77–88. ISSN: 2160-1909. Lewis, J. P., & Allen, J. (2017). Alaska native elders in recovery: Linkages between indigenous cultural generativity and sobriety to promote successful aging. Journal of Cross Cultural Gerontology, 32(2), 209–222. Martin, R. A., & Ford, T. (2018). The psychology of humor: An integrative approach. Cambridge, MA: Academic Press. Marziali, E., McDonald, L., & Donahue, P. (2008). The role of coping humor in the physical and mental health of older adults. Aging and Mental Health, 12(6), 713–718. Moore, J. W. (2016). What is the sense of agency and why does it matter? Frontiers in Psychology, 7(1272), 1–9. Mora-Ripoll, R. (2011). Potential health benefits of simulated laughter: A narrative review of the literature and recommendations for future research. Complementary Therapies in Medicine, 19(3), 170–177. Nelson, J. K. (2008). Laugh and the world laughs with you: An attachment perspective on the meaning of laughter in psychotherapy. Clinical Social Work Journal, 36(1), 41–49. Owren, M. J., & Bachorowski, J. A. (2003). Reconsidering the evolution of nonlinguistic communication: The case of laughter. Journal of Nonverbal Behavior, 27(3), 183–200. Pace, J. (2013). Meanings of memory: Understanding aging and dementia in Frist nations communities on Manitoulin Island, Ontario (Unpublished Doctoral Dissertation). McMaster University, Hamilton, Canada. Penson, R. T., Partridge, R. A., Rudd, P., Seiden, M. V., Nelson, J. E., Chabner, B. A., & Lynch, T. J. (2005). Laughter: The best medicine? Oncologist, 10(8), 651–660. Peterson, C., & Seligman, M. E. P. (2004). Character strength and virtues. A handbook and classification. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association and Oxford University Press, Inc. Phelan, E. A., Anderson, L. A., LaCroix, A. Z., & Larson, E. B. (2004). Older adults’ views of “successful aging”: How do they compare with researcher’s definitions? Journal of the American Geriatric Society, 52, 211–216. Pressey, S. L., & Simcoe, E. (1950). Case study comparisons of successful and problem old people. Journal of Gerontology, 5(2), 168–175. Radomska, A. (2011). Humor from the perspective of positive psychology. Implications for research on development in adulthood. Polish Psychological Bulletin, 42(4), 215–225. Reinschmidt, K. M., Attakai, A., Kahn, C. B., Whitewater, S., & Teufel-Shone, N. (2016). Shaping a stories of resilience model from urban American Indian elders’ narratives of histoiral trauma and resilience. American Indian and Alaska Native Mental Health Research (Online), 23(4), 63. Rothbart, M. K. (1973). Laughter in young children. Psychological Bulletin, 80(3), 247. Rowe, J. W., & Kahn, R. L. (1997). Successful aging. The Gerontologist, 37(4), 433–440. Samson, A. C., & Gross, J. J. (2012). Humour as emotion regulation: The differential consequences of negative versus positive humour. Cognition & Emotion, 26(2), 375–384. Savage, B. M., Lujan, H. L., Thipparthi, R. R., & DiCarlo, S. E. (2017). Humor, laughter, learning, and health! A brief review. Advances in Physiology Education, 41, 341–347. Shah, H., & Marks, N. (2004). A well-being manifesto for a flourishing society. London: The New Economics Foundation.

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15 “IN THE TELLING AND IN THE LISTENING, HUMANITY MEETS” Youth testimonials of resilience from yesterday and today Kishan Lara-Cooper, Everett Colegrove III, Tescha Gensaw, Charlene Juan, and Gabel Ammon Introduction The ongoing resilience of Indigenous Peoples is apparent when we speak our languages, sing our songs, weave our baskets, dance our ceremonies, and mobilize to protect our way of life. Since European contact, we have relied on our Original Instructions and the timeless teachings from our ancestors to endure slavery, murder, rape, kidnapping, forced assimilation, and – more recently – a global pandemic. Many traditional practices remain and are carried on by Indigenous youth. This chapter highlights the diverse nature of resilience among contemporary youth by exposing readers to historical acts of resilience and deep-seated resilience tools that have led to intergenerational perseverance and strength. This chapter utilizes testimony from Indigenous chapter authors, four of whom are youth ranging from 12–16 years old, as well as archival testimonies of Lucy T’cetsa Young and Sally Bell (who were children at the time of first European contact) to identify attributes of resilience as well as the tools utilized to survive.

What is resilience? This book on international Indigenous Resilience features multiple views and examples of resilience. Each interpretation is deeply rooted in values, beliefs, experiences, worldview, and epistemology. The definition of resilience utilized in this chapter derives from personal experience and testimony. This exploration begins with an illustration of resiliency through the following testimony: I was first introduced to the concept of resilience at nine or ten years old. I heard the word often in response to grieving from waves of death in the community, enduring attacks on inherent rights, or combating institutional racism. On numerous occasions, I remember hearing the words, “We are a resilient people” with an emphasis of such DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-19

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power, strength, and faith. One day my curiosity got the better of me and I asked my grandmother, “What does resilience mean?” In our traditional manner of teaching and learning, my grandmother Margaret responded with a story. When she was in her early twenties, she took her Uncle on a ride to Hoopa over the Bald Hill Road through the mountains in rural northwest California. The road wasn’t paved, it was filled with sharp twists and turns, and it had a lot of holes and dips, but she always enjoyed these trips because the view was magnificent. From the high mountain, she could see the deep blue ocean lined with a pallet of colors reflecting the sunset like a watercolor painting. As she drove through the prairie plush with violet flowers and grazing elk, she hit a bump. This distracted her momentarily, but she quickly returned to observing the purposeful yet graceful movement of the elk as they raised their heads to watch them drive past. At that moment, she felt blessed to have such a wonderful life. She was so enamored by the beauty of the peaks and her own experience that she did not realize that the passenger door had flung open and her Uncle had fallen out and was hanging by his bootstrap! As his body repeatedly hit the rocky ground, he was hollering for help and was desperately trying to grab for the door. Once she noticed, she immediately screeched to a halt, set the parking brake, and jumped out of the truck to help him. By the time she got to the back of the truck, her Uncle was already standing. He had re-tied his boot and was dusting off his pants. He looked up at her with a small grin, chuckled, and said, “That was some ride, Maggie Reet.” He had referred to her as Maggie Reet, a nickname for Margaret. It was a term of endearment that let her know that everything was alright. They jumped back in the truck and continued their journey. “That is resilience,” my grandma said. “Sometimes you’re thrown all over the mountain with little regard, but you have to get back up and keep going.” (K. Lara-Cooper, personal communication, May 15, 2020) There are many layers to this testimonial, including topics of power, access to resources, “good” intentions, and the assumption that another person experiences the world in the same way. For example, Margaret experienced feelings of joy and safety, and assumed her passenger was feeling the same; yet he desperately struggled to survive. Most critical to this chapter is the strength, endurance, humility, and graciousness of Margaret’s uncle. Likewise, resilience is the ability to survive, cope, persevere, and perhaps – flourish. The tools utilized to endure and heal from these events include timeless teachings such as humor, relationships, deep-rooted intergenerational strength, and testimony.

Our history of resilience Indigenous Peoples, including Yurok, Hupa, Karuk, Wiyot, and Tolowa, to name a few, have stewarded northwest California since the beginning of time. Each tribe has a center of the world where each emerged into creation (Norton, 2007). From a scientific perspective, these Peoples have inhabited the land for 7,000–12,000 years (Nelson, 1978). European contact in northwest California began in the mid-19th century. Jedediah Smith was the first recorded non-Indigenous person to arrive in the Hoopa Valley in Humboldt County in 1828 (Nelson, 1978). Sustained European contact began in the 1850s after discovery of gold in 1848 (Norton, 1979). This history is unique from other parts of the United States, where contact began nearly three and half centuries earlier. From oral traditions and testimony, it can be presumed that perceptions of resilience shifted drastically since the time of contact. Families who once survived 223

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natural threats such as an animal attack or natural disaster were suddenly introduced to threats from other human beings, such as disease, human trafficking, and mass murders (Smith, 1990). The testimonials of two Indigenous women, Lucy Young and Sally Bell, give a glimpse into this evolving concept of resilience and the tools that helped them to survive. Lucy T’cetsa Young, a Lassik woman from what is now referred to as southern Humboldt and Mendocino counties in northern California, was a young girl at the time of European contact. She was born in 1846 and lived to tell her story at 94 years old: You ask about father. He got killed and brother in soldier war, before soldiers captured us. Three days fight. Three days running. Just blood, blood, blood. Young woman cousin run from soldier, run into our camp. . . . Young woman been stole by white people, come back. Front skin hang down like apron. She tie up with cotton dress. Never die, neither . . . white people want our land, want destroy us. Break and burn all our basket, break our pounding rock. Destroy our ropes. No snares, no deerskin, flint knife, nothing. (Smith, 1990, p. 128) After Young’s camp was invaded and her brother and father were killed, Young was captured by soldiers. She managed to escape and fled into the mountains. She utilized her knowledge of the environment and cultural skills to survive. With these skills, she was able to find water, shelter, and medicine. Young sang ceremonial songs for self-soothing and utilized her ability to speak multiple languages to communicate with local tribes to find safety. During her childhood, Young witnessed murder, suffered the loss of her brother, her father, and later the rest of her family, experienced slavery, and was sold to a farmer to be a wife at 12 years old. Sally Bell, a Sinkyone woman, was also a child at the time of contact. She shares her experience from the early 1860s in Needlepoint, California: My grandfather and all of my family – my mother, my father, and we – were around the house and not hurting anyone. Soon, about ten o’clock in the morning, some white men came. They killed my grandfather and my mother and my father. I saw them do it. I was a big girl at the time. Then they killed my baby sister and cut her heart out and threw it in the brush where I ran and hid. My little sister was a baby, just crawling around. I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared that I guess I just hid there a long time with my little sister’s heart in my hands. I felt so bad and I was so scared that I just couldn’t do anything else. . . . Then I ran into the woods and hid there for a long time. I lived a long time with a few people that had got away. We lived on berries and roots and we didn’t dare build a fire because the white man might come back after us. So we ate anything we could get. We didn’t have clothes a while, we had to sleep under logs in hollow trees because we didn’t have anything else to cover ourselves with and it was cold then – in the Spring. (Oros, 2016, p. 79) During this era, it was common for Indigenous women throughout northwest California to endure rape, exploitation, forced breeding, servitude, and violence (Norton, 1979). The accounts of these experiences are heart-wrenching and difficult to digest. In addition, Indigenous people faced attempted extermination. In 1850, there were an estimated one million Indigenous people of California; just 50 years later, in 1900, the population had declined to 17,000. In other words, 983,000 Indigenous people died because of this period of inhumanity 224

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(Norton, 1979). Yet, Indigenous people continued to demonstrate resilience. Of those 17,000 survivors, the Indigenous population has grown to a population of 723,225 and is steadily increasing (United States Census Bureau, 2010). There is also an increase in speakers of Indigenous languages, participants in ceremonies, and engagement in cultural practices. The current generation have learned from the Original Instructions identified over 12,000 years ago as well as the experiences of the generations before – including the generations of Lucy Young and Sally Bell – and have utilized these timeless teachings as power to survive, resist, and flourish.

Contemporary testimonials of resilience Indigenous people of the 21st century continue to persevere through human trafficking, kidnapping, racism, and disease, but also are faced with new social inequities and injustices such as police brutality, poverty, substance abuse, and disproportionately high health problems. Indigenous Peoples have the highest rates of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, stroke, liver disease, kidney disease, and influenza in the United States (Indian Health Services, 2018). Indigenous people also suffer the highest rates of those killed by police officers (7.8 per million compared to 2.9 per million of Euro-Americans), alcoholism (by 510%), suicide (by 1,000%), murdered women (by 1,000%), and death due to violence (accounts for 75% of deaths among youth 12–20) (Aspen Institute, 2018; National Congress of American Indians, 2018; United Indian Health Institute, 2020). Still, Indigenous people demonstrate resilience. With so many challenges facing Indigenous people, demonstrations of resilience can be incredibly diverse. This understanding of diversity is critical to professionals who work with Indigenous children, families, and communities. There is no single definition of Indigenous trauma – nor is there one single way in which these traumas manifest. Yet, as Hupa historian Jack Norton notes, reflecting on the words of Elie Wiesel, “In the telling and in the listening – humanity meets” (Norton, 1979, p. 132). Sharing a testimonial of one’s personal journey is not only a tool of resilience, but also a tool of healing. For example, Young concluded her testimony in Smith (1990) by saying, “I hear people tell ’bout what Indian do early days to white man. Nobody ever tell it what white man do to Indian. That’s reason I tell it. That’s history. That’s truth. I seen it myself ” (p. 132). After nearly 90 years, Young had the opportunity to share her truth – and in her sharing and in our listening, humanity meets. In the following testimonials, four Indigenous youth share their truths as an effort to restore humanity, an act of testimonial justice, and an exploration of their own resilience. The diversity of youth experiences shared is essential in highlighting the complexities of Indigenous resilience. Furthermore, identifying commonalities in resilience tools also have implications to professionals in the field.

Spiritual elements nurture resilience In the following testimonial, a 16-year-old shares an experience that began as a moment of duress and ended as a moment of clarity during a World Renewal Ceremony referred to in the Hupa language as xonsil chi-dil-ye. Every two years nearing the end of summer, the Natinixwe, Indigenous people of the Hoopa Valley (also known as Hupa people), participate in this ten-day ceremony. During this time, the Natinixwe communicate with spirit beings in another dimension of the world. It is a time when human beings breathe together in balance with the world. The Natinixwe have participated in this prayer from time immemorial. This ceremony is also known as the White Deerskin Dance because of the albino deerskin hides that are danced on a long pole. As the pole is swayed from side to side by the dancer, the pink hooves of the deer, 225

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adorned with flicker feathers or woodpecker scalps, glide along the ground, while the face of the deer, decorated with woodpecker scalps on its eyes and ears, faces the prayer fire. The white deer has its own spiritual life and is among the most sacred prayer items to the Natinixwe. Approximately 500 people move camps from the south end of the Hoopa Valley to the north end, dancing at several areas along the river and culminating on the Bald Hills. There are two dance sides or camps, one from the village of Takimildin at the northern end of the valley, and the other from the village of Medildin at the southern end of the valley. Each side or camp has its own “lead hide,” a deerskin hide that is carried on a pole by a selected member of the camp to the next dance site. The dance cannot continue until the lead hide reaches this next destination. On moving days, the fire and lead hides are taken to the next dance spot by traveling along the Trinity River, which runs through the middle of the valley. This is an important route because the river is symbolic of time for the people. The lead hides travel in a Me-dil, a traditional redwood canoe, which might be 17–19 feet long. Me-dil are spiritual beings with a heart, lungs, kidneys, nose, and eyes. The paddler steers the canoe from the back and there is often a paddler in the front. Passengers sit on their knees in the middle of the boat. Up to four people can ride in a canoe at one time, depending on the length. This testimony begins during the xonsil chi-dil-ye (White Deerskin Dance): I am from the village of Medildin in Hoopa, California. This story is my telling of an event that happened three years ago, when I was thirteen, and will stay with me always. We were on the fourth day of a ten-day ceremony for the renewal of the world. In this ceremony, we move to different dance places through the valley. We were at our third spot and getting ready to travel to the next. As the sun rose up over the east mountain, campers who had already had breakfast and packed up began to form the caravan line of trucks and trailer beds that would be driving camp gear, food, and families to the next campsite down the river at Norton field. The canoes were leaving in a uniform matter according to protocol. The medicine man had already left with the fire and their lead hide. Medildin side (our side) would follow in a canoe with our lead hide. I had been packing tables, fire pit, and boxes of supplies most of the morning. Bubba, a canoe paddler, came up to me and asked me to go with the lead hide in the remaining canoe. I looked at my dad to see what he wanted me to do. He motioned toward the boat so I removed my heavy boots and sweatshirt and got in the canoe with three other guys, Bubba, Dowdy, and Coti. Bubba was steering in the back and Coti sat in front. Coti held the lead hide on a heavy 7-foot pole. The hide stretched down the pole. It looked exceptionally beautiful in the morning sunlight. The lead hide is important. Both sides of the dance have a lead hide. It signifies a spiritual connection from spirit beings to human beings. It isn’t always the most adorned hide, the biggest or the whitest. He is humble and selected due to his origin. I sat behind Coti and we set off. The nose of the canoe turned down the river with stealth and accuracy. I glanced back at the people along the shore busy in their task and felt a real separation from them. I searched the shore for my mother and imagined her furrowed eyebrows at our parting. The same look she gets when I try to operate my dad’s heavy-duty equipment or mount a horse for our cattle drive. It was instantly quiet, peaceful on the water. We were silent but the sound of the paddles cutting in the water was loud. The water roared over large boulders as we passed. I, the youngest of the four but probably taller and heavier, was reminded that I didn’t know them that well. I had a lot of respect for these guys. They were talented boats-men, dancers, and I felt good amongst them. We didn’t travel in the same circles 226

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or even in the same classes, but we were a boat full of boys, young men, who had heard the prayers of our ancestors all our young lives. We were bonded in this way. Our task and honor was to get the lead hide to the destination down the river. This dance had been done for thousands of years and for some reason, on this day, a set of young boys were set out to complete this task. Although we didn’t discuss our mission before we set out we knew what was expected, not by the people but by the spirit that led us. The water was higher than usual because we, the Hupa people, have an agreement with the Bureau of Reclamation to release water from the Lewiston Dam for this ceremony. The water level was good for the boat dance the evening before. There is a part of the river that turns left and then turns immediately right. We just made it past the left part and we were turning right but then water began to fill in the back of the canoe. Before long, it began to weigh down the back of the canoe where Bubba was steering. Within an instant, the canoe sunk and flipped over. We jumped on the bottom of it because it was upside down. Coti was still holding the deer hide and working hard to keep it above water. We could see this huge red rock. It wasn’t big enough to come up out of the water, but the water was clear enough so that all of us, except Coti, could see it. The three of us started hollering, “Rock, rock! Coti watch out, rock!” He looked back and the canoe smashed his leg into the rock and crunched it. The canoe was already flipped over but the force of the water pushing onto the old canoe split the canoe in half and caused the rest of us to fall off. One-half of the canoe sunk and the other half kept floating down the river. I tried to grab onto the remaining side of the canoe, but it felt like it kept spinning. Every time I tried to grab it, it would pull me under water. I went under water a couple of times and when I surfaced, I let go and I started to swim toward the shore. As I watched Dowdy pull Coti above the water, I noticed that Coti no longer held the sacred deer hide on the pole. As I looked across the water, I saw the deer floating on its own. The pole with the hide floated erect and danced atop the water, bobbing in rhythm of the current. The pole was helping it stay up and the back of its legs kind of tip-toed along the top of the water. Whether the current kept the hide next to us and above water or something more powerful did, we didn’t know. Bubba was able to grab the pole and we swam toward the shore. It was a feeling difficult to describe, maybe a deep humbleness, maybe acceptance. Dowdy held tight to Coti. None of us were sure how badly he was hurt. Once we were able to stand in the river, Dowdy was able to get Coti to the west shore of the river. Bubba and I swam to the other side and crawled up the beach. I wanted to collapse, but instead struggled to get on my feet. Bubba handed the hide to me as he fled up the small embankment on our side of the river to get help. Across the river, we could see Coti lying on the rocks and Dowdy crawling a steep 20-foot embankment. I later heard ambulance sirens and Dowdy brought back someone to help. They helped Coti float down to a trail and then they walked him up to the ambulance. Once Coti got to the trail, I felt a sense of relief knowing that he was going to be alright. I started to look for a way out of the heavy, 10-foot-tall brush that surrounded me. I was alone now, but never once felt like the spirit of the hide had left me. I knew that it was critical to get the hide to the next spot safely, so I continued walking along the shore down the river. My feet were heavy as I made my way stepping over the rocks. I heard the sound of trucks, which motivated me to push my body through the dense brush. As I stepped out of the brush to a rocky shore, I was glad to meet the light and blue sky. I could see my dad’s truck up ahead. My dad stood along the shore searching the water for any signs of us or the canoe. I could hear the desperation in my dad’s 227

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voice calling my name. I walked over to him and we were both relieved to see each other. My dad gave me water and held the hide while I sat for a moment. He asked me if I was going to finish it out and I nodded. A couple other young guys that were with my dad joined me in continuing down the trail. It was their strength that got us to our destination. They all knew that something had happened, but we all walked in silence along the shore. Finally, the trail ended and two people from the other camp came up the river in their canoes to help us. We got in their canoe and continued back down the river. We pulled off the river about thirty or forty feet from our destination. We walked in single file up the trail to the next dance site and handed the dry, majestic, sacred hide over. Our mission was complete. Afterward, I found a place to collapse in private. I was so relieved that no one knew I was in the canoe, so I wasn’t bombarded with questions or well-wishers. We believe that when we take care of our regalia and respect its spiritual life that we will always be protected. I would say the belief that our ceremonies and regalia will help us is a big part of our religion. Between my beliefs, the spirit of that canoe, and the spirit of the lead hide, I know that I was protected and that I participated in something special. (E. Colegrove, personal communication, March 15, 2020) Colegrove chose to share this experience – a gift that he will always treasure – because it reinforces a Natinixwe belief that spiritual elements nurture resilience. The white deer hide, the canoe, ceremony, spirits of the water, and spirits of the land are all spiritual elements. He highlights a moment when the deer hide danced above water on its own and contemplated whether it was the current or something more powerful that kept it afloat. Further along, he describes a sense of comfort and connection to the canoe when he attempted to grab it for safety, and to the white deer hide when he describes how he was alone but that the spirit of the hide never left him. Finally, he emphasizes in his closing that his beliefs and the spirits of the canoe and regalia kept him safe. In this testimonial, it is clear the white deer hide is a sacred, spiritual being, afforded the utmost respect. The purpose of the journey down the river in the canoe was to ensure that the lead hide arrived to the next dance spot safely so that the dance could continue, per our Original Instructions. Despite trials and tribulations, this team of young men persevered and completed their mission. In the process, they took care of the hide and they took care of each other. They utilized deeply held beliefs and rituals; trusted in the spirits of the river, the canoe, and the hide; and allowed themselves the humility to accept help from others. This experience reaffirmed Colegrove’s belief in timeless teachings and in himself.

Relationships foster resilience At age 11, Gensaw was diagnosed with an appendicitis and sepsis. After 18 days in the hospital and three emergency surgeries, she was released and has made a full recovery. My grandma named me Tescha after the “strong wind” in the Tolowa language. I am twelve years old and in the sixth grade. My dad is Yurok and Tolowa and my mom is Hupa and Yurok. My mom and dad are no longer married so I live in two separate houses. When I am with my dad, I live in Eureka, California with him, my stepmom Melanie, and my two brothers. When I am with my mom, I live in Hoopa, California with three brothers and some of my cousins. Last year, I was at my cousin’s flower dance 228

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[a coming-of-age ceremony] celebrating her turning from a girl to a woman. The dance went all night long. It was a fun experience for me and I didn’t want to miss anything. So, I stayed up until 3 o’clock in the morning by the fire with family and friends until I fell asleep. After the ceremony, I came back home and I didn’t feel good. My dad thought I was tired from staying up late so he let me sleep all day. The next day he asked if I could go to school but I felt too sick, so I went to my mom’s house. I vomited nine times and then again when I went back to my dad’s. I vomited thirteen times altogether. I couldn’t sleep that night and my dad got worried and took me to the hospital. When I  first got there I  thought everything was going to be fine but no, my appendix had ruptured and I had toxic poison in my insides. When the doctors said I had to go into surgery I thought, What if they mess up? Will I get to see my friends and family again? As they took me in the surgery room, I just wanted my dad. After the surgery, I didn’t even get a chance to calm down before I heard them saying that I needed another surgery to clean out the poison traveling through my body. I was scared because I was already in so much pain. My mom was there and she told me that everything was going to be okay and that the doctors were there to help me. Even though she made me feel better, I thought to myself, Am I going to die? I fought that thought because I wanted to think about the bright side. I told myself, I am going to be okay and everything is going to be fine. I knew I had a lot of people praying for me and supporters that care for me. People from our community were worried about me and they knew I was very sick. When it was time for my second surgery, the doctors moved me off the bed and onto a hard table and all I could say was that I wanted my dad there. My dad takes care of me and he helps me to not be scared. I wanted him there to hold my hand. They said that is not regular protocol but because I am named after the strong wind, I didn’t take no for an answer. So I said, “No, I’m not going to do it without my dad there!” So, they let him stay. Afterward, the doctor said that was the first time they ever did a surgery with a parent in the room. After the second surgery, I felt better and my family came and visited me and tried to get stuff off my mind. My brother James, who was twelve at the time, read me a book, and my brother Chey, who was ten, talked to me and kept me company. Every day I tried to set goals for myself. My side and my body were so sore that I could hardly stand up. So, my brothers helped me walk up and down the hall with a pillow protecting my side. My doctors did everything to try to make me feel better and laugh when I was feeling down. I got letters from family and people in the community and I read them and felt so, so, so, so loved. I want to thank my supporters; they mean so much and they tried to do everything they could. After many days in the hospital, I kept getting a fever and my stomach pain got worse and worse. The doctors did more tests and said I needed emergency surgery again. They told us it was kind of bad and I  might have to fly out to a children’s hospital down south [to San Francisco over six hours away]. After the third surgery, I finally felt better. Eventually, they cut the stitches off and pulled all five tubes out of my body and I was released. In total, I was in the hospital for 18 days and I lost 14 pounds. When I got to go home, I felt free and better day by day. I finally got to walk like everyone else and move around without pain. Now I am stronger, I wrestle, do sports, and can jump around. I think what helped me to get through this experience was my family, my community, and my culture. My dad sang and prayed for me every day and every night. 229

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He sang good luck songs, brush dance songs for healing, and high dance songs for the Jump Dance and Deerskin Dance. He prayed in the Yurok language with wohl-peg (prayer root) that he carried in his pocket the whole time I was in the hospital. His songs and prayers made me feel safe. My mom took good care of me, she helped me with walking, and she went to the store for me. My stepmom Melanie took care of all my brothers since my mom and dad were both at the hospital with me all day and all night. She also brought me things that I needed, like otter pops [popsicles]. I appreciated the visits, letters, and prayers from the community. I am thankful for my dad, my mom, Melanie, the community, and my doctors. (T. Gensaw, personal communication, May 15, 2020) At such a young age, Gensaw experienced the fear of losing her life, never speaking to her friends or family again, being separated from her father and her mother, and possibly being sent in a helicopter to another hospital for more surgeries. Yet, her divorced parents and stepmother came together to support her; her brothers came to take care of her; and the local Indigenous community sent her letters and prayers. These relationships fostered her resilience.

Honesty and self-love promote resilience In the next testimonial, a 16-year-old youth shares her struggle with the disappearance of her mother when she was 6 years old. The occurrence of missing and murdered indigenous women (MMIW) and children is becoming more prevalent in Indigenous communities in northwest California. Murder is the third leading cause of death for Indigenous women (Administration for Children and Families, 2020). In 2016 alone, 5,716 cases of MMIW were reported (United Indian Health Institute, 2020). This testimony is in honor of Sumi Gail Juan, missing since September 8, 2010, at the age of 33: My mother went missing from Hoopa, California when I was six years old. I didn’t know what was happening, and it was really hard for me. Soon after, I was taken from my grandma’s care and placed into foster care with my older cousin and her husband. Through this transition, I gained another set of parents, three sisters, and a brother. Being separated from my grandma was traumatic because I blamed myself. I would play games in my head and create scenarios like, If I did this, I would be able to go back to my grandma. Before I fell asleep at night, I would cry for my mom or grandma. It is hard to lose your mom and then your grandma right after one another and not know why. As I got older, I didn’t know how to express my feelings or deal with them in a healthy way. From a young age, like six or seven, I didn’t like myself. I thought no one wanted me and that I didn’t matter. When I was seven, I took a belt and tried to hang myself, but I stopped. Until now, no one knows that happened. My parents [my biological cousins] had me do a lot of activities to stay active. We went on super fun trips, tried piano lessons and Taekwondo. When I was about nine or ten, I did things for attention. I still didn’t like myself very much. I liked to have “boyfriends” because of the attention I got. When I was thirteen, I started smoking weed and drinking. When I smoked, I felt like I was alright. I didn’t smoke that much, but eventually I started to smoke before school. Once, my mom [my biological cousin] caught me and I got in a lot of trouble. I started not to care about anything and I thought no one cared about me. I stole from a store and 230

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I got caught. After we left the store, I jumped out of the car and ran away. When I returned home, I didn’t want to deal with the consequences of my actions. I ran away a couple of times after that to smoke with my friend. My parents [biological cousins] tried to help me but I didn’t want help. I caused a lot of pain to my family. They decided that it would be better for me to move out of state with my sisters [biological cousins] because they both worked with at-risk youth and could help me. When I started living with them, I did well in school and played sports. We would go on walks and do art projects but I couldn’t help but be sad and angry. I was really hurt from the loss of my mother [biological], the separation from my grandmother [biological], and now my parents [biological cousins] sending me away. All of this made me feel like I wasn’t wanted. On one of our school breaks, we went back to California to visit our parents [biological cousins]. While we were down there, I got triggered and wanted an escape. I tried to run away, and instead I ended up going to juvenile hall for three days. After that, I didn’t have a good relationship with my sisters because I was really hurt and taking it out on the people who loved me. Meanwhile, we got DNA test results that identified my biological dad, so I decided that I wanted to move in with him and return to Hoopa. So, at fourteen, I moved in with my dad [biological] and I continued my freshman year at Hoopa High School. One afternoon, I had forty dollars, so one of my cousins and I decided to buy a bag of crystal meth. I hung out with her at her house for a week and we kept doing lines. That is when I got addicted to it. Eventually, I ended up going back to my dad’s house and when I got there, my sister [biological] asked me if I wanted to go to hang out with our cousin, her boyfriend, and his friend, so I went. We stopped at the gas station and got some alcohol. We started drinking and I was getting drunk. I put my hand on the friend’s shoulder and he touched me back. We partied, drank alcohol, and did some drugs. I thought I was having so much fun. It wasn’t okay though, because these guys were really old. I started staying in hotel rooms with this guy and I thought I was in love. I stopped going to school. It was a terrible time in my life. I hated myself so much. I was miserable. When I would go home, I would stay in my room and my boyfriend would come and pick me up and buy me new clothes and things. I didn’t like living at my dad’s, so I decided to move in with my grandma [biological]. My grandma and I would do drugs together and it would end badly. We would get mad at each other. Sometimes we would get into physical fights. I hated those times. When my uncles and I would use together it was the same way. My grandma and grandpa would yell at me and tell me to stop doing drugs. I didn’t want to listen to them. I would say, “I will when I’m ready.” I didn’t stop for a long time. I would ask my dad for money and then spend it on drugs. I would walk around in the middle of the night. Thinking back, I could have gotten hurt so many times. One night, I was walking, praying for help. I ran into my friend and we went under the bridge and he wanted to do stuff. I didn’t want to, so I left. I think that is when I realized that I needed to stop, and I tried, but I would just go back out and use again. This happened again and again. I would tell myself, This is the last one. I finally got to the point where I was able to quit. I didn’t have money for drugs because I stopped seeing that older guy, my grandma and grandpa wouldn’t give me money because of my addiction, and my dad didn’t have money to give me. Although my grandma, grandpa, and uncles would tell me that I am beautiful, I still hated myself because of everything that happened. I was hurting everyone. I felt like I was gaining support 231

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at school from my friends and the staff but I still struggled at home. One time, my grandma was drinking and she was yelling about how I didn’t care about my mom [biological mother who went missing] and I never cared about her. I tried to ignore her but I couldn’t anymore. I went up in her face yelling back at her, “I do care about her, I was six years old. What was I supposed to do?” She reached her hand up and choked me. We started fighting and my uncles had to make us stop. I was so mad and hurt. I walked down the road to the police station. When I told the officer what happened, he basically told me that my grandma was acting in self-defense. I was so upset. I am not sure where I went after that. When I went back to school, I told a social worker that I wanted a new place to stay because I couldn’t do it anymore. I stayed with my sister [biological] for about a week, a cousin for a month, and then I talked to a social worker about going to Sherman Indian High School. We made plans for me to go but then I changed my mind and talked to my sisters who I lived with before about staying with them again. One of my cousins took me to say goodbye to everyone, including my grandma. Separating from her again was so hard. She made me feel guilty and I didn’t want to leave her but I had to do what was best for me. Now at sixteen years old, I live with my sisters [biological cousins] once again. I go to Narcotics Anonymous, I am doing well in school, and I see a counselor. I have learned that life is a lot easier when you open up to people. I no longer have to use mind-altering substances to feel my feelings. I have people in my life who love me, want what’s best for me, and even though I struggle at times, I will be alright. I am learning to love myself and I am putting my best self forward. One very awesome part of healing is repairing relationships. It feels like I missed out on so much, but now I am trying to become a better friend, cousin, daughter, among other things. My message to others who are struggling is that it can be hard to come out of your little miserable shell, and once you start sharing and letting people help you it can be uncomfortable. Sometimes you just want to go back into your shell but it is better for you to be open because it won’t feel like you’re alone anymore. When you are healing, it is a process and it can be frustrating but be patient with yourself. Surround yourself with people who want what’s best for you. Always have hope that things will get better. Believe in yourself. Talk positively toward yourself and give yourself a break. Remind yourself that if you want change, you have to be the change. Sometimes being the change means dealing with the hard, uncomfortable, and painful things in life. Let yourself feel sad and mad about things because you are human. My message to professionals would be that youth need someone in their lives who they can trust, someone who is stable, consistent, and patient. They need someone who believes in them who won’t judge or criticize them because chances are they are already criticized by others or in their own heads. Sometimes when people talk about missing and murdered Indigenous women they don’t think about the children and families that suffer. Over the years, no one has really done anything to bring my mom justice, as though she is not important. But she is important to us. I don’t know the details of my mom’s loss, but when I am out, I look for her. I have some hope for her return but I also know that she is not coming back. I will never understand how someone could take a child’s mother away from them and not come forward. It is hard growing up not knowing what my relationship would have been with her and it makes me sad. I often grieve the fact that she

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won’t get to see me grow up or graduate. She won’t get to see my nephews or future children. I struggle with these realities and I hope to have justice for her and my family one day. (C. Juan, personal communication, February 15, 2020) This testimonial explicitly illustrates the impact of MMIW on surviving children and families. Despite the ongoing trauma, Juan relies on her networks of family, extended family, and spiritual families for support. She identifies her most powerful tool for resilience as honesty and self-love.

Lessons from cultural activities stimulate resilience In northwest California, there has been a concerted effort by Indigenous community members and professionals to create opportunities that expose Indigenous youth to Indigenous Knowledge. Reclaiming this knowledge enhances a child’s self-concept, self-esteem, self-worth, selfefficacy, and ultimately self-actualization  – their understanding of their contribution to the world (Adams et al., 2017; Lara-Cooper, 2019; Yellowbird, 2013). This testimonial is an example of efforts by Indigenous community members and support programs to strengthen resilience through teaching the art of a traditional stick game. The stick game, known as Herhl in the Yurok language, teaches discipline, endurance, respect, teamwork, perseverance, ethics, and character. Walt Lara, a Yurok elder and experienced stick game player, says, “The man that you are on the stick field is that man that you will be in life” (W. Lara, personal communication, August 21, 2020). This testimony elaborates on the benefits of cultural activities as resilience tools: I am an enrolled member of the Tsnungwe/tse:ning-xwe Tribe in the South Fork of the Trinity River area, Humboldt and Trinity counties. I  am fifteen years-old and in the ninth grade at Academy of the Redwoods, located on the College of the Redwoods campus. When I was a baby we moved from our home at Łe:lding (place where the rivers flow together), principal village of the Tsnungwe people, to town [the nearest city, fifty miles away]. I have had great opportunities in town like attending a Montessori preschool and elementary school and now being in an early college program. But we still maintain our place in the Tsnungwe community and have been a part of revitalization efforts throughout my life. This includes the re-construction of a Xontah (traditional Indian house), the re-introduction of Flower Dance ceremonies (women’s transition ceremony), and revitalization of our Hupa language. The next step will be the restoration of the Łe:lding Stick game field. Learning more and participating more in Indigenous games like Stick games has helped me develop myself. When I first learned about the Stick games was at a practice on the coast. There I met people like elder Walt “Blacksnake” Lara, Virgil Moorehead Jr., and Jude Marshall. They taught me different aspects of the game like important values to remember and how to play the game. We did drills, learned ways to wrestle the other team, and learned to think strategically. These practices have helped me to make a lot of new friends and role models who’ve helped me make better choices and showed me how to grow more as a person. Becoming more active in learning Stick games has helped me strengthen my understanding and appreciation for the history and culture of my Tsnungwe/Tse:ning-xwe tribe. I feel like if I didn’t have as much knowledge about

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my heritage, I wouldn’t have the connection between me, my community and the village of Łe:lding. Playing Stick games makes me feel connected to the land, the Stick game fields, villages, and xontahs (traditional houses). It makes me very grateful for everything that I was born into. Other than the tribal aspect, Stick games is just very fun to play. It feels like when I’m playing no one is in a negative mindset and everyone playing is thinking good thoughts and takes care of each other. One of the unique parts about it is the sticks themselves. You can use whatever type of wood you want, and you can make it your own way by yourself even though most people use a straight stick with a curve at the bottom. This gives people a role in making the equipment to play the game and I don’t think that there are any other games out there that give you something like that. If more people got to play this sport, I think that it could help people in becoming more active and it could be a positive way to use their body and energy. Participating in games like this has inspired me to help with the revitalization of our culture and the re-education of people to their ancestry. I think if cultures can give people something as good as this game, then people should focus on learning more about their heritage because it could mean they can understand more about themselves and give them stronger bonds with their communities. (G. Ammon, personal communication, May 15, 2020) In his testimonial, Ammon expresses the richness of Indigenous culture through his involvement in a traditional stick game. He describes how his involvement makes him feel connected to the land, his community, and his village. He describes playing sticks as an opportunity to build relationships with friends and mentors, as well as a tool to stay spiritually and physically healthy. Cultural activities stimulate resilience (Lara-Cooper, 2019). As such, support programs in northwest California such as United Indian Health Services’ Teen Advisory Group (TAG), Peers Offering Wisdom Education and Respect (POWER), Nohoł Diniłayding Niwho:ngxw, and Two Feathers Native American Family Services provide opportunities for youth to be continuously exposed to Indigenous concepts, to build relationships with other youth, and to engage in cultural activities. Furthermore, Indigenous leaders, fluent speakers of Native languages, basket makers, and regalia makers (to name a few) have dedicated their lives to ensuring that young people are anchored with these resilience tools.

Resilience tools rooted in timeless teachings Testimonials of the chapter authors, as well as archival records from Lucy T’cetsa Young and Sally Bell, give a glimpse into the complexities of Indigenous resilience. The youth authors all have ties to the Hoopa Valley, yet the events that they chose to share could not be more distinctive. As human beings, experiences of resilience are diverse, even within the same community, family, or event. Like Margaret and her uncle traveling over the Bald Hills at the beginning of this chapter, individuals can experience and interpret the same event in various ways. Likewise, there is no single definition of resilience nor one way to cope with trauma, yet common threads are evident among the chapter testimonials. The Resilience Tool diagram utilizes a framework from a local study in northwest California that characterizes relationships with the human, natural, and spiritual elements of the world as instrumental to an Indigenous philosophy of living in balance and harmony (Lara, 2009; LaraCooper, 2014, 2017). Likewise, the chapter testimonials identify relationships with human,

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Extended/ family Elder connection

Community Human elements

Relationships

Support programs

Homeland/ villages

Ancestors Spiritual elements

Natural elements

Songs

River Self-care

= Language

Resilience tools

Cultural activities

Prayer sites

Water/ land spirits

Regalia/ white deer hide

Prayer Ceremony Canoes Original instructions

Figure 15.1  Diagram of resilience tools

natural, and spiritual elements as key to their resilience. Indigenous languages are the thread that connect each of these elements.

Human elements as resilience tools Human elements that foster resilience include relationships with family including extended family, community support, elder connections, support programs, and self-care and understanding. Although Colegrove radiates such strength and determination throughout his journey to take the lead hide to its next ceremonial site, when he speaks of the young men who helped him finish this task, he believes that “it was their strength” that got them to their destination. Ammon describes how involvement in traditional stick games has provided opportunities to build relationships with elders and community members, and Gensaw acknowledges her family, extended family, and community as essential to her healing while in the hospital. Similarly, Juan’s journey has led her to the understanding that she needs human interaction to heal. These human elements include self-love and understanding. Juan’s most powerful tool for resilience is her honesty with herself. Honesty is a timeless teaching referred to as xoji-done, in the Hupa language, meaning be “true to yourself.” Likewise, a Yurok practitioner once responded to a question on resilience by saying, “Tune into yourself. Listen to the song within. As you tune in, it may be hard to hear through the chaos but once you find your truth, it is the most beautiful. When you can be honest with yourself, you can be honest with others” (T. Sylvia, personal communication, August 2, 2009). As such, the sense of connection to self and to others provides a solid foundation for facing adversity.

Natural elements as resilience tools Natural elements that serve as resilience tools include homeland, villages, the river, and prayer sites. Young and Bell each utilized their relationship with the natural environment and their understanding of natural elements to survive while in hiding. Likewise, Colegrove expresses a trust in his relationship with the river and Ammon speaks of his connection to homeland, villages, stick game fields, and traditional houses. Natural elements also include prayer sites, ceremonial sites, wildlife, salmon, water, medicines, and gathering sites. These connections to the natural environment help establish a sense of belonging and shape perceptions of the world.

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Spiritual elements as resilience tools Spiritual elements mentioned as resilience tools in testimonials include Original Instructions, ancestors, ceremony, canoes, prayer, regalia, water and land spirits, and songs. Colegrove shared that regalia has its own spiritual life that will provide protection when respected. Other testimonials concur that the spirituality of ancestors, songs, and ceremony nurture a sense of safety. Like Gensaw’s father sang ceremonial songs to her each night to soothe her while in the hospital, Young also sang ceremonial songs to calm herself while hiding in the mountains from soldiers. Similarly, Juan prayed for help when she was at her lowest point and Gensaw’s father prayed with prayer root in the Yurok language. Participating in ceremony or prayer, connecting with regalia, engaging in song, and honoring ancestors “stimulates the brain and releases feeling of positivity which can lead to healing” (Lara-Cooper, 2019, p. 32).

Conclusion Timeless teachings utilized to face adversity are multigenerational and well-rooted in homeland, environment, ceremony, language, and human connection. These resilience tools helped our ancestors live in balance and harmony with the world, our great grandparents to survive genocide and attempted extermination, our grandparents to persevere through assimilation and colonial education, and our parents to pave a way for breathing life back into our Indigenous way of life. Although we are most susceptible to suicide, alcoholism, murder, incarceration, health issues, and death due to violence, we are resilient, and we will persevere. We are armed with Original Instructions, intergenerational strength, and timeless teachings. Although this chapter only touches the surface of resilience and tools for resilience, the themes addressed have lasting implications for Indigenous community members and professionals who work with Indigenous children and families. The most critical implication is the overarching theme of testimonial justice, a validation of knowledge and experience. In the process of putting together this chapter, four Indigenous youth explored and shared their truths. Furthermore, they discovered their deep-rooted intergenerational strength, and they discovered that the tools to cope, survive, and flourish have lived within them all along.

References Adams, M., Mataira, P., Walker, S., Hart, M., Drew, N., & Flea, J. J. (2017). Cultural identity and practices associated with the health and well-being of Indigenous males. Journal of Indigenous Studies and First Nations and First People’s Cultures, 1(1), 42–61. Administration for Children and Families. (n.d.). Testimony of Jeannie Hovland on missing and murdered indigenous women (MMIW) and girls. Retrieved August  12, 2020, from www.acf.hhs.gov/olab/resource/ testimony-of-jeannie-hovland-on-of-missing-and-murdered-indigenous-women-mmiw-and-girl Aspen Institute. (2018). Fast facts on native American youth. Retrieved October 1, 2018, from http://assets. aspeninstitute.org Indian Health Services. (2018). 2009–2011 health disparities fact sheet. Retrieved November 15, 2018, from http://ihs.gov/newsroom/factsheet/disparities Lara, K. (2009). Conceptions of giftedness on the Hoopa Valley Indian reservation (Unpublished Doctoral Dissertation). Tempe, AZ: Arizona State University. Lara-Cooper, K. (2014). K’winyan’nya:n-ma’awhiniw: Creating a space for indigenous knowledge. Journal of American Indian Education, 53(1), 3–22. Lara-Cooper, K. (2017). A multilogical approach to giftedness. In J. Proudfit & N. Myers-Lim (Eds.), On Indian ground: California (pp. 137–156). Charlotte, NC: Information Age Publishing, Inc.

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“In the telling and in the listening” Lara-Cooper, K. (2019). “More than a boat”: Bias, institutional frameworks and testimonial justice. In K. Lara-Cooper  & W. Lara (Eds.), Ka’m-t’em: A  Journey toward Healing (pp 15–38). Temecula, CA: Great Oak Press. National Congress of American Indians. (n.d.). 2018 Demographics. Retrieved September 21, 2018, from http://ncai.org. Nelson, B. (1978). Our home forever. Hoopa, CA: Hupa Tribe. Norton, J. (1979). Genocide in Northwest California: When our worlds cried. San Francisco, CA: Indian Historian Press. Norton, J. (2007). Centering in two worlds: Essays on native Northwestern California history, culture and spirituality. Hemet, CA: Center for Affirmation for Responsible Education. Oros, C. (2016). The role of fort Humboldt during the California gold rush: A focus on local indigenous women’s struggle, resistance, and resilience (Unpublished Master’s Thesis). Arcata, CA: Humboldt State University. Smith, E. (1990). Lucy Young: Indian/White relations in Northwest California, 1846–1944 (Unpublished Master’s Thesis). University of California, Santa Cruz. United Indian Health Institute. (2020). MMIW: A snapshot of data from 71 urban cities in the United States. Retrieved April 8, 2020, from www.uihi.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Missing-and-MurderedIndigenous-Women-and-Girls-Report.pdf United States Census Bureau. (2010). Profile America: Facts for features. Retrieved from www.census.gov/ newsroom/releases/archives/facts_for_features_special_editions/cb11-ff22.html Yellowbird, M. (2013). Decolonizing the mind: Healing through neurodecolonization and mindfulness. Retrieved September 27, 2018, from http://vimeo.com/86995336

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16 THE TIME BEFORE US Land, matriarchy, and leadership in the face of change Kapi’olani A. Laronal

Introduction The past is referred to as, Ka wā mamua, or “the time in front or before.” Whereas the future, when thought of at all, is Ka wā mahope, or “the time which comes after or behind.” It is as if the Hawaiian stands firmly in the present, with his back to the future, and his eyes fixed upon the past, seeking historical answers for present-day dilemmas. Such an orientation is to the Hawaiian an eminently practical one, for the future is always unknown, whereas the past is rich in glory and knowledge. (Kame‘eleihiwa, 1992, p. 22)

Indigenous Haida, Tsimshian, and Hawaiian traditions point to our connection with the matriarchal line and the environment as perpetual sources of wisdom that guide us to courageously lead in the face of the unknown, ever-changing world. These “rituals of resilience” or “practices of positive change” are significant indicators that mark a clear path connecting people with place and a shared vision. While these are not assigned truths, I offer land and ocean protocols as a framework for modern leadership. When we must make an important decision, every moment from our past has a story to tell about a future possibility. Rituals of resilience follow the same quality of thought for facing any challenge and are core principles that shape my Hawaiian/ Haida identity. These practices support a process of change, movement or transformation of people, ideas, or structures: 1) Original Intention or Prayer, 2) Naming and Remembering 3) Listening and Observing, and 4) Expression. The ebb and flow of reciprocity, connection, and life-giving qualities that this process contains are shared through storytelling illustrating collective expressions of Indigenous resilience. The Earth and Mothers each possess regenerative qualities of power, place, and belonging since the beginning of time. My Hawaiian-Haida genealogy and cultures clarified my sense of responsibility to my people and to the environment, frames of reference that have endured change throughout the generations. Our diverse perspectives and approaches to problem solving can foster resiliency, just as the biodiversity of plants and animals adapt and evolve with their environment. Here, I identify how people and land are connected throughout space and time. Cultural protocols, or what I call “rituals of resilience,” are practices of positive change and remind us how to endure hardship and transition. My stories are the coordinates that plot my personal ancestral pathways. DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-20

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They mark significant stopping points that describe moments of a collective rise and fall. The landscapes and waterways are the map. They are a panorama of matriarchal beginnings tied to an original source. Ancestral wisdom from this place must emerge again in service to the modern world and for humanity. Our resilience as Indigenous people invites leaders of today to explore and to honor the sanctity of our knowing. This is not a single truth, but a potential pathway. This is what I know and will share about my relationship to resiliency – and my effort to preserve the essence of my Indigenous identity and culture – the best that I know how. In this chapter, I  describe land–matriarch connections including resilience in the face of dispossession. Family stories, personal experiences, and broader examples illustrate the core qualities of leadership: intention setting, remembering our past, listening, spirit-filled power (mana), and expression. Landscape and Lineage, Environment and Mother are interconnected and synonymous, providing new insights about leadership and change in the modern world.

The power of women and land Both land and body possess subtle forms of power that teach us about our connection to potentiality and our ability to co-create our world. In our Creation stories, mothers, land and oceanscapes reflect one another; they are one and the same. The female form helps us to develop our awareness of the human body as: 1) mimicking the natural world, its cycles and patterns; 2) extensions of space and time; and 3) a dynamic participant in restorative regeneration. This is the harmony that forms when mind and logic meet heart-centered knowing. How might this perspective secure a deeper trust in Indigenous ways of knowing and seeing the body as a source of power and wisdom connected to our past? The female body in particular demonstrates to the modern world that we can engage and participate in cycles of the universe and natural world that strengthen our vision and purpose as we move about our daily lives. Kuahiwinui (2018) notes Dr. Salazar’s notion that, because the cycle [of the universe] is the work of “our elemental gods”, she (Kanahele) [sic] suggests we are being ‘godlike’ when we go mauka (to the mountains), pick from the forest, give birth, and engage with natural earth-human processes in this cycle of life. (Kuahiwinui, 2018, p. 8) The most significant bodily function a woman carries that mimics the natural world is menstruation. A menses follows the 28-day moon cycle and a woman can unconsciously sync to other women’s cycles. Kuahiwinui (2018) suggests that our Hawaiian menstruation ceremonies, “are the extensions of the akua we are. The connection of the self-to-self is an understanding of our physical and spiritual bodies and mimics a unified Hawaiian consciousness” (p. 13). Likewise, for other cultures, the power of the body is deeply connected to the land and cosmos. Both Haida and Hawaiians followed a lunar calendar that bears some significance for the menstruation cycle (Garza, 1999; Polynesian Voyaging Society, n.d.; Kuahiwinui, 2018). Aside from the moon, the female body was closely associated with earthly elements around the world (Rutter, 1993). Deities from Greece to Nigeria are symbols of changing wind and ocean currents, burning fire and fertile soil, all metaphors for feminine archetypes of change in the natural world. These associations with intuitive and body-centered knowledge formed early notions of the human body as synonymous with functions of the land and universe. They remind us that we are more than just our minds; we are our bodies – they, too, are a source of wisdom. 239

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Indigenous conceptualizations of the power of the feminine are also found in our present relationship to the past and to the future through our body forms. Carl Jung uses the concept of “Kore,” the grandmother-mother-daughter relationship, to describe feminine consciousness as an extension of space and time reaching across multiple generations (Rutter, 1993). Jung, according to Rutter (1993), states that, “The participation and intermingling [of grandmother, mother, and daughter] give rise to that peculiar uncertainty as regards time: a woman lives earlier as a mother, later as a daughter” (p. 6). This conscious experience of motherhood bridges generations. Through the female body’s ability to create, if she chooses, the woman becomes the carrier of the ancestral line with the ability to regenerate. Similarly, our Indigenous way of understanding space and time as non-linear and connected to an original source is also reflected in this Jungian perspective, and the connection, shared kinship and obligation we have to carry the wisdom of our ancestors (deep past) and grandmothers (past) and to continue our familial line through our grandchildren (future) (Smith, 2012; Meyer, 2013). Meyer (2001) notes that, when a woman menstruates, she is the divine cycle that her daughter will soon become. She is a manifestation of her grandmother who will live through her river of life. The cycle is not just of an individual woman but one of a mo‘okū‘auhau [lineage] the divine cycle through the generations. (p. 161) Indigenous people affirm the land and the female as powerful beings that create space for a multisensory life experience. The land and body teach us that there is more than just the mind alone to give us information. Indigenous resilience teaches us that the body, in alignment with the spirit of people and place, is a source of intelligence beyond our mental capacities to hold information. Meyer (2001) cites Kanahele, who identifies the “na’auao,” the enlightened stomach”: “It’s a cosmic center point. It has to do with your ancestors coming together with you. It has to do with your spiritual being coming together, it has to do with our physical being” (p. 144, referencing Pua Kanahele, January 15, 1997). Kanahele’s “cosmic center point” identifies the gut as an internal compass containing all ancestral and present-day memories within our physical, mental, and heart-centered realms. Our bodies invite us to find deeper meaning in the decisions we make by using bodily senses to support our left-brained functions to assess, sequence, and strategize, and our right-brained center for creativity. By engaging with senses of taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight, we experience a flow – or what is referred to in sports as “being in the zone.” The concept of “na’au” (gut) and “ao” (enlighten/light) is associated with coming into the light of day, regaining consciousness from a dark place (Ulukau.org, Accessed December 4, 2020). By trusting the gut, our “other” right brain, we have greater clarity in our day-to-day moments. Thus, naming and remembering becomes a gateway to evolving our human potential using senses offered to us by the land and the power of the body. Our potential to be a balanced leader is our ability to guide with discernment and deep reflection, and to know beyond the simple mind. Leading in the face of change must hold space for remembering and naming all that came before us. Validation rests in our ability to recall, engage, and make meaning outside of the status quo. Our ability to reflect on all of our experiences, both challenging and successful, up to this present moment caters to our individual and collective evolution. As we move forward in a proper and balanced way, we must look back and recall everything and everyone who came before us. The land and matriarchal presence teach us, as leaders, that we are capable of survival through change by identifying clues, patterns, and structures through a deep reflection of our 240

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inner and outer worlds. We look back to the past to support us in the present and develop our human potential.

Dispossession and resilience Indigenous women descend from grace and strength. Our connections to the land and ocean remain and affirm us, even in the face of displacement. The land–matriarch connection is within us and guides our relationships with the outside world, giving us the strength to move forward and face challenges. Our history of dispossession and resilience is revealed in the following family stories and memories held within a larger colonial context.

Everything holds memory: the canoe At the age of 6, Martha Auriol set out on the water with her father, Chief Nastoyix Solomon Auriol. Barely able to look over the sides, she could smell a familiar smoky sweet scent lifted up by the wind of this cedar hull. Water lapped at the bow, and her long wispy dark hair tickled her face. She was happy, but when she turned back to meet the melancholy eyes of the father she loved, Martha learned that her mother, Annie Auriol White, passed away that day. His sadness became hers. From that day on, everything changed. Drifting further away from the pristine archipelago that we all call home, this was a moment in time that became a memory, a scar in my belly, a vestige of our life, the time before. I am made of ts’úu, red cedar. These are my family members. I hold those at the bow who lead and sense changes ahead. Paddling with others is necessary to get to our destination. I am also the same cedar that came from the seed, that grew into the tree, that was watered by rain. I am the same tree that bird perched on when my people listened and prayed for a sturdy strong vessel. I am from the forest of Grandmothers of Haida Gwaii. And I was there, between the happiness and then sudden sadness of feeling left behind, when I felt her loss, too. I am cedar and I hold memories, too.

Great grandmother Martha Auriol, daughter of Nastoyix In 1889, my great grandmother, Martha Auriol, was born to Annie Auriol White, Sagwaa Git’anee, “People of the Tall Grass,” Haida, Eagle clan. Annie Auriol White married Nastoyix, Chief of the Gitwilgiot Band, Tsimshian, Raven clan. Annie Auriol White lived and around 1895 died in the heart of Haida Gwaii at Queen Charlotte, British Columbia when Martha Auriol was 6. Grandma Martha Auriol spent most of her young life traveling by canoe. Sometimes trips were days long with her father, Chief Nastoyix. They traded resources with surrounding Alaskan villages, traveling as far south as Washington state to trade with the Yakama Nation. At the turn of the century, Martha Auriol White crossed the peninsula to Metlakata’s Industrial Home for Girls, and on occasion, she returned to Queen Charlotte. Great Grandma Martha was just as strong as her father, Chief Nastoyix, and her mother, Annie Auriol, though this power and the leadership position her families once held were tested. During her time at boarding school, her hair was cut. This might have been the end of her future reign. My mother recalled stories. Sharing her memories of seeing the scars on Great Grandma’s back from the times when she was whipped by the nuns who caught her speaking her traditional language. Grandma Martha still kept it in her heart, speaking her mother tongue silently in her mind as they recited Bible verses. I  imagine that when Great Grandma got past the 241

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physical pain, her tears felt sadness, then anger, and then numbness. I imagine that she turned pain into a superpower. Her scars became a permanent memory and proof of her survival. After boarding school, Martha returned home and by that time became pregnant with my Grandma Alyce. Arrangements were made for Martha to marry a French-Canadian man who we only know as “Simms,” the paternal name on Grandma Alyce’s birth certificate. Great Grandma Martha Auriol left the islands. never to return again.

Bloodborne memories: the lasting whispers of my ancestors and rituals of resilience As a young Indigenous woman, I always felt a strong sense of connection to my culture, community, and the environment, despite growing up far from my traditional homelands of Southeast Alaska, Hawai‘i, and the Philippines. They are what Emalani Case (2015) refers to as “ancestral behaviors,” noting that, “some natives have primal instincts so embedded that despite generations of exposure to the thinking mind and ‘civilization,’ ancestral behavior surfaces” (p. 25). It is that moment in time when we step onto land and oceanscapes that are new but feel deeply familiar. Nature-based protocol is a tool for cultural perpetuity that connects me with being human in a human and non-human world. Ceremony is an act of decolonization, a way to reconnect with what was taken from us. Cultural ceremonies have served me in a place other than my traditional homelands in Tacoma, Washington, a region that holds a long history of familial and close ancestral ties with the Filipino, Native Hawaiian, Puyallup, Muckleshoot, Nisqually, and other coastal tribes in the Pacific Northwest (Lee, Lim, & Matsukawa, 2002; Koppel, 1995; Ho, 2005; Frank, 2006). My Hawaiian/Filipino father and Haida/Filipino mother made sure to instill in me a strong connection to my communities by making cultural activities such as hula, paddling, summer youth work, and helping with cultural gatherings a way of life for my family (The Seattle Times, 1990; De Place, 2015). These everyday engagements turned into memories of instinctual knowing guiding my life as an Indigenous woman. Rituals of resilience describes moving from one space into another, remembering the source, and acknowledging all that is ahead of us. These rituals are held in our cultural protocols for entering new spaces, land and oceanscapes. Practices of engaging in change are: 1) Prayer or Intention; 2) Naming and Remembering; 3) Listening and Observing; and 4) Expression of Authenticity. In every ceremony, we prepare ourselves to take steps along a pathway or a bridge to meet something, living or non-living, be it a field to gather plant medicine or to meet people at their home/land. It is important to always hold a vision for meeting something or reconnecting in a new way. It’s establishing ourselves in the present tense, visioning forward, and looking back to our ancestors as a source of wisdom (Smith, 2012; Case, 2015; Akana, 2012). Every solution arrives at the gateway of change, an opportunity. Every time we follow this process and apply it to other areas of our lives, we begin to lead with a connectedness to our inner and outer worlds. A constant appreciation for the land as the giver of life offers us perspective. It gives us staying power, refining our ability to adapt and to support a new era with new solutions to new problems. This process of prayerful intention, remembrance, observation, and expression are steady reminders that we must tend to our internal world by self-reflection and practicing acts of collective recognition of “home” and “land.” My stories intend to move the reader into a consciousness with the same fluidity and direction this ritual offers for me, as an Indigenous Leader in service to our community and our environment, knowing that we are all related and everything has mana – a life force – in it. What is equal to and most critical is that readers be in relationship; that is, that they develop a 242

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connection to ideas of how the land or mothering in all forms resonates with you. What speaks to you? What are you curious about? What challenges you to grow and think of the world differently? It is my hope that building a relationship through story and sharing will in and of itself encourage positive change and transformation, a new way of seeing and addressing life’s challenges. We all have a shared kinship that comes from being born and that is rooted in the land. Protocol, beginning with centering ourselves through prayer, strengthens our relationship to each other and to the environment.

Disengaging the potential and power of women and land The birth of intellectualism during the period of Enlightenment rendered both woman and nature as dispensable, and began to redefine both in the context of patriarchal power. This set the tone for the industrial age, science and technology, and the rise of a new national agenda (Cajete, 1999; Smith, 2012; Meyer, 2013). Smith (2012) identifies this period as a time when, “the imperial imagination enabled European nations to imagine the possibility that new worlds, new wealth and new possessions existed that could be discovered and controlled” (p. 22). As a result, the birth of the modern world abandoned the idea that Indigenous notions of woman and land embodied potential and were key to our survival. Instead, they became tools to drive nationalist ideology by subjugating minorities, women, and non-binary people to heteronormative power structures (McIntosh, 2018; Barratt, 2010). Western ideology built within these structures became a network of social mores and rules that defined Black, brown, Indigenous, and sexual minorities as “other” – separate from modernity and the antithesis of human progress (Smith, 2012). Early dualist philosophy distinguished the mind and intellect as separate from the body and was founded on notions of domination and control over land and female bodies. Descartes asserted, nature [as] other than “man” and lies mutely “out there,” waiting for him to penetrate her secrets scientifically and to plunder her resources. . . . Women are other. They are the weaker sex, ruled disruptively by their passions, and in need of governance by the stable rationality of men. (Barratt, 2010, pp. 24–25) Descartes made sure to distinguish the body (physiology) and the mind (psychology) as two separate disciplines (Smith, 2012). These early texts describe the land and female as embodied possessions and symbols of wealth. Descartes suggests that a powerful imperial enterprise is gained outside of us and as driven by the mind (science) and separate from land, “out there” and women “weaker and penetrable” (Barratt, 2010, pp. 24-25). Philosophically, land and motherhood became synonymous with nationhood, material possession, and wealth, rather than collective universal consciousness as defined by Indigenous people. This shift in discourse has erased the relevant nature of the human body and its connection to land. By assigning land and women as exploitable and dispensable resources, this began the ultimate separation of humans from two significant sources of resiliency, causing us to lose sight of ourselves in relationship with our own bodies (e.g., cis, non-binary) and their dynamic abilities to participate in cycles of the natural world, to regenerate and evolve. Thus, our mothers are reminders that the human body is full of potential. When the psyche becomes disconnected from the body, we tend to forget our past and the environment around us, but the body somehow always remembers and is vital for tapping back into our human potential. 243

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Core qualities of leadership The core qualities of leadership are reflected in the components of prayer, remembering our past, listening and observing, mana, and expression. These qualities are synergistic, grounded in the land–matriarch connection, and offer ways forward. These qualities are illustrated by examples from personal experience and other recorded knowledge.

Prayer: looking back, reopening the channels, preparing for the exchange I found myself at the door of the backroom of a museum. A Māori elder woman held my hand as two other relatives stood by quietly arranging for the entrance to this corner room of the museum. We stood alongside museum curators and officials lining the narrow hallway under bright fluorescent lights, unsure of what was to come. A familiar anxiousness I’d seen in haole (Caucasian) people before. It was quiet. As the clock ticked the whispers began. In the center of that room we were preparing to enter and held eight boxes of our ‘iwi, ancestral remains. The elder woman and I stood at the entrance. We held hands, she chanted, and we cried. A flood of memories returned giving life to the ‘iwi we were preparing to bring back home. In that moment, prayer became a starting point for understanding the present more deeply by inviting an intention to do something and to make a move. Ushering home ancestors’ bones, spirit feeds, entering the ocean, a taro patch, a forest, and entering a building were all serious business. The seriousness of the ceremony is held in recalling the weight of the world that our ancestors fell into, adapted to, and repulsed. The pain is deep, and yet we stay for a moment. We pray and our world opens us up again. We stand at a gateway preparing for what is to come. Asking for sincerity in our intentions to invite in something new, like an offering, gift, and new piece to add to the story. In the modern day, this would be the intention to design a product, introduce a project, or propose a partnership. Prayer is an intention, a clear acknowledgment made in the present moment reflecting on the past and expressing gratitude and humility moving into the future. In the modern world, it is referred to as a “self ” or “organizational” assessment – a clear intention to our stakeholders, mentors, teachers, and family members in our sphere of influence that something has been set in motion. We look at all experiences of sadness and of joy. We reflect on the people and places that came before, acknowledging them and creating space for something new. Strength and guidance come in the form of ceremonies, body/spirit-spaces, meant to remember that not to loathe in it, but to continue to acknowledge the source of our strength before we step forward. As leaders, we stand at the gateway that opens ourselves to our vision of what or who we are going to meet on the other side of the bridge. This vision is the people we are to meet, the plant medicines we are to gather, or the project we are to begin. By setting an intention for something, we open up the pathway to change. We invite it with humility. Our resiliency comes from acknowledging first the present tense and all the events, ideas, exchanges, and people that helped shape our current place. Before action, acknowledging a metaphysical connection to some greater whole is necessary. The physical act of protocol begins with the intentional placing of our bodies in alignment with a universal spirit-consciousness that allows us to imagine potentiality and prepares us for entering into a relationship, a new realm. This integration of highly subjective ingredients, beginning with prayer or intention, anchors a leader who prevails in the face of the unknown. Leading from the experience of prayer or intention, a leader must be able to know the past by naming and remembering purpose and place, to be able to look back to the source of their existence and identity as powerful beings and 244

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creators. Today, naming and remembering landscape and matriarchal lineage is challenged by heteronormative patriarchal agendas that separate woman and land from collective consciousness. This has consequences for our future and wellbeing. To move forward and take the next step in remembering and naming who we are, we must know who we are not.

Remembering our past: naming and recalling ‘Aina [land] is Papa. Our beloved ancestor who has given us our lives. We are her. She is us. Aloha ‘Aina. Care of land is central to continuity and the gaining of wisdom. ‘Aina is the space of our practices, philosophy, dreams, and food production. (Meyer, n.d.)

Once we have entered into a vision for what is to come, we take the next step by naming and recalling our past, our lands, and our people. In protocol, Indigenous Hawaiians and Haida begin with our homelands and tell people where we are from, our family mountains, waters, and rivers. ‘Aina, or land, is a physical landscape and is seen as an ancestor, as having a deep familial relationship with our people, therefore strengthening a sense of shared kinship and connection to the seen and unseen world. Smith (2012) reminds us that colonialism and the appropriation of our lands and renaming them were a powerful ideological tool of subjugation. She notes, “newly named land became increasingly disconnected from the songs and chants used by Indigenous peoples to trace their history, to bring forth spiritual elements or to carry out the simplest of ceremonies” (p. 51). Thus, recalling and remembering is an act of resistance and a source of our survival. Land as Mother is a source of sustenance, for our health and wellbeing, and the keeper of our stories and histories source of resilience (Case, 2015; Meyer, n.d.). Case (2015) encourages us to, “look beyond the physical ground that we dwell upon and to honor all of those sources that “feed” us, and to “aloha ‘aina” is to stand to protect them” (p. 4). As we do look beyond the physical landscape and seascape into the essence of ‘aina. The qualities that mothers possess, of being the lifeline to the next generation are equally valued. The concept “Alohā’aina” represents the life force, the spirit, that sustains the land and all life. Just as in the fight to save and protect our sacred mountain, Mauna Kea. Hawaiians refer to Mauna Kea as the first-born son of Wākea (Sky Father) and Papahānaumoku (Earth Mother), or “Papa” (Case, 2015). The Hawaiian identification with Mauna Kea is associated with Mother Earth and her lifeline to the Hawaiian people. Case states that, “Mauna Kea is symbolic of the piko or umbilical cord of the island-child, Hawai‘i, and that which connects the land [Mother Earth] to the heavens [Father Sky]” (Case, 2015, p. 5). The quality of ‘aina as synonymous with mother is in the root word, “‘ai” or in verb form, “to feed” as a mother provides sustenance for her fetus (Pukui & Elbert, 1986). Metaphorically, ‘aina or land is also understood as being, “all sources of sustenance, whether physical, spiritual, emotional or otherwise” (Meyer, 2003, p. 101). These are points where mother and land converge. When we use the landscape as a conduit for remembering our ancestry and the original source of life, the land, then Alohā’aina becomes an act of preserving and protecting our life source, Mother and Land. Two important facets of Alohā emerge in relationship to the land, as Meyer (n.d.) identifies Alohā as a process of mutual causality, meaning that what we do to the land, it does to us. How we love ourselves is how we love others. Our notion of Alohā (love) is expressed through acts of love – the ultimate of them being compassion; compassion for self and for others (Meyer, 2004, n.d., 2013). When we are able to recall, name, and remember our past, sometimes it can bring about pain in the emotional and spiritual body. It is important to 245

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be aware of that pain as a source of strength. When we can recognize patterns, past mistakes, and also successes, we come out of change with more clarity. When leaders listen and observe quietly and intently to what is being shared using all senses in the body, the mind, and the spirit, they can see the group, the plant medicine, or the vision on the other end of the bridge more clearly. None other than the mother’s relationship to her unborn child is able to tell a story about the spirit of reciprocity and the act of loving and of sustenance.

Listening and observing: mom Modern science says that our first memories begin in the womb of our mothers. Or at least, that’s what my mom said to me days after a training she attended. I was about 20 years old when she shared this. Something seemed to have sparked her interest because she went on about how the fetus receives its mother’s emotions and how those emotions flow in and out of its developing cells. I imagine emotions to be some sort of invisible force, organizing and flowing among the worker cells, mingling with each other. The mother and fetus are one. You breathe, I breathe. You hurt, I hurt. You stop breathing, I stop breathing. There was a time when I rested in my mother’s womb, sitting between her and the world, silently listening and observing, sensing. I  rested between my mom and my father’s yelling words. Both my dad and mom fought with words that burned like daggers on fire. It was probably the grip of his words that broke everything. It is probably what made my mom’s water break, too. It was 1980, the same year Mount Saint Helens erupted. It is one of several active volcanoes along the Pacific Northwest coast. Within weeks, ashfall blanketed Washington and surrounding states. I was born shortly before the eruption and one full trimester early, weighing in at 2.7 ounces on the 28th day of January. My birthdate was nothing short of a miracle, a reassurance that mom needed in the face of what lay ahead. I have the same birthday as my Grandpa Julian Samoba Argel, my mother’s father, who died when she was 8 years old. Perhaps I was a permanent reminder for mom that her father was near, supporting her and loving her up there in the spirit world. My mother recalls the stress of my birth, both because of the continuing challenges she was having in her relationship with my father and concern for the air quality and my ability to breathe. Within weeks of my release from the hospital, I stopped breathing – my hā left for a moment, but, gratefully, it returned. Perhaps this is something that my mom had sensed would happen all along.

Listening and observing Among our Potawatomi people, women are the Keepers of Water. We carry the sacred water to ceremonies and act on its behalf. Women have a natural bond with water, because we are both life bearers, my sister said. We carry our babies in internal ponds and they come forth into the world on a wave of water. It is our responsibility to safeguard the water for all our relations. Being a good mother includes the caretaking of water. (Kimmerer, 2015, pp. 93–94)

Kimmerer (2015) highlights the direct connection between life-bearing mothers and water which makes up the whole of our natural world. In deep connection to the moon cycle or menses, it is the conduit or spiritual current that holds and sustains life bodies. As carriers of 246

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water to sustain a fetus, mothers are able to sense and feel their bodies and to listen intuitively. This helps us to reframe our understanding of listening not as purely hearing, but by observing through our senses. Metaphorically speaking, water is the key element of nourishment needed for life to be born or in order for an act, idea, or project to happen. Without water, life would cease to exist. Water plays a significant role in ushering life, of replenishing, transferring us or transporting us from one place to the next. Indigenous people understood this best, and for my Haida and Hawaiian ancestors, seafaring was an essential way of life. They were highly attuned to the elements and the changes in currents, a shift in the color of the waves or the horizon ahead of them. The ability to listen and observe closely meant our ancestors were able to sense change, identify wind changes and the direction of a bird’s flight, or observing constellations at night, and – most of all – observe with their instinct (Thompson, n.d.). Hawaiians believe the synergy between the thinking mind and feeling heart is attributed to “gut instinct.” Na‘au is defined literally, as the gut or, “Intestines, bowels, guts” And also, na‘au is defined as, “the mind, heart, affections; of the heart or mind; mood, temper, feelings” and figuratively as “child” (Ulukau.org, Accessed September 3, 2020). The meaning of na‘au changes when the suffix, “ao” is placed on the end forming the word, “Na‘auao” meaning “enlightenment, wisdom, learning, light” (Ulukau.org, Accessed September 3, 2020). From the Hawaiian perspective, intelligence is tangible and intangible, understood and felt. A combination of the mind, body, and spirit helps us align ourselves more closely to the path we intend to take – that next best step. Essential to our ability to lead is to be able to use all of our senses and to attune ourselves to our original sources by using more than thought and logic. The breadth of knowledge understood in this way comes from our deep attachment to waterways found in place names of the land and oceanscapes. Not only were these names used to identify the significance or sacredness of a place, but, they also served a purpose. When a story of Creation, for example, is told, it is meant to secure and protect places and people – not out of individual will, but for the collective good and wellbeing. In the well-known Hawaiian Creation story of Maui fishing out the islands, Hina appears as a female water spirit who helps Maui try to unite all the islands (Beckwith, 1982). Hina is a derivative of Mahina, meaning “moon.” Hina is also known throughout the Pacific as the Goddess of Motherhood and of young children (Ulukau.org, Accessed September 16, 2020). Similarly, the Haida associate waterscapes with feminine qualities and are known as “Daughters of the River” among Northern Haida and “Woman at the Head” south of the Queen Charlotte Islands. These associations are used to describe the life cycle of the salmon where, “all salmon return to rivers, in their attempt to reach the house of this woman, but, they die before reaching the house” (Jones, 2008, p. 20). The Tsimsian have a story that shares the origins of tides as coming from an “old woman who held the tideline in her hands” (Garza, 1999, p. 33). Reflecting the tie between people and the sea, even names of Pacific coastal ancestors, Tlingit were associated with water. Peck (1975) explains, “the word Tlingit, commonly defined as ‘the people,’ really means ‘the Tides People’ because Tlin (pronounced lein) means ‘tides’ in Tlingit and ‘git’ is Tsimshian for ‘human being” (p. 31). Indeed, tides are essential to Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian people whose livelihoods depend on intertidal resources.

Mana Mana is understood across the Pacific Island Peoples as a lifeforce, a spirit-filled power of a person, place, or thing (Pukui & Elbert, 1986). I often wonder where the original source of mana rests. Perhaps mana came from the constellation of the fish hook we call, “Mānaiakalani,” the 247

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Chief ’s Fishline. It is heavenly and powerful, a hook that the demi-God named “Maui” used to fish out the Hawaiian Islands. Setting out on the waters of Kanaloa to gather Pimoe, the God of all fish, for his mother, Hina (the moon), and instead the Pimoe he pulled out of the ocean broke into eight pieces, forming islands rich with food to feed generations. The fish hook now sits among the stars of our ali’i, the chieftesses and chiefs of our kingdom. Hawaiians believe that ali’i are the stars that look over us, marking the pathway back to our traditional homeland, Kealaikahiki (Pathway to Kahiki or Tahiti). For hundreds of years, our ancestors used star constellations to travel long distances. The Pathway to Kahiki is understood as the ‘Iwikuamo’o, or “North-South star line” that is visible at night, invisible in the day, and a guiding source that seafaring Hawaiians used as they pulled the canoe closer to Kahiki (Hawaiian Voyaging Traditions, 2018). ‘Iwikuamo’o is also defined as, “n. 1. Spine, backbone 2. Near and trusted relative of a chief who attended to his personal needs and possessions, and executed private orders; family” (Pukui & Elbert, 1986, p. 105). Hōkūpa’a, or “stuck star,” is our name for the North Star. Hōkūpa’a is meant to anchor and support navigators with holding the line that leads to the last constellation, Hānaiakamalama or the Southern Cross. Hānaiakamalama means, “to be cared for by the moon” (Hawaiian Voyaging Traditions, 2020). I am reminded of the teachings of our elders. In order to understand where we are going, we must look to the source. In the great ocean of the Hawaiian navigator, one held steadfast to Hōkūpa’a to move forward in the direction of Hānaiakamalama, Grandmother Moon (Hawaiian Voyaging Traditions, 2020). Hānaiakamalama moves us through the ocean as its waves push and pull us toward our destination, a reminder that we are never far from home. The ocean is like the mother’s womb. It carries us. When we cry, we can taste the bitter salt of the ocean.

Expression Rituals of resilience are an endless loop that begins with prayer, listening, and remembering lineages while observing through a multisensory lens. Finally, we accept the invitation to connect to the group, idea, or action. The final practice of resilience: stepping into the fullest expression of oneself and of the group. It is a full integration of knowledge gained from the land and people, sharing a common experience in practices of change. We meet, groups engage, and we celebrate around food and music. The journey is now complete. We walk in with an original intention and vision, looking to the past and acknowledging all that we come with and silently listening and observing ourselves and others. This helps us step into the fullest expression of all that is and is to come. Through the experience of these rituals, we become aware of our connection to something greater. The practice of expression is about stepping through an experience, sometimes subtle, challenging or life changing. This aligns all tangible five physical senses (sight, taste, smell, hearing, and touch) with the non-tangible (intuition or sixth sense). As leaders, we combine learning with a deeper awareness of ourselves in relationship to others. This aligns us to the power of land, of matriarch, and our connection to the whole of the human experience and the universe. We thus mimic the land, forming symbiotic relationships by coexisting with the environment and people. These are necessary for all living things to survive and to thrive. To live fully we must have community, realize our gifts, and step into the fullness of our human potential. There is a Haida saying, Gina Waadluxaan Gud Ad thll Kwaagiidang, that translates as “everything depends on everything.” How we treat the land reflects how we treat ourselves and others. The essence of this saying requires us to look back on a common shared ritual of resilience, an experience of being able to fully express ourselves, our intentions, our past on a land or ocean base where we can tap into a full awareness of our relationship to others, and with 248

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the intent and care for the wellbeing of others. Recalling the story of Papahānaumoku (Mother Earth) and Wākea (Sky Father), Kikiloi (2010) expresses the rise in collective consciousness for Hawaiians, stating that this union forever changed “our relationship with these islands by forging our genealogies together into one common lineage. This binding act gave rise to the first collective sense of a Hawaiian consciousness, linking together people and homeland in a perpetual, interdependent relationship” (p. 101). If our inner wellbeing is invariably connected to the outer world and wellbeing of others, living and non-living and if our landscape and oceanscapes hold the spaces to create that awareness, how might we – as leaders – lead differently in today’s world?

Conclusion Indigenous concepts and stories always circle back to the Earth, motherhood, leadership and change. In the spirit of a full expression of interconnectedness, dialogue, and centering a leader might ask, “How do each of these concepts relate to each other and how can I apply this to other areas of my life and in service to others?” The wisdom embedded in the multidimensional world of ritual is a universal Indigenous understanding. These come in many different forms, across many landscapes and waterways. Indigenous rituals of resilience are essential reminders that connect us to our deep past and bring us into “service [for] our children who live to carry on [through] the [female] line in the world of mankind” (Beckwith, 2000, p. 7). Rituals reaffirm us as caretakers of the land, ocean, and non-human beings. We are all carriers of mana, or divine power, and we are responsible for passing this on to succeeding generations. As an outrigger canoe paddler, I think about my seafaring Haida, Tsimpsian, and Hawaiian ancestors, and the vulnerability and trust in others we must have out in open waters. The land– matriarch points of connection teach us a core fundamental truth about personal transformation and collective evolution. To safely reach our destination, compassion becomes necessary. We must be fully aware of ourselves, of others, and of the elements around us expressing care and concern for all minds/bodies/spirits. This is what gives the medicine, the mana, spirit-filled power to heal. For the treatment or diagnosis to be good, the intention of its giver and its receiver must be good. For our solutions to be sound, our intentions must be pono – in perfect harmony with one another. Our constant dance with the world means that we have the opportunity to exercise acts of love and forgiveness by bringing balance to our inner and outer environments through acts of compassion. How we care for the land and people is how we care for our mind/body/spirit. This is what Indigenous people have lived by since the time before us, Ka wā mamua. We stand in the moment, look to the wisdom of the past, and find our rhythm again leaning into a cadence pulling our canoe closer to its destination. We believe that if the land and ocean does it, we ought to do it, too. The ability of Earth to renew and sustain itself through biodiverse plants and animals is to nature as the ability of the modern-day leader is to revitalizing and remembering communities through diverse approaches to problem solving. Indigenous resilience teaches us that the fate of the Earth and how we treat it will determine the destiny of humanity. As modern-day leaders, we have an opportunity to choose resilience over restraint in the face of change.

References Akana, K. (2012). Hei, Hawaiian string figures: Hawaiian memory culture and mnemonic practice. Retrieved from www.ksbe.edu/_assets/spi/hulili/hulili_vol_8/3_Hulili_2012_Vol8_Akana.pdf

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Kapi’olani A. Laronal Barratt, B. (2010). The emergence of somatic psychology and bodymind therapy (critical theory and practice in psychology and the human sciences) (2010th ed.). New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. Beckwith, M. W. (1982). Hawaiian mythology (Later ptg ed.). University of Hawai‘i Press. Beckwith, M. W. (2000). The Kumulipo: A Hawaiian creation chant (1st ed.). University of Hawai‘i Press. Cajete, G. (1999). Native science: Natural laws of interdependence (1st ed.). Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Publishers. Case, E. (2015). I Kahiki Ke Ola: In Kahiki there is life: Ancestral memories and migrations in the new pacific (Doctoral Thesis). Retrieved from http://researcharchive.vuw.ac.nz/xmlui/bitstream/handle/10063/4880/ thesis.pdf?sequence=1 De Place, E. (2015, August 11). Hawaiians and pacific islanders in the Northwest. Sightline Institute. Retrieved from www.sightline.org/2012/06/05/hawaiians-and-pacific-islanders-in-the-northwest/ Frank, B. (2006). Being frank: We are Ohana. Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission. Retrieved from https://nwifc.org/being-frank-we-are-ohana/ Garza, D. (1999). Tlingit Moon & Tide: Teaching Resource, Elementary (ISBN 1–56612-060-8). Fairbanks, Alaska: University of Alaska. Hawaiian Voyaging Traditions: Hawaiian Star Lines  & Star Names. (2018, September  22). Hōkūle‘a. Retrieved from www.hokulea.com/education-at-sea/polynesian-navigation/polynesian-non-instru ment-wayfinding/hawaiian-star-lines/ Hawaiian Voyaging Traditions: Hawaiian Star Lines & Star Names. (2020, August 21). Retrieved from http://archive.hokulea.com/ike/hookele/hawaiian_star_lines.html Ho, James, G. Y. (2005). Northwest Hawaii times: Forgotten Hawaiians: The pacific Northwest. Retrieved from www.northwesthawaiitimes.com/forgothaw.htm Jones, K. (2008, November 8). Returning to the rivers – Salmon and ceremony. Haida Laas. Retrieved from www.haidanation.ca/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/nov.08.pdf Kame’eleihiwa, L. K. (1992). Native land and foreign desires: Pehea Lā E Pono Ai? How shall we live in harmony? Honolulu, HI: Bishop Museum Press. Kikiloi, K. (2010). Rebirth of an archipelago: Sustaining a Hawaiian cultural identity for people and homeland. Hülili: Multidisciplinary Research on Hawaiian Well-Being, 6, 73–115. Retrieved from https:// georgehbalazs.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/Moku-papapa-5_Rebirth_of_an_Archipelago.pdf Kimmerer, R. W. (2015). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teachings of plants (First Paperback ed.). Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Editions. Koppel, T. (1995). Kanaka: The untold story of Hawaiian pioneers in British Columbia and the pacific Northwest. Vancouver: White Cap Books Ltd. Kuahiwinui, M. K. (2018). Ka Waimaka Lehua: Menstruation through Hawaiian epistemology (Master’s Thesis). University of Hawai‘i, Manoa. Retrieved from https://scholarspace.manoa.hawaii.edu/ bitstream/10125/62475/2018-05-ma-kanekuahiwinui.pdf Lee, J., Lim, I., & Matsukawa, Y. (2002). Recollecting early Asian America: Essays in cultural history (Asian American history & culture) (1st ed.). Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. McIntosh, M. A. (2018, October  1). The age of Enlightenment: An intellectual movement of reason. Brewminate. Retrieved from https://brewminate.com/the-age-of-enlightenment-an-intellectual-move ment-of-reason/ Meyer, M. (n.d.). Written direct testimony of Dr. Manulani Aluli Meyer. Retrieved from https://dlnr.hawaii. gov/mk/files/2016/10/B.05a-wdt-Meyer.pdf Meyer, M. (2001, Spring). The contemporary pacific, 13(1), 124–148. Retrieved from https://courses. helsinki.fi/sites/default/files/course-material/4486777/2)%20Meyer%20Hawai%20episte.pdf Meyer, M. (2004). Ho’oulu: Our time of becoming: Collected early writings of Manulani Meyer (1st ed.). Native Books. Retrieved from http://ulukau.org/elib/cgi-bin/library?e=d-0hooulu-000Sec – 11haw-50–20frameset-book-manulani+meyer-1–011escapewin&a=d&d=D0&toc=0 Meyer, M. (2013). Holographic epistemology: Native common sense. Retrieved from www.oregoncampuscom pact.org/. Peck, C. E. (1975). The Tides People: Tlingit Indians of Southeast Alaska. United States: Indians Studies Program, City and Borough of Juneau School District. Polynesian Voyaging Society. (n.d.). Hawaiian lunar month. Retrieved September 16, 2020, from http:// archive.hokulea.com/ike/hookele/hawaiian_lunar_month.html#:%7E:text=In%20the%20traditional%20Hawaiian%20calendar,the%20phases%20of%20the%20moon.&text=The%20first%20 10%2Dday%20period,the%20first%20crescent%20(Samuel%20M Pukui, M. K., & Elbert, S. H. (1986). Hawaiian dictionary. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press.

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The time before us Rutter, V. B. (1993). Woman changing woman: Feminine psychology re-conceived through myth and experience. New York: Harper Collins Publisher. The Seattle Times. (1990, May 25). The 1990 Northwest folklife festival: Cultures cross and traditions resurface. Retrieved from https://archive.seattletimes.com/archive/?date=19900525&slug=1073812 Smith, L. T. (2012). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples (2nd ed.). London & New York: Zed Books. Thompson, N. (n.d.). Wayfinding: Intellect and instinct. Hokulea.com. Retrieved September  30, 2020, from http://archive.hokulea.com/ike/hookele/intellect_and_instinct.html

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PART IV

The natural world

The authors in Part 4 explore different manifestations of Indigenous Peoples’ connections with the natural world, including those we have retained, those we have reclaimed, connections that are strong, and connections that are tenuous. They explore the nature of connections to land, colonial attempts to destroy these relationships, and Indigenous resilience in rebuilding connections and defending the natural world. Examples are offered from across the world, including Norway, Taiwan, Nepal, and Hawai‘i.

Living in relationship Humans are a small – yet equal – part of creation, and we carry responsibilities for our nonhuman relations. Our interdependent relationship with the natural world is grounded in reciprocity and respect. Indigeneity intersects with ecological sustainability and these connections are a source of strength that supports human wellbeing. In Chapter 17, authors describe how traditional lifestyles such as reindeer herding re-enforce values, self-sufficiency, and connections in the natural world. When people are out on the land, they know the land, and are in relationship and balance. Worldviews are the root of culture, grounded in holistic relationships between people and their environment. Knowledge comes from generations of living in relationship with the natural world. Resilience grows from the land. The author of Chapter 18 describes how caring for land through eco-friendly, culturally congruent agriculture strengthens cultural identity and promotes a return to our original relationship of interdependence. The Atayal people of Taiwan honor cultural norms as they care for mountains and forests, respect all creatures, and plan for future generations. Economic activities that emerge from this relationship enhance community autonomy and lessen colonial pressures. Other authors in Part 4 note how coexistence with the environment supports resilience in the face of disasters. Our connection to land also increases susceptibility to place-based grief and loss arising from environmental exploitation. The authors of Chapter 21 note that climate change has many psychological and social consequences, yet they caution us that trauma and mental health concerns associated with environmental destruction must not be viewed as problems within individuals. Rather, the root causes of distress exist in powerful, systemic, colonial systems and beliefs that undermine Indigenous systems and the natural world. DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-21

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Colonial disconnect The authors in Part 4 describe how colonization deliberately disrupted affirming relationships between Indigenous Peoples and the natural world. Policies such as “restructuring” for Norway Sámi and “relocation” for Native Americans were designed to separate them from the land and sever their relationships with the natural world. These policies were often accompanied by external claims that Indigenous practices like reindeer herding are not environmentally sustainable when, in fact, these claims were a pretense for forced assimilation. Authors in Part 4 describe how Indigenous Peoples have always resisted colonial encroachments. They describe intergenerational struggles for self-determination, demilitarization, deoccupation, and decolonization. Government neglect is echoed throughout chapters in this book, yet the authors in Part 4 describe how Indigenous people stepped up to support their own wellbeing and that of the natural world. In one example, the authors of Chapter  19 describe how the government of Nepal did not support schools serving displaced Tamang students after devastating earthquakes, but members of other tribes provided needed school supplies, an intertribal response echoed elsewhere in this book with Pashtun and Native American examples. In many parts of the world, Indigenous territories have resources such as mineral wealth, yet Indigenous Peoples disproportionately suffer poverty. Settler society governments rarely respect cultural knowledge and racism manifests in lack of government responsiveness and lack of public awareness of environmental contamination of Indigenous lands. Stereotypical media portrayals of Indigenous Peoples and our relationships with the land contribute to symbolic violence and increased conflict with settler societies. Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination are ignored, and activism is criminalized. Bureaucratic mismanagement of disasters is another threat that further destroys Indigenous cultures. In Nepal, a Tamang resident of an Internally Displaced Persons camp noted, they were ruined by earthquakes first, then devasted by government apathy. Government apathy was far worse. Chapter 19 illustrates that as connections to the land become more tenuous, Indigenous people experience vulnerability related to displacement that compounds pre-existing vulnerabilities and patterns of discrimination.

Defending our relatives Chapters in Part 4 offer examples of supporting non-human relatives under threat. Authors point to mismanagement of Indigenous lands including corruption in caring for Mauna Kea, a sacred site under the jurisdiction of the State of Hawai‘i that a 2005 environmental impact statement documented had suffered significant, substantial, and adverse harm. Indigenous people are called to fulfill relational responsibilities. Authors in Part 4 pose the question, what kind of elder and ancestor will you be? They provide examples of challenging the settler state grounded in our protocols, responsibilities, and truths. We continue to care for and protect what the state will not. The author of Chapter 21 describes the challenges of coming face to face with family members while on the front lines and being arrested by relatives, while noting the importance of standing for our children, their children, and the land. Grassroots Indigenous movements are often confronted by powerful militarized state enforcement as described in multiple chapters in this section. Our nations rise as more people become educated and take up responsibilities to confront injustice and address needs. Authors describe

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the genealogy of struggle and activism leading to a contemporary blending of modern civil disobedience and cultural protocols guided by Indigenous Knowledge. Part 4 also provides examples of caring for ourselves while caring for others. The authors of Chapter 21 describe a culturally relevant model created to support the wellbeing of activists. Indeed, they assert that Indigenous models of resilience can lead the world in responding to large-scale crises tied to climate change.

Retaining and reclaiming connections and balance Indigenous Peoples have retained and reclaimed relationships with the natural world. These connections offer strength in contemporary times and guidance for the future. As an example, in Chapter 17, authors describe how traditional Sámi reindeer herding continues to grow despite external pressures. Multiple authors describe how Indigenous people around the world rise like a mighty wave, connecting and reconnecting through sacred lands in ways that are political, intimate, and emotional. The authors describe decolonizing as challenging and complex, but note it offers opportunities to reclaim our humanity by living in relationship and balance. The Atayal example identifies how grants can create dependence and further colonization. External resources become “sugar-coated poisons” that allow subsistence but deprive recipients of dignity and their ability to think. As a partial alternative to dependence on colonial social welfare systems, the Atayal people of Taiwan use agricultural profits to fund social services. They live with reciprocity and in genealogical relationship with the land, feeding and caring for each other. They have adapted their traditions for contemporary times and needs, resulting in sustainability, empowerment, and strength, although following traditional practices may reduce profitability. While the Atayal chapter reminds us that crisis brings opportunity, the contrast between how Indigenous communities in Taiwan and Nepal fared following devastating earthquakes illustrates that no single outcome is guaranteed. Given the strength that comes from the land, one key difference between Nepal and Taiwan earthquake recovery may be the ongoing displacement of many Tamang in Nepal. Another advantage in Taiwan may be the knowledge and skills that Indigenous youth brought back to their communities when they returned from living in cities. Incorporating traditions and culture in economic development and disaster recovery enables Indigenous people to thrive, not just survive. Strengths-based approaches, empowerment, and community autonomy can lead to a bright future. The authors provide examples of Indigenous resurgence, resistance, and resilience, grounded within an awareness of our connections to the past and our ancestors, all possible because of our love of our lands. The author of Chapter 21 frames Aloha aina as patriotism, a type of nationalism that exists without colonial assumptions such as patriarchy, a patriotism that exalts the land, not a race or people, as other forms of nationalism do. The authors describe holistic and collective models of resilience that reflect an understanding of environmental changes within the context of our teachings, stories, and traditional ways. Multiple chapters describe formation of communities of protectors who create and recreate connections between people and the natural world. These examples offer alternatives to settler societies including Indigenous-led cooperative communities that protected Mauna Kea and the waters near the Standing Rock Reservation in the United States. Indigenous practices can reduce risks from disasters and inform policies, but these are often not considered, resulting in missed opportunities. Mental health practitioners must flip the crisis framework to one of cultural resilience. A detailed example in Chapter 21 illustrates how

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members of the Society of Indian Psychologists developed an Indigenous-centered response to externally generated threats to physical and psychological safety of individuals and communities. They created a counter-story to balance the dominant narrative that served as both a communication and healing tool. Throughout Part 4, authors highlight examples of resilience that can be replicated in communities around the globe.

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17 SÁMI REINDEER HERDING AS RESILIENT WAY OF LIFE Jan Erik Henriksen and Ida Hydle

Introduction The Sámi people are Indigenous to Fennoscandia, a region that transcends the Russian, Finnish, Swedish, and Norwegian borders. The northern part of this area is known as Sápmi. Our research and this chapter focus on the Sámi presence on the Norwegian side of Sápmi. We, the authors, are two Norwegian researchers, one Sea Sámi and the other non-Sámi. We are both engaged in investigating Sámi reindeer herding and its connections to language, literature, and the arts. We also explore social, cultural, and civil rights issues for Sámi people on the Norwegian side of Sápmi. Our backgrounds in anthropology, social work, and medicine intersect with our knowledge and experience with Sámi culture. We explore concepts of Indigeneity that extend the modern, administrative definition to include and intersect with social and ecological sustainability. The human–animal connection experienced by Sámi reindeer herders is a source of strength. Reindeer herding is the backbone of Sámi culture and a key source of contemporary resilience. In this chapter, we provide a historical review of reindeer herding and describe the pressures that Sámi have experienced to assimilate into Norwegian society. We describe our research and findings that indicate how reindeer herding is intertwined with Sámi culture. Reindeer herding provides a foundation for resilience that has allowed them to persist through adversity, historically as well as in contemporary times.

A historical view of reindeer husbandry The World Heritage Rock Art Centre at the Alta Museum has an ancient carving that shows a reindeer swimming after a boat. Since the reindeer follows the boat, it may indicate that there were domestic reindeer 2,000 years ago. Several 1,000-year-old rock carvings show that reindeer was a sought-after food for Stone Age people. Reindeer also provided materials for clothing and tools, as they still do. Some researchers believe that Sámi reindeer herding originated between the 15th and 16th centuries (Vorren, 1973), while some archaeologists claim that there has been domestic reindeer herding in the harsh and changing Arctic for the last l1,000–2,000 years (Aronsson, 1991; Bergman, Liedgren, Östlund, & Zackrisson, 2008)

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Reindeer husbandry still has a great impact on the Sámi Indigenous people economically, ecologically, linguistically, culturally, socially, and symbolically. Sámi and non-Sámi alike hope that these values can ​​ be maintained and continue in the future. Sámi fight for the continuance of reindeer herding because it is so much more comprehensive than just an industry (Henriksen & Hydle, 2018). This is seen in Sámi research, literature, films, and theater. The centrality of reindeer to Sámi life and culture drives contemporary political fights for herding rights. The oldest written descriptions of Sámi in European history are probably recorded by the Roman historian Tacitus about 98 A.D. More famous is the Northern Norwegian Viking chief Ottar’s accounts of King Alfred in the late 800s. Ottar said that he himself had 600 domestic reindeer, including six lure reindeers that were very valuable among the Sámi because they were used for wild reindeer hunting. In addition, there are later descriptions about the Sámi using domestic reindeer for transporting people and as pack and dairy animals (Ravna & Benjaminsen, 2018).

Sámi and the pressures of assimilation The Sámi people who live in the northern part of Norway have been exposed to at least two different colonizations. The first colonization the Sámi people experienced occurred over hundreds of years as they were forced to assimilate to the larger societal context. This assimilation is known as Norwegianization. The second major assimilation campaign is where the story about resilience in contemporary reindeer husbandry described in this chapter begins. This occurred during World War II, when the German troops forced a total evacuation of Finnmark and Northern Troms between 1940 and 1945. Finnmark and Troms are counties in Northern Norway and are the main settlement areas for the North Sámi population. In the book Jevnet med Jorden. Brenningen av Finnmark og Nord-Troms 1944 [Flattened to Earth. The Burning of Finnmark and Nord-Troms 1944], Olsen (2019) explains how Nazi propaganda legitimated this evacuation because they claimed to bring the people of Finnmark to safe places in the south of Norway, away from the barbarian Russian army. The Russian army went into Finnmark and forced the Nazis away, and then left the almost emptied county. Olsen tells a story about how the central Nazi authorities also wanted to confiscate more than 50,000 reindeer from inner Finnmark and force the reindeer Sámi to bring their herds to Helligskogen (The Sacred Forest), in the southern county Troms, several hundreds of miles away from their home ground. The herd was intended to be a meat reserve for the Wehrmacht at their new warfront in Lyngen after the Russian soldiers moved into Norway and forced the Nazis to escape from Finnmark. This plan could have been a catastrophe for reindeer husbandry, but the reindeer herders, in consultation with some local authorities, fooled the Nazis. Instead of moving the herds westward to Helligskogen, they led the herds eastward to a place also called Helligskogen, located near the Finnish border. The Nazi authorities understood that they had been deceived and sent aircrafts and patrols to try to track the herds. But it seems that Mother Earth also assisted the Sámi. A half meter of snow covered their tracks and a long-lasting fog hid the Sámi, preventing the German planes and patrols from tracing them (Olsen (2019). Fifty years later, in 1994, the Norwegian central authorities also tried to reduce the number of reindeer Sámi herders in inner Finnmark when introducing a restructuring program (Angell, Karlstad,  & Nygaard, 2003). The authorities alleged that there were far too many reindeer in the area. This, along with a generally high unemployment rate in the region, was used as

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justification for the restructuring program. The government allocated 330 million Norwegian kroner (NOK) to restructure wages, education, and human resource developement. The program was led by a board added to the Finnmark county council. The Sámi Parliament, established a few years earlier in 1989, had refused to lead the program as they disagreed with the state’s justifications for the program and were concerned that the restructuring program could contribute to even more “Norwegianisation.” The largest reindeer herding organization, Norske Reindriftssamers Landsforbund (NRL, the Sámi Reindeer Herders’ Association of Norway), also chose to stay outside the process but later agreed to be an observer. Central authorities tried to appeal to the local people and authorities by claiming that the goals for restructuring the salaries were to facilitate the development of ecologically and economically sustainable reindeer herding in Finnmark by reducing the number of reindeer and herders (Angell et  al. (2003). More than 110  million NOK of the 330 NOK was allocated to the restructuring part of the program. The restructuring allowed those who voluntarily discontinued their reindeer husbandry to receive financial assistance during the restructuring period. Those who accepted the offer were expected to acquire another profession. Angell et al. (2003) write that a total of 160 reindeer herders from 101 reindeer collectives (siidas) received restructuring salaries. In the report, Angell et al. (2003) documented that half of the participants in West Finnmark were still out of work in 2002, and that 62 of the 101 operating units had resumed while only 39 were permanently discontinued. The long-term effects of overgrazing remain uncertain, and there is pressure from the authorities to prevent Sámi from reintroducing reindeer husbandry. Angell et al. (2003) note that “the tension in the program, between several of the program board members and the reindeer husbandry authorities, may have meant that no one in fact took responsibility for doing anything to prevent switchovers from going back” (p. 80).

Methodology The aim of our research was to understand the scope and impact of the conflicts in Sámi reindeer herding where one or more of the parties involved had asked legal authorities, police, or courts for help to solve the conflict. The scope would eventually tell us something about the reindeer Sámi’s trust or lack of trust in the court system. To some extent, the court decisions also contained information on the background and development of each conflict, and if alternative conflict resolution methods were tried before the cases were brought to court. Data collection occurred on the tundra, in cafes, in the homes of reindeer herders and carriers of Sámi traditions, in the offices of the reindeer herding state authorities, in the courts, at meetings organized by herding collectives, (siidas), and local or central state herding authorities. During fieldwork, we held formal and informal conversations and interviews with reindeer owners, state authorities, mediation center administrators and mediators, lawyers and expert councils, reindeer police, and reindeer researchers. In addition, we carried out an extensive analysis of 29 reindeer herding–related court cases and verdicts with the analytical help of Knut Petterson, an experienced lawyer from the special Sámi court in Finnmark (Henriksen & Hydle, 2018). Interviews and conversations were recorded, transcribed, and analyzed qualitatively according to themes. Transcripts were sent to those who had taken part in the conversations for corrections and additions with the aim of quality control. We have used discourse analysis as a methodological compass for ordering all the different kinds of texts, both the transcribed conversations and the documents previously mentioned.

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Theoretical framework As a theoretical inspiration, we used the phenomenological approach that the English anthropologist Tim Ingold emphasized in his long-lasting work on human–animal relationships. Resilience in the Sámi reindeer herding is tightly linked to the connections between reindeer and human beings. We sought answers to the following questions. What are the implications of the human–animal relationship in Sámi reindeer pastoralism? Can there be resilience, power, or strength in this human-animal relationship? What can be learned from this strength or power? In the introduction to his article “On Reindeer and Men,” Ingold (1974) quoted the 1935 work of the Russian anthropologist S. M. Shirokogoroff, who did fieldwork among the Indigenous Tungusic in Siberia and China: “The reindeer is considered a very intelligent animal. Its intelligence is seen . . . in the whole complex of relations which have been established between man and reindeer” (Shirokogoroff & Chirokogorov, 1935, p. 82). Ingold’s approach is to register and analyze this human–animal relationship in the context of physical and mental perceptions. This means that the consciousness about and the impressions from the senses (hearing, vision, touch, smell, taste), in addition to body movements, activities, and skills in both human and animal alike must be taken into consideration when doing research. This must also be connected to survival, traditions, communication and conviviality, i.e. human and animal activities within the context of their specific relationship. Thus, we make use of these new biosocial research approaches, i.e. the interaction between biological aspects and social relationships of living beings (Spencer & Fitzgerald, 2015; Stépanoff, Marchina, Fossier, & Bureau, 2017). We think that this basis for an analysis of Indigenous resilience may be useful as it refers to a range of today’s nomadic or semi-nomadic pastoralists, in particular among Indigenous Peoples. Resilience theory is concerned with identifying protective factors, as well as risk factors. Our starting point is a systemic perspective on resilience as an interaction between individuals, networks, cultures, and societies (Masten & Monn, 2015). We follow Waaktaar and Christie (2008) and their understanding of resilience as the absence of any psychiatric diagnoses, the ability to be at work, and a self-reported good functioning level. We also draw from Hartling (2008) and Luthar (2006), who refer to positive social relationships, social networks, and social belonging as important factors that contribute to resilience and wellbeing.

Persistence through adversity Although the restructuring program provided financial incentives for herders to pursue other professions, many have chosen to remain in or return to herding. Additional pressures to leave reindeer herding include government support for roadbuilding, wind turbines, and protections of wild animals that run contrary to the needs of the herders. Herding is not financially lucrative, and herders must contend with limited licenses and stereotypes. In spite of these barriers, many Sámi choose to remain in reindeer work. Sámi reindeer herding clearly illustrates persistence through adversity. An example is offered to highlight the significance of reindeer herding to Sámi identity. An older reindeer herder participated in the restructuring program. For four years, he received a monthly payment. In Sámi political discussions with him, he used to say that he was not so fond of these “new Sámis” who came out of the “closet” because it had now become trendy to be a Sámi. He justified this by saying that he had to be a Sámi all the time, including when the Sámi were discriminated against. He could not choose to be a non-Sámi. After the end of the restructuring period, he resumed reindeer husbandry so that he could transfer his reindeer unit to one of his children. 260

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According to our data, he seems to be representative of the majority of Sámi who resumed reindeer husbandry. During the restructuring period, he had been thinking a lot about a permanent end to his reindeer husbandry. However, he could not bear this burden of violating the family history and tradition. It seemed to him to be equivalent to turning against the siida, against his own family and finally against himself. He therefore had no qualms about resuming operations to maintain his family’s affiliation and identity as reindeer Sámi. Before he passed away, he became seriously ill. Due to the illness and medical maladministration, he had periods of hallucinations. During these periods, he saw Nazi spies, against whom he tried to defend himself. During the good hallucinations, he saw reindeer and reindeer herding dogs. The reindeer husbandry industry in Norway is subject to the Ministry of Agriculture and Food. Since 1950, employment in agriculture in Norway has been sharply reduced. While there were more than 350,000 people employed in agriculture in 1950, the number by 2005 was reduced to 60,000 – even before the restructuring program started. Thus more than 290,000 people had left agriculture during that period (Ladstein & Skoglund, 2008). This trend, however, did not occur in the reindeer husbandry industry. In 2000, there were 561 active operating units with 2,800 reindeer owners (LMD, 2001). In 2020, there are a total of 3,304 reindeer owners distributed among 535 units. Many reindeer owners without licenses today hope to get a license for reindeer husbandry; however, this is difficult because people do not want to quit. And if someone quits, for example when becoming old, the units can regulate this internally due to the rules of inheritance of the license. The inheritance tradition is clearly articulated in the Reindeer Herding Act (LMD, 2007). Unlike in farming, where the oldest child has the right of inheritance (allod), it is usually the youngest child who inherits the operating reindeer unit. It takes time to build up the reindeer herd, and usually the eldest son will have built up his own reindeer herd by the time the father chooses to hand over his operating unit to his youngest child, thus giving a good start on his reindeer herding career. To keep the herding licenses inside the family was important. It was only if a reindeer herder did not have a rightful heir that an operating unit must be advertised so that external reindeer herders without an operating unit can apply. But the new Reindeer Herding Act from 2007 changed this, so that a reindeer herder can decide to transfer or sell his license without the siida being able to prevent this. Letting strangers into an established herding collective where members often are related to each other seems to be problematic, and the resistance is understandable. First, internal inheritance has a strong standing in the reindeer husbandry. Henriksen (2015) uses the term “næringsmessig slektskap” (nutritional kinship) to describe the siida. Second, we have experienced conflicts in some cases where the license has been transferred to an external reindeer herder (Henriksen & Hydle, 2018). We mediated in such a conflict and experienced how breaches in traditional reindeer husbandry practices affect members of the siida as a collective body, usually related to each other, and seem to contribute to severe and insoluble conflicts. Third, advertising vacant units can also open the door to privatization by selling the operating units to the highest bidder. It would mean that it is not only a transfer of a collective Sámi resource to some few, large and capital-rich companies, but also loss of resilience. As reindeer herders did not leave their work in the same amount as farmers, we interpret this as a further example of resilience in reindeer herding. As an example, we focus at the densest reindeer herding area in Norway, the municipality of Guovdageaidnu-Kautokeino. This town has approximately 2,900 inhabitants, 1,354 of whom are connected to reindeer husbandry. The herders in Guovdageaidnu-Kautokeino own approximately 80,000 reindeer altogether (LMD, 2001). Reindeer husbandry, however, does not generate large revenues. While the inhabitants in Sola, a municipality near Stavanger (the “municipal heart” of the oil income in Norway), earned 261

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an average of 587,700 NOK in 2015, the average income in Guovdageaidnu-Kautokeino was 305,700 NOK. Thus, the average Guovdageaidnu-Kautokeino citizen finds him/herself at the bottom of the Norwegian income line. These economic circumstances affect children and families (Eikeland, 2019). This example suggests that high salaries are not the reason why Sámi reindeer herders stay with the husbandry industry. As we mentioned in the introduction, the reindeer husbandry industry is under severe pressure with regard to society’s need to build roads, cabins, and wind turbines. Another important factor is modern society’s urge to protect wild animals (e.g., wolves, bears, eagles, wolverines, and lynx) that are predators and contribute to loss of reindeer, as well as sheep. There are also many problems in the Norwegian authorities’ administration of the Sámi reindeer husbandry, due to lack of knowledge of Indigenous culture and their specific and inherited knowledge of geography, ecology, and the Arctic nature (Henriksen & Hydle, 2016, 2018). It is the reindeer herder who owns and controls his herd of reindeer. This strong sense of self-determination is acknowledged in the Norwegian reindeer herding law. We have observed that if any other reindeer owner advises, for example, that a particular reindeer should be slaughtered, the owner will often do the opposite just to indicate that he/she has the power to decide. But reindeer husbandry cannot be run individually. Namely, the siida, i.e. the herding collective, has communal rights to the pasture. This can lead to conflicts due to different interests between the siida members. Failures to meet with the aim to find solutions and eventually reach agreements have contributed to reduced trust, not only between herders but also between the authorities and the reindeer husbandry industry. Conflicts in reindeer herding are often reported in the media and contribute to misunderstandings and a poor reputation for reindeer herding, local and central authorities, and the Sámi minority community. Conflicts and negative media are also very burdensome and resource intensive for individual members, siidas, the reindeer husbandry industry in particular, and also for the entire Sámi community. Sámi reindeer herders are frequently depicted negatively in news coverage (Henriksen, 2008). Norwegian media often tell negative stories about reindeer herders, like reindeer husbandry preventing the establishment of jobs and positive social development by saying no to roadbuilding, cabins, wind turbines, and mining activities. It is alleged that reindeer husbandry receives considerable state aid and that reindeer herders exaggerate the numbers of reindeer taken by predators to claim unwarranted compensation. Thus, the Norwegian media often promulgate negative stereotypes about Sámi reindeer herders. Conversely, the media rarely write about how roadbuilding, cabins, wind turbines, and mining activities destroy or reduce reindeer pastures – or that the basis for the Sámi protests are the same as the overall arguments for sustainable development in the Arctic. We claim that this media approach contributes to a kind of symbolic violence that may explain the increasing number of conflicts in reindeer husbandry. In spite of these significant pressures, many Sámi choose to maintain a reindeer herding lifestyle. One interpretation is that there must be strong resilience forces at work for the maintenance of Sámi reindeer husbandry. In this chapter, we try to give some answers and explain the resilience.

Reindeer herding and preservation of Sámi language and culture According to Norwegian legislation, only those who are Sámi have the right to herd reindeer. As an example, in the Sámi municipality Guovdageaidnu-Kautokeino, the term Sámi has the same meaning as reindeer Sámi. The non-Sámi are denoted as dalon (resident) which implies

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“non-Sámi.” The denotation of reindeer owners as Sámi shows the positive linguistic valuation of the fact of being a reindeer Sámi. A 2016 report from the Governmental Commission concerning self-governance in the reindeer herding community also underscores the importance of reindeer for the Sámi (Landbruksdirektoratet, 2016, p. 62, author’s translation): [To own a reindeer gives for many Sàmi a strong feeling of cultural belonging and identity. A reindeer herder who meets the requirements to own a reindeer, also enjoys a range of associated rights. He/she receives the right to hunt, fish, use motorised vehicles and build cabins in the outfield. Having a cabin or using nature for recreation or harvesting is sought after and many residents envy the reindeer herding Sámi’s access to such activities. But this also contributes to the attraction of owning reindeer without necessarily working daily in reindeer herding. Reindeer husbandry is in periods e.g. by reindeer calf marking and slaughtering, laborious and then needs family members and helpers who can step in. But the daily operation also needs full-time practitioners who can make a living from reindeer herding. With the development of society’s need for land and thus reduced grazing areas, the authorities have today set an upper reindeer number for each siida. Maintaining the tradition that the helpers have their own reindeer brand and own their own reindeer under the siida shareholder’s license, can contribute to fewer reindeer owners having the opportunity to increase their reindeer numbers to a level where they can work full time in reindeer husbandry. Sámi reindeer herding has established herding patterns through generations. Moving with the reindeer between the seasonal grazing areas means that reindeer herding is a nomadic herding form, a herding form that has no parallel to other industries in Norway. Reindeer herding is at the same time flexible and has been modernised. Technical equipment like motorised vehicles, housing in the grazing areas and use of ICT is now in use. But the basic pattern is the same across generations. Examples are the use of grazing areas, moving systems, traditions for changing siida at marriage, ear marking etc.] Values are intertwined with the reindeer herding lifestyle. The value of self-sufficiency reinforces the kinship collective, as well as cooperative relationships – both internal and external. Patience, communication norms, and decision-making are all Sámi norms that are integral parts of reindeer herding as illustrated in the following subsections.

Sámi self-sufficiency Researchers have documented how iešbirgen still comprises multiple important values in the Sámi culture (Aikio, 2010; Balto, 1997; Boine, 2005; Kalstad, 1999, 2005; Nymo, 2011). The text of the Governmental Commission on self-governance states: [On an individual level it is an important value to manage on one’s own (iešbirgen in Sámi), without help from others. Children are brought up to manage on their own from an early age. This is needed because the work and the lifestyle as reindeer herder means living close with the animals most parts of the year, staying outdoors, independent of the weather conditions.] (Landbruksdirektoratet, 2016, p. 45, author’s translation)

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One reindeer owner described a situation from World War II to explain how iešbirgen can both support Sámi and shape how they are perceived by outsiders. [The Reindeer Sámi were managing the best, because they had access to reindeer meat and clothes. This created those images of those mountain Sámi who live a good life and are so rich and all that. I think this comes from the way of living, but I think that they never were rich in money, but they had food, they had free access to leather (from reindeer fur) to sew leather shoes (skaller), they had fur coats, they managed just as well after the war as before the war, in that way. Because what happened here in our municipality just after the war was an immense slaughtering, because people needed reindeer skin to sew reindeerskin shoes and clothes.] Thus, iešbirgen – managing on one’s own – becomes an important basis for survival for a reindeer herder. From early childhood on, children are taught and brought up to take care of themselves in the work with the reindeer and to be prepared for unforeseen circumstances and happenings, such as extreme weather during calving time, predatory attacks (e.g., by eagles, wolves, wolverines), or precariously difficult grazing circumstances due to icing or other seasonal extremes. In reindeer herding, the value of an individual’s ability to manage on his/her own, iešbirgen, is needed in an unkind Arctic environment (Henriksen & Hydle, 2018). Values such as staddil (patience), deaivvil (the ability to detect), sealgil (the ability to find one’s way), doaimmas (to know how to initiate), and vuohkkái ja searravuohta (to be useful and practically skilled) are all aspects of self-sufficiency. Practical knowledge is developed through experience. It is also important to be able to dare to try. [“Once is once, twice is a thousand”], an old Sámi saying goes. This means that one has to accept one failure, but that one should learn from mistakes and thus avoid failing the second time. One should be able to draw lessons from one’s experiences as independence is a central part of a Sámi child’s upbringing. Knowledge based on these values is important in the reindeer husbandry industry in order to succeed. Hoem (1976) was the first researcher who explained why many reindeer Sámi were not so motivated to send their children to school, because they were afraid of losing their children to other occupations.

Reindeer herding as a kinship collective A reindeer owner must have iešbirgen (coping) skills in order to maintain his/her flock and reindeer herding right, but reindeer herding cannot be executed by an individual alone. It is the siida that manages the grazing resources. Most people in a reindeer herders collective, the siida, are relatives (Henriksen, 2015). Every reindeer has an owner’s mark on its ear. There exists a particular link between the person and the animal. Using an earmark to note reindeer ownership is required by the Reindeer Husbandry Act. The owner’s reindeer earmark has to be approved by an earmark committee in the applicant’s reindeer herding district on the recommendation of the leader of the herding cooperative, siida. Thus, Sámi reindeer ownership is governed by law, indicated on each animal, and intertwined with kinship rules. The earmark has one part that shows the connection to the siida or the family and another part that shows the individual ownership. The earmark is usually given as a gift from the family to a newborn baby within the family. If someone dies or leaves reindeer herding, the vacant allotment of reindeer is often transferred internally to other family members who want to use the earmark or someone who wishes to start herding. Internal cooperation is important in the kinship collective. Traditions, as we describe later in this chapter, are still in use and important for resilience, although taking new forms. Women still 264

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take care of the tasks at home, báikedoallu (household) while the men are in the herding fields, siidadoallu, although today, more women also take part in reindeer herding and organization of the siida. At home, they have all the necessary equipment for herding, moving, marking, and slaughtering. Siidadoallu means the reindeer herd and the daily herding. External cooperation is also important to the collective. When the siida needs assistance while moving the flock, earmarking, or slaughtering, they often get help from their verdder (Henriksen, 1993). Verddevuohta means friendship or a relationship between a reindeer siida and a non-reindeer family at the winter or summer site. This was based on mutual exchange of goods, such as reindeer meat and services. A dalon (a permanent settler) could help when the reindeer herd came to the summer grazing land by the sea by lending a boat when the herd was swimming over the fjord or allowing storage of equipment. The reindeer Sámi normally came with reindeer meat and could share this resource. The verdde relation also prevented stealing the reindeer because the settler-verdde, and her/his family, are members of the local community and this increased the legitimacy of reindeer husbandry in the area. Earlier, this verdde relationship also implied that the settler-verdde had his/her own reindeer with his/ her earmarks. In the 1980s, the authorities forbade this and removed hundreds of such verdde earmarks, yet the verdde relationship remains important. In Burfjord, an annual verdde football tournament strengthens the ties between the reindeer herders and local residents. In other communities the local settlers invite the reindeer Sámis to a feast in the spring where they serve boiled fish. As a treat, the reindeer herders arrange a party in the autumn where they serve boiled reindeer meat. Birgehallan (to manage relationships with significant others) is a central way of maintaining the siida’s relationships (Henriksen & Hydle, 2018). It is therefore of utmost importance that the siida organization and ability for cooperation are ruled by politeness and not threatened by internal, non-acceptable ways of behavior, contributing to lack of handling disagreements and conflicts. Birgehallan manifests in behaviors such as steaddát (remaining mute), mohkkastit (being indirect), dustet (letting the guest introduce her/himself), and reidestit (ordering for the next person). Birgehallan thus contributes to the maintenance of the siida as a necessary collective body.

“The endless conversation” as part of resilience Stađđilvuohta (patience) means the ability to handle the time. Patience is important in reindeer husbandry. The herders need to wait for the herd, wait for the siida colleagues to finish their work, and wait for better weather. You must learn to relax, drink another cup of coffee, or take a power nap. Learning patience can be challenging. You must be able to be tolerant and calm. In the reindeer husbandry industry, things take time because the herd, nature, and the weather are beyond your control. The members of The Reindeer Herders Association in the Selfgovernment Commission refer to this communication form as “the endless conversation.” The commission (Landbruksdirektoratet, 2016, p. 46, author’s translation) point to the term “siida conversation” as a topic Sara (2013) discusses in his doctoral dissertation: [In the siidas, long, intensive conversations about the reindeer herd have a long tradition. These conversations have been open to all siida members and have been central in bringing forth knowledge and coordination of particular models of understanding, and in making the individuals capable of undertaking independent, well founded decisions and to implement different tasks related to the siida. Siida conversations usually end with suggestive conclusions and recognises each participant’s right and duty to make decisions in different situations that might occur.] 265

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As an example, settlements of admittance to grazing areas, reindeer, and allocation of work are discussed, then interrupted by work assignments and tasks, to be continued at another occasion. The conversation can continue over a lengthy period, indirectly without confrontations, in order to try to soabadallat (come to an agreement). The siida does not practice majority decisions. To a large extent, people are oriented toward consensus and recognize the individual’s right and duty to make decisions (Sara, 2013).

Adapting to a changing world In most Indigenous cultures, the close connection to and the use of nature is important (Kunnie, 2015, 2019). Indigenous organizations, as well as researchers across fields, are worried about how human globalization and climate change bring extraordinary and abnormal changes that will have negative effects for Indigenous communities. The reindeer Sámis often say that “Jahki ii leat jagi viellja” (One year is not the previous years’ brother). This means that they are prepared for varied and shifting tasks and years that require different kinds of practical knowledge and actions. Arvostallanmáhttu means the ability to assess and translate changing observations in things such as the reindeer herd and weather. This is needed to prevent errors and bad things from happening (Aikio, 2010). Reindeer herders have access to different activities in their pasture areas such as fishing, hunting, and picking berries. Using snowmobiles or all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) gives easier access to reap the benefits of nature. In recent years, it has become particularly attractive to drive snowmobiles and ATVs. For residents and visitors alike, free driving is not permitted; they must stay within established tracks or apply to the municipality for an exemption to drive outside the slopes. Many residents seem to envy Sámi in the reindeer husbandry industry for the opportunity to drive outside the slopes to find their herds. At the same time, resentment arises when reindeer herding leads to restrictions for other people. For example, closing trails due to calving time or a pasture crisis often creates anger among snowmobile users. The reindeer herding year 2019–2020 has been a crisis year in Finnmark and Troms due to the huge quantity of snow that prevented reindeer from finding food. The state has so far allocated 50 million NOK for transportation and emergency feeding of reindeer. In the Sámi newspaper Ságat, reindeer owner Marit Meløy Utsi tells about the crisis: [It does not look like the spring will come. And then we will have a very short summer. This will have consequences for both this and the next year. . . . It has been a heavy winter. We have a son of 16. When the school closure came because of the corona, he moved to the mountain. He has been working day and nights. So, he has got a tough start to his reindeer husbandry career]. (Svala, 2020, p. 12) There was a similar crisis in 1968. Utsi says that this year’s crisis is not over. In pastures with little food or heavy ice, the female reindeer can “abort” unborn calves, and she is unsure of what is left of the herds for the slaughtering in the autumn. Utsi also talks about the challenges of predators: [We have a lot of eagles out here and they are quick to catch calves, especially when it’s so snowy. I got a snap video from a colleague who lost a calf. It was four hours old before the eagle took it]. (Svala, 2020, p. 13) 266

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The pasture crisis is severe, and many reindeer herders are unsure what this will lead to. But the reindeer herdsmen seem to have an exceptionally strong resilience to cope with crises and threats, due to the above described values, skills, and training. Utsi answers soberly when the journalist asks how the reindeer owners cope with the crisis: [“We are still sleeping at night. There is little you can do about the weather and the climate. When you feed the reindeers, it helps a lot with a night’s sleep. You know that at least they will survive”] (Svala, 2020, p. 14). A reindeer owner we spoke with explained: [ . . . all that happens, that the pressure is so overwhelming, that you “keep with beak and claws” what you already have. The large community has forgotten how nature functions, it shows us anyway that people don’t use nature for gathering, one uses nature for recreation, and this creates conflicts, because you don’t have the understanding of the functionality in the nature. Because when I talk with people, like: “when you are here, that is an encroachment” (and the other answers) “no, it isn’t because I just go skiing” – “Yes, but for the reindeer you are an encroachment” . . . , and when you don’t understand this, you create many conflicts, because you don’t get the understanding from the larger community how reindeer herding is and functions.]

Proximity to the animals The story about the old reindeer Sámi who hallucinated about the reindeer herding dogs is an example of how important the dog is to the herder. The owners never train or talk to other dogs, just their own. They are good at ignoring the dog’s wrong behavior while giving positive attention when the dog acts correctly. The dog is necessary when herding. Contemporary reindeer husbandry is also dependent upon new technology such as snowmobiles, ATVs, and telephones. Some herders even use drones to observe the herd and predators. Another close relationship between humans and animals is the Sámi relationship to the reindeer. When the owners sit next to a herd of reindeer, they can sit for hours watching individual animals with binoculars. They comment on the animals, including on the earmark, whether the female reindeer has a calf, the age of the animal, the shape of the antler, and color of the skin. For a person outside a siida, it seems impossible to distinguish single animals in a herd of several hundred, but it is said that many reindeer owners recognize their animals. The Sámi reindeer herder is very connected to the herd (Henriksen (2008). There seems to be a particular excitement and beauty to be close to the herd and a tension that unfolds when people and reindeer come together, i.e. in the large fences. The sounds from their throats and hooves are unique and to many signify the tundra presence. The reindeer represent much more than their value as slaughtered animals. They are living animals that the herders can study and talk about. Noting the earmark, the color of the skin, or the form of antlers individualizes the reindeer and makes each individual animal more recognizable. Henriksen (2008, p.149) also adds another dimension from his fieldwork. A female reindeerowner considered the reindeer to be her therapist: “When my mother died I went to the herd and stayed there for a month. In the reindeer and the herd I found comfort and strength to recover through grief.” This expression is not exceptional. For many reindeer herders, the herding dog and the reindeer may be their only company for a long time. Thus, the animals play an important social role for the herders. Animal-assisted therapy is a relatively new therapy form, especially within mental health and drug addiction care. In many nursing homes, as well as prisons, animals are included in rehabilitation and mental stabilization programs. Thus, the role of reindeer is not exceptional as a general principle for the broad relationship between human and animal. 267

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Conclusion This review of examples from our own and others’ fieldwork documents the strength and power inherent in the Sámi relationship with reindeer herding. This relationship persists in spite of all the different pressures exerted by the Norwegian government, industry and 20th century’s changes in lifestyles. Other research results, as well as songs, poetry, novels, and visual art, all express the centrality of reindeer herding as a practice, a tradition, an identity, and a basis for the Sámi languages. Reindeer herding is a strong symbol for present political engagements, whether related to reindeer herding or not. Our interpretation of Indigenous resilience in a particular reindeer Sámi context may contribute to developing a broader understanding of Indigenous resilience. Following Ingold, we have used this variety of empirical examples of general value across Sápmi. Sámi values related to the interpretation of nature and culture, sustainability, and the close relationship with animals are attractive for young Sámi, both in principle and in practice, and are spreading to the nonIndigenous population. Following up on Spencer and Fitzgerald (2015) and (Stépanoff et al., 2017), we maintain that the biosocial relationship between human and animal is the resilience. The animal, with all that it offers for human survival in the Arctic tundra, is half of that relationship, creating half of the resilience. Reindeer herding is an entity of great importance for the Sámi people economically, ecologically, linguistically, culturally, and symbolically. These values seem to be both maintained and also developed in present-day Sámi environments. Sámi themselves fight for the maintenance of reindeer herding for the future because it is much more comprehensive than just a business or an industry. Our experiences are that this recognition must be basic for the development of knowledge in the sustainability of reindeer herding in modern society. Most reindeer herders who participated in the restructuring program resumed reindeer herding. Like the old reindeer owner who said that for the sake of himself, his history, his family, and his siida, he did not have the conscience to discontinue his reindeer herding and become a dalon. Instead, he chose to transfer his operating unit to one of his children, and in that way, he followed the inheritance tradition and kept the family’s identity as reindeer Sámi. There are also many new voices expressing the resilience in reindeer herding. Novels, poetry, music, festivals, and other artistic expressions show how important Sámi reindeer herding was and still is. The Sámi song genre joik is mixing itself into modern music performances as a mainstream popular music and song art. Some of the most famous young Sámi artists – Sofia Jannok, Anders Sunna, and Jon-Henrik Fjällgren – all originate from reindeer herding and include this personal and familial origin as a crucial element in their performances. As Jannok writes: We don’t joik ABOUT the reindeer, we don’t walk ON the paths, we don’t wade ALONG the water. We joik the reindeer, we walk the paths, we wade the water. There is no need for “about” or “on” or “along”, because we are part of the environments . . . if you harm them, you harm us. An encroachment in nature is a wide-open scar in the heart. (Jannok quoted in Retter, 2021, p. 27, author’s translation) This development of Sámi arts goes across gender, generations, and city or countryside residency. It refers to contemporary feelings of identity, traditions, rituals, and roots, and it refers to many hundred years of resilience in the Sámi reindeer herding industry. Sámi reindeer herding remains crucial for the preservation of the Sámi language, culture, and society. In spite of enormous pressures from many sources including the authorities, many 268

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Sámi people are keen to continue this centuries-old, Indigenous, semi-nomadic way of living. This chapter has highlighted how Sámi reindeer herding remains an attractive and important Indigenous way of life that is congruent with a sustainable future.

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18 RECONNECTING WITH THE FARMLAND Exploring Indigenous resilience of Atayal people in Taiwan Chao-Kai Huang Introduction Indigenous People worldwide face some common issues, including colonial policies promoting assimilation and undermining sovereignty (Baskin, 2011; UN, 2010, 2016), maladaptive measures leading to health inequality (Hoover et al., 2012; Willis, Jackson, Nettleton, Good, & Mugarura, 2006; UN, 2016), and greater exposure to natural disasters bringing severe damage to living space (Lambert, 2014; UN, 2016). It is by no means an easy task to survive under such adversities. Indigenous populations continue to resist colonial pressures, preserve cultural heritage, and maintain traditional relationships with nature. Beyond mere survival, Indigenous people have developed significant resilience in the face of risk and adversity (Andersson, 2008; Fleming & Ledogar, 2008a; Stewart-Harawira, 2018). Resilience can be defined as a process whereby people overcome challenges and adapt in the face of adversity. For Indigenous people, resilience is grounded in Indigenous Knowledge and culture (Fleming  & Ledogar, 2008a; McGuire, 2010; Stewart-Harawira, 2018). Studies on Indigenous reliance show that culture acts as a buffer when Indigenous people face hardship. Fleming and Ledogar (2008a) examined the developing concept of resilience and further indicated that promoting cultural identity enables Indigenous youths to become resilient. Fleming and Ledogar (2008b) also reviewed journal articles and noted that spirituality could be a resource for navigating life while Indigenous people face difficulties. Wexler (2014) interviewed Alaska Native youth, adults, and elders, suggesting that culture can be a strength that enhances the sense of identity and commitment when coping with historical trauma. Both Ford et al. (2020) and Fernandez et al. (2020) argued that relationships with a place are crucial to Indigenous resilience. Ford et al. (2020) found that Indigenous people can deal with environmental change through relationships with lands, a relation which lays the foundation of Indigenous Knowledge. Fernandez et al. (2020) revealed that connectedness to place and collective resistance can reinforce Indigenous women’s identity and help to cope with historical and contemporary trauma. Accordingly, spirituality, cultural identity, and relations with lands are integral to Indigenous resilience, bolstering capacities to face the difficulties in life. Seldom, however,

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does research explore Indigenous resilience from aspects about economic activities based on agricultural production. Considering that Indigenous resilience is grounded in culture, we should examine Indigenous Peoples’ worldviews, the root of culture. Research has shown that Indigenous peoples have developed unique values and worldviews that differ from those of the white or mainstream societies (Hart, 2010). Although Indigenous Peoples are diverse, Weaver (2008) notes that there are similarities across these groups, including responsibility, self-determination, caring for others, respecting all life forms, and recognizing the importance of the community. Both Baskin (2011) and Gray, Yellow Bird, and Coates (2008) point out that values and ethics of Indigenous Peoples focus on the community or family rather than the individual and emphasize harmonious relationships with nature instead of controlling the natural world. In other words, Indigenous worldviews, differing from Eurocentric perspectives, have a strong focus on holistic relationships, especially among people and between humans and the environment. Like Indigenous Peoples worldwide, Taiwan’s Indigenous people have cultures grounded in holistic relationships and connections to the land. In this chapter, I use the data from my four-month fieldwork in Atayal tribal communities along the Daan River in Taichung, Taiwan. I present how Taiwan’s Atayal People demonstrate Indigenous resilience through reconnecting with the land after a severe natural disaster. With natural farming, the Atayal people practice eco-friendly agriculture, which echoes the spirit rooted in Atayal tradition and reinforces Atayal cultural identity. Moreover, by facilitating cooperative production and marketing, a platform was structured to build up partnerships among small farmers. Rather than being controlled by outside resources accompanying colonial pressures, all these economic activities stand on Atayal’s own agriculture strength, and enhance Indigenous community autonomy, creating a pathway to forge resilience. This chapter is written from a non-Indigenous social work researcher’s perspective. I have been involved with Taiwanese Indigenous issues for many years. My research focuses on the wellbeing of Indigenous people, with an emphasis on resilience, health disparities, culturally appropriate care, and gender and sexuality. I have spent extensive time in Atayal communities and captured how they have grown resilience from the land by implementing eco-friendly agricultural programs after a devastating earthquake. Indigenous resilience growing from the land allows the Atayal to move forward from trauma into recovery.

Taiwanese Indigenous Peoples Taiwan, an island country located in the Asian Pacific Ocean, has 23 million people and is inhabited by various ethnic groups. In the multiethnic Taiwanese society, there are 574,000 Indigenous people, accounting for 2.4% of the total population (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020b; Ministry of the Interior, 2020). The Taiwanese government currently recognizes 16 Indigenous ethnic groups. They are the Amis, Atayal, Paiwan, Bunun, Puyuma, Rukai, Tsou, Saisiyat, Tao (also known as Yami), Thao, Kavalan, Truku, Sakizaya, Seediq, Hla’alua, and Kanakanavu (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020c). Each has its own culture, traditional social norms, knowledge, habits, taboos, and spiritual practices (Fang, Hu, & Lee, 2016). According to official statistics from the Council of Indigenous Peoples (CIP), the central governmental organization in charge of Indigenous policies and affairs, the Atayal people have a population of around 92,000, approximately 16% of Taiwan’s total Indigenous population, making the Atayal people the third largest Indigenous group in Taiwan (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020b). 272

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The Atayal The Atayal people have maintained a culture grounded in agricultural practices for hundreds of years (Academia Sinica, 2012; Allis Nokan & Yu, 2002). Farming relies on the land; thus, the Atayal developed a close relationship with nature reflected in their traditional lifestyles. Piling Yabu, the principal of Taiwan’s first experimental education Indigenous school, Pu’ma Elementary School, and his wife Sayun Masaw recorded the words from an honorable Elder: Atayal without earth is no Atayal at all, for earth is the soul of the Atayal. Earth not only enrich Atayal lives but also our distinct culture. If we destroy our land without restriction and kill animals at will, human souls will die alone. (Piling Yabu & Sayun Masaw, 2009, p. 39) Yen (2015), drawing on work in another Atayal community, also described how Atayal view human-environment relationships. “In the Atayal language, we never say ‘manage’ the land, but we say ‘mlahang (taking care of)’ the land” (p. 225). For Atayal people, the land is not only a source of livelihood, but a core foundation for their lifestyle that nourishes all things and supports the people who live on it. Atayal people live closely with nature and believe how they treat land ultimately affects human beings; therefore, Atayal people learn from land with treasured knowledge, take care of the land with awe, and treat the land as an organic system with respect.

Atayal culture and values Atayal (or Tayal) communities are located primarily in the mountains in northern and central Taiwan (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020a). Given their geographic dispersal, the languages, customs, social organizations, and material culture of Atayal differ from place to place (Academia Sinica, 2012). Generally, the Atayal men are known for their hunting skills, whereas women are celebrated for their weaving. Historically, one of the most prominent Atayal customs was that of facial tattooing, symbolizing honor or adulthood in Atayal culture (Allis Nokan & Yu, 2002). In the past, to earn tattoos, men would prove their worth to the tribe in hunting and even beheading, while women show weaving skills at the loom (Allis Nokan & Yu, 2002). In Atayal legends, only people with facial tattoos, a symbol of their contribution to families, villages, or tribal societies, are qualified to cross the hongu utux (also known as the Rainbow Bridge) and reach another kingdom where Atayal ancestors’ spirits continue to live after death (Piling Yabu & Sayun Masaw, 2009). Far from dividing into a caste system, traditional Atayal society follows two vital cultural concepts, gaga and utux. The two concepts sustain the Atayal moral order from generation to generation (Piling Yabu & Sayun Masaw, 2009; Wang, 2008). Gaga means “words from ancestors” (Piling Yabu & Sayun Masaw, 2009, p. 70) and refers to laws, norms, habits, and ritual rules of life (Wang, 2008). Without written words, slightly different according to local contexts, gaga is transmitted by an oral tradition and performed in daily life for thousands of years. The other concept, utux, can be translated as spirits and refers to all supernatural existence that dominates the universe (Wang, 2003, 2008). Utux is the general term for a supernatural being, regardless of whether it is a god, ghost, or ancestral spirit. Most importantly, gaga is obeyed by Atayal people within the daily practice to maintain a harmonious relationship with awe-inspiring utux and obtain blessed by utux. Once any Atayal disobeys gaga, something inauspicious would happen to that person, that person’s family, or even the whole tribe, as punishment for contravening taboos (Allis Nokan & Yu, 2002; Piling Yabu & Sayun Masaw, 2009; Wang, 2008). 273

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Atayal lifestyle was shaped by gaga and utux, reflected in the traditional crop calendar, that records how Atayal people practice gaga and interact with utux. Living in mountain areas for thousands of years, Atayal people have used agricultural techniques designed to grow crops on burned-off mountain fields as their primary source of livelihood (Allis Nokan & Yu, 2002). The annual crop calendar of Atayal people along the Daan River exemplifies how they live with nature. The year begins with the Seeding Ritual (播種祭) in January to March, followed by the Weeding Ritual (除草祭) one week after. The Harvest Ritual (收割祭), the Grain Storing Ritual (入倉祭), and the Fresh Millet Tasting Ritual (開倉嚐新米祭) occur when millets are ripe in July or August. Then, the Ancestral Spirits Ritual (祖靈祭) (also known as Thanksgiving Ritual), the most important rite of the year for the Atayal, is held between July and September. Early in the morning on the Ancestral Spirits Ritual day, Atayal people go to the cemetery in their tribes, bringing millet wine and meat as offerings. The Atayal people show their gratitude to utux, particularly ancestral spirits, and pray for a good harvest in the coming year. Afterward, the agricultural leisure period comes. Each Atayal household weaves, practices hunting, repairs farm tools, and participates in winemaking during this period. Until the virgin farming area is selected for next year in November or December, the Atayal people execute the Cultivation Ritual (開墾祭). By following this calendar based on the crop’s production sequence, we can realize how traditional Atayal people demonstrate the lifestyle and how they work with nature by following gaga and respect utux (Allis Nokan  & Yu, 2002; Baunay Watan  & Yuma Taru, 2002; Piling Yabu & Sayun Masaw, 2009).

Economic transformation, urbanization, and migration Agriculture has sustained Atayal communities for a long time. Traditionally, Atayal people grew crops like millet, upland rice, and pigeon peas (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020a). In the mid-20th century, the variety of products increased to meet the demands of the external market. Atayal people began to grow cash crops like ginger, alfalfa, peaches, mushrooms, persimmons, and apple pears (Academia Sinica, 2012; Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020a). However, the agricultural industry began to decline due to domestic industrialization in the 1960s and the economic transformation from agriculture to industry in the 1970s (Fu, 2001; Ru & Lo, 2015). Such transformation resulted in the government shifting the focus away from agriculture, leading to declining crop production profitability. Additionally, labor market needs were increasing in a rapidly urbanizing society. With economic development and urbanization happening rapidly in the late 20th century in Taiwan, the Indigenous population, which was never isolated from the significant island migration trend, moved toward cities for better access to job opportunities, medical and educational resources, and potential for upward mobility (Chang, Lin, & Liu, 2010; Fu, 2001). According to the census conducted in 1956, only 1.4% of Indigenous People (about 2,700 people) emigrated from tribal communities, most of whom lived in nonurban settings (Chang et al., 2010). At that time, the vast majority of Indigenous people lived on the Lands Reserved for Indigenous People, where the area was mostly mountains and forests. This land was set aside by the Japanese colonial administrators, a system inherited by the Taiwanese government. In less than five decades, the 2000 Census Report shows that about 40% of Indigenous people moved out from the Indigenous communities, more than 70% of whom lived in urban areas, especially the urban fringe (Chang et al., 2010). Now, according to the CIP’s official statistics based on the household registration, almost half of Indigenous people live in non-Indigenous villages, city centers, and fringes (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2020b). 274

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In 1999, a devastating earthquake hit Taiwan. Some Indigenous young people returned to their tribal communities and began reconstruction work. Although no accurate statistics document the number of people who returned to their communities, it is clear that young people brought the skills acquired in the cities – like construction, engineering, accounting, designing, and business – back to their hometowns (Yan et al., 2005). Some young people, realizing the Indigenous communities were home and the roots of their lives, moved back permanently; others came back to offer support while keeping connections in the city for employment and education.

The 921 Earthquake and TIDDA On September 21, 1999, an earthquake registering 7.3 on the Richter scale struck Taiwan. This disaster became known as the 921 Earthquake. During the 102 seconds of shaking, roads buckled, buildings collapsed, and trees and bridges fell, changing the landscapes. This natural disaster was the worst earthquake for the past half-century in Taiwan, causing 2,454 deaths and 1,1305 injuries. In addition, destruction of buildings was widespread, including 50,652 collapsed and another 53,615 severely damaged (Ministry of the Interior, 2019). Central Taiwan experienced significant devastation, especially in rural areas and Indigenous communities. In the Indigenous communities of the Heping District, 41 people died and more than 1,300 buildings were damaged. Around one-third of the houses destroyed in the district belonged to Indigenous people (Ministry of the Interior, 2019). Liang-Feng Chen, a documentary director with training in anthropology, used her skillful observation and writing to record the scene of Indigenous communities along the Daan River after the 921 Earthquake. The M’ihu tribal community lost the land on the west side. Roads were distorted. Trees that had witnessed the community’s history were felled. Even a Catholic Church slid down into the riverbed. In the S’yux tribal community, a church and 90% of houses collapsed. Streets buckled. The severe damage necessitated relocating the whole community to a new site (Chen, 2008). After the 921 Earthquake, Zhi-Shan Foundation Taiwan (formerly known as Compassion International Taiwan), a non-governmental organization (NGO) focused on children’s development in Vietnam and Indigenous communities in Taiwan, contracted out social services from the local government to provide reconstruction work. It established the Daan River Workstation in 2000 at the M’ihu Indigenous community (Huang, 2018; Zhi-Shan Foundation Taiwan, n.d.). Additionally, many Indigenous adults aged 30–40 returned to tribal communities to help in the wake of the widespread destruction, giving up their careers or opportunities in urban areas. One of these young men, Suyan, whose mother and brother died in the earthquake, came back to his tribal community S’yux distraught but determined and began reconstruction work with the social workers during the post-disaster period (Chen, 2008). In 2003, the Daan River Workstation moved to the L’olu tribal community, as the lease in the M’ihu community expired (He, 2005). That same year, the Daan River Workstation initiated the Tribal Kitchen Project (TKP) practicing “Community-based Mutual Care” by serving meal delivery for elders living alone (Chang, 2011; Huang, 2018). In 2006, with the ZhiShan Foundation Taiwan’s assistance, Taiwan Indigenous Dmavun Development Association (TIDDA, see www.daanriver.org.tw/) was officially established, growing out of the work that had begun at the Daan River Workstation. TIDDA continued with social services, including the TKP, a flagship service that has remained functioning since 2003 (Chang, 2011). Currently, TIDDA teams up with around 20 local community members, most of whom are Atayal females aged 40–60. Only a tiny portion of the workers are male or non-Indigenous. The original mission of Daan River Workstation was to rebuild residents’ lives through the post-disaster times, 275

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while TIDDA moves beyond this initial focus to integrate Atayal culture and traditions into community work. Hence, TIDDA constructs a robust community care system embedded in the Atayal traditional spirit gaga, aiming to do tasks beyond making them survive (Huang, 2018). TIDDA has a dual focus on social services and local economic development. First, on the role of social service, TIDDA aims to build up a mutual care system (Huang, 2018) by launching programs for all age groups, such as after-school activities for children, part-time jobs for local teenagers and women, traditional arts and crafts making for residents, and TKP’s lunch delivery for elders living alone or people in need. Take Tribal Kitchen as an example. In this kitchen space, some TIDDA members prepare food, some of them cook lunch, and some dispense meals into individual lunch boxes. After morning chores are finished, they enjoy lunch together and share their daily lives or information while welcoming passing visitors or residents to join (He, 2005). Huang (2017) pointed out that TKP looks after the local people and follows the spirit of Atayal tradition utux nian (sharing meals) in a modern way. Through the restoration of the food-sharing tradition, the Tribal Kitchen, where people work and enjoy meals, has become a mechanism of sharing, exchanging, and being all together, demonstrating Atayal resilience. Second, regarding the community’s economic development, TIDDA implemented the Natural Farming Program (NFP) and promoted the Small Farmers Platform (SFP). Natural farming has substantially different goals and approaches than does chemical agriculture. One goal of chemical farming is efficiency, and the more chemicals farmers use, the larger yields farmers produce. In contrast, natural farming emphasizes the soil’s quality and the whole ecosystem. This includes reducing harm to farmlands from using chemical substances and regenerating soil health by taking advantage of nutrient cycles. Chemical agriculture relies on fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides to provide plant nutrition and fight pests and weeds, but natural farming strictly prohibits these methods and farmers deliberately avoid plowing and removing wild grass, allowing plants to grow naturally. Natural farming relies on composting, beneficial bacteria, and liquid fertilizers made from raw materials or food scraps, sparing no effort to enrich biological diversity and replenish the soil. All crops, agrarian lands, and environments are considered from a holistic perspective and are allowed to rest and recover (Rigby & Cáceres, 2001; Ru & Lo, 2015; Verhoog, Matze, Van Bueren, & Baars, 2003; Yen, Fu, & He, 2011). Additionally, the SFP is structured to facilitate marketing the production from NFP and sustain the local economy that is different from the mainstream commercial market. By purchasing crops at a guaranteed price, SFP provides supports to those small farmers who cultivate the land they own or rent in a household-scale production. Currently, about 10–20 small farmers participate in the SFP. This allows the small farmers to avoid being exploited by merchant middlemen at an over-low price and provides opportunities to spur local economic activities, creating a win-win situation. For TIDDA, these two primary services are interdependent and synergistic. The social service programs support residents of all ages living in the Indigenous communities and encourage people to participate in the NFP and SFP, while the profits from the economic development programs circulate into the social service programs and become their funds. This sustainable process has enabled Atayal people to move forward in the tough times after the earthquake and the TIDDA to last for more than a decade.

Research method In this chapter, I selected four Atayal Indigenous communities, S’yux, M’ihu, L’olu, and Tgbin, out of the 14 included in TIDDA’s service area along the Daan River. These communities are located in Heping District, Taichung City, in central Taiwan, and have a predominantly Atayal 276

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population. Methods of fieldwork included participant observation, informal interviews, and in-depth interviews. Informed consent was the most important principle when I collected data. I confirmed that research participants realized that I was doing research, and everyone had the right to refuse my request. The data presented here is from my master thesis. While I have worked with Indigenous people for many years and in many capacities, I approach this work as a non-Indigenous social worker and researcher. My work with this project was not my first time staying in the Atayal communities; I had completed a two-month MSW practicum at TIDDA during the summer of 2015, then developed a research plan and proposed it to TIDDA. In the summer of 2016, I received oral permission from the leader of TIDDA to collect data. I continued discussions with TIDDA about how I could be involved in its work, then received formal permission to start the fieldwork at TIDDA in January 2017. I conducted four months of ethnographic fieldwork from March–July 2017. The data collection process was done in collaboration with TIDDA. My primary role was to assist TIDDA’s social workers in carrying out needs assessments among Indigenous elders since TIDDA intended to develop new services. Therefore, I had opportunities to participate in the daily life of Atayal communities through volunteering in the routine work of TIDDA. For example, I visited the elderly with social workers, delivered boxed lunches with TIDDA’s staff, participated in the farming work, co-facilitated weekly after-school children’s groups, and attended the monthly administrative assembly of TIDDA. Through participating in the community and in-depth interviews, I could experience the Atayal Peoples’ authentic lives and understand their worldviews and rationales in agricultural activities. As a non-Indigenous researcher, I  carefully analyzed the data with cultural awareness. I engaged in dialogue back and forth with research participants, especially when I encountered cultural issues, such as agricultural knowledge, local community history, and traditional Atayal knowledge. I consulted with the elders or residents with humility. I became a voracious reader of Atayal culture, and I learned the basic Atayal language from the residents to understand their daily conversation. Once in a while, I visited museums or exhibitions with topics related to Atayal culture. Indigenous input was sought throughout the research process to ensure the data was not misunderstood or misinterpreted. After finishing my thesis manuscript, I returned to TIDDA in 2018 January to present the preliminary findings and listen to research participants’ feedback, which was all included in this present chapter.

Natural Farming Program (NFP) reinforce spirituality and identity As the Atayal elders note, gaga involves taking good care of the mountains and forests, respecting all the creatures in the ecological system, and leaving the treasured land to descendants for future generations. For Atayal people, pursuing harmonious human-nature relations is a crucial norm of gaga, so NFP, a practice that incorporates ecological approaches and avoids chemical fertilizers, aligns with Atayal’s spirituality. Yupas, the Atayal middle-aged man in charge of the NFP in TIDDA, confirmed that the soil with NFP has not only been protected but enlivened. With the knowledge of eco-friendly agriculture, he explained that high-qualified grounds should be full of nutrients where bugs and weeds love to live. Conversely, soils are infertile and barren where the land has few complex food webs. He further expressed that the farmland in TIDDA used to add chemicals, so only one or two weeds could be alive. Yet by practicing natural farming over time, the biodiversity has built up, earthworms have begun to drill in the soils, and more than ten kinds of weeds have grown. Such ecosystem’s biodiversity has shown the fertility and improvement of the agrarian 277

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land, and now all the crops are fruitful. As a result, NFP creates a mutually beneficial relationship between people and nature. Suyan’s experience further shows how NFP strengthens the Atayal identity. Suyan knew nothing about agriculture when he came back to his tribal community after the earthquake. However, he has spent lots of time digging into NFP, learning from agricultural experts, and trying innovations. Currently, he is an NFP practitioner and has devoted himself to lands. He could never forget the intense feelings of “reconnecting with the farmland” popping up when he put his feet onto the chemical-free soil. Suyan rethought the nature of using chemicals, exploiting, and polluting the land. He realized that natural farming was not only about eliminating pesticides and chemical fertilizers but also about letting go of the desire to force more output and even squeeze out the land. Most impressive, he could feel that he was following the norms of his Atayal ancestors when he was farming. Returning to the original relationship of interdependence with land helps the farmers strengthen their identity as Atayal people. Admittedly, the NFP is congruent with the values of the Atayal tribe; it was not a simple matter to transit to natural practices from long-established chemical farming. In the past halfcentury, pesticides and fertilizers were introduced into the tribal communities due to modernization. As a result, most small farmers have used chemicals to pursue high production and profits. Some other reasons deterred small farmers from quitting chemicals and joining NFP. Initially, small farmers who had adopted conventional approaches worried that pesticide-free approach would attract pests or insects to eat their plants, where the agricultural land is adjacent to the NFP plots. Therefore, the natural farming participants might be blamed because the small farmers in Indigenous communities usually rely on the same compact living space. Second, not weeding makes other people believe that the farmer is lazy. This is contrary to the gaga norm of diligence. As mentioned previously, most Atayal people do not violate gaga for fear of punishment or bad fortune from utux. Third, while natural farming eliminated the expense of fertilizers and pesticides, the yield of agricultural products was expected to be cut off, as the unattractive appearance of products (e.g., smaller size or spots on the skin) would affect the customers’ willingness to buy them. Nevertheless, TIDDA’s staff are working hard to promote the benefits of natural farming. Having gone through the earthquake, the Atayal people are more attentive to how they treat the lands. Additionally, using conventional chemicals led many tribal people to suffer from pesticides intoxication every year. Therefore, focusing on descendants’ health and the value of the human-land relationships are the most convincing reasons for more residents to use chemicalfree agriculture. Pisuy’s belief can be a good example. Pisuy, an Atayal woman engaged in the TIDDA and cultural affairs in her Atayal community L’olu, said the first and foremost reason for her persistence in natural agriculture is to “leave the best land to the next generation.” She believed that Atayal should maintain the sustainability of the environment just as gaga taught and Atayal ancestors did. Therefore, when Atayal people look after the land, both beliefs and spirituality are also reinforced. As Suyan insisted, “Only through the land, we can do more integration with our traditional belief, gaga. In light of our living styles were originally close to the land, we Atayal learn a lot from the land and the environment.” Consequently, from those eco-friendly agricultural experiences, Atayal participants rethink the relations between themselves and nature based on the traditional wisdom of gaga and Atayal identity. The land existed before human beings, and human lives depend on the land, so Atayal people have developed a close connection to the ground. Such an interdependent relationship is built on helping each other rather than overusing. As the Atayal Elder says from

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the record of Piling Yabu earlier mentioned, the land is the soul of Atayal, and Atayal should live together with the land. By treating the ground better, the NFP that stays away from the chemical substance follows Atayal wisdom and maintains lands sustainably, enabling Atayal people to practice gaga in line with spirituality in their daily agricultural activities. Indigenous resilience flows from this harmonious relationship, and the identity of being an Atayal is also strengthened.

Small Farmers Platform (SFP) supports the collective approach Although the NFP connects the Atayal with the land, TIDDA knew it was not enough. For small farmers, the production yield of NFP is not as much as the conventional approach and consumers do not necessarily prefer to buy the NFP products. Additionally, NFP participants needed to know how to transition to NFP, sell those NFP products, and profit from farming. As a result, TIDDA built a platform to facilitate the transition and marketing channels. TIDDA set an objective of SFP: collaboration. Members must follow the goal from joining qualification, planning strategies, and the selling channels. Here, I will illustrate how SFP works. Before participating in SFP, the small farmers must have their soil examined and deemed chemical-free. Wayne, the manager of SFP, stated the consensus from members: Prior to joining the SFP, it is necessary to pass a quick test for both soils and crops to ensure those are not affected by chemical fertilizers. If you do not pass, you cannot join. Likewise, anyone will be disqualified from the failure at the random re-test. A-Fang, an early participant in SFP, also said on a member assembly of the SFP: We took four years to establish the SPF. From the beginning, only a few farmers followed us, but now more and more small farmers along the Daan River are willing to join. This strict qualification maintains the quality of NFP products and the reputation of SFP. Once members participate in the SFP, they have obligations to follow the rules made from the regular Platform member assembly. When small farmers pass the soil test and become SFP members, they can obtain various assistance from SFP. Specifically, SFP offers material resources, such as discounted supplies, selfmade beneficial bacteria, and liquid fertilizer for free and vegetable seedlings at a price below the market. SFP provides non-material assistance recognized as the most helpful. For example, to help farmers bolster their skills, SFP holds site visiting and lessons about eco-friendly agriculture regularly. Also, at the SFP assembly, Atayal farmers come together to exchange their information, discuss problems in the NFP process, and figure out the solution to the new challenge of implementing the eco-friendly approach to farming. The SFP supports small farmers’ transition to eco-friendly agriculture through support and cooperation. This collective approach differs from working individually and competing against one another. SFP facilitates small farmers’ partnerships. Second, the SFP adopted a strategy of multiple planting. Rather than growing one crop on a piece of land, SFP encourages small farmers to produce three or four kinds of cash crops simultaneously. Strategically planting various crops minimizes risks posed by natural disasters like floods, drought, or typhoons, and market forces causing sudden declines in crop prices.

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Suyan, based on his agricultural experience and marketing observations, described the benefits of diversified farming: Multiple planting can reduce risks. Even if one type of vegetable does not harvest or sell well due to seasonal issues, it is only one type, not all. To avoid this situation, the SFP could evaluate and suggest which kinds of crops to grow in advance, and this strategy can help our small farmers. The leaders of the SFP – Wayne, Suyan, and Yupas – consult with members in the regular assembly then develop guidance about what to plant in a period or season. Their decisions take into consideration the forces of supply and demand in the market, as well as the climate issue. TIDDA is practicing multiple planting on its small farmland. As I witnessed during my fourmonth fieldwork, vegetables vary with the seasons. Even the tiny agrarian land contains plantings such as sweet potato, corn, pumpkins, bok choy, Taiwanese lettuce, and chayote leaves. Yupas told me the SFP would adjust small farmers’ planting projects if a particular type of vegetables’ total production is too much or too little per month. He said they could also achieve balance by altering the items planted in the TIDDA’s farmland. Last but not least, the SFP guarantees to purchase the crops directly from the small farmers, assuring small farmers a stable income. In contrast to most traditional marketing systems, where merchant middlemen exploit small farmers, SPF’s measure relieves small farmers’ pressure. They don’t have to worry about finding a buyer and negotiating the price. How does SFP consume those crops? Some of the crops become ingredients for the TKP in utux nian (literally, eating together) and also for meals delivered to the elderly in need. The elders in the community can enjoy locally grown, pesticide-free produce in boxed meals. Some of those agricultural products are sold to urban households that support eco-friendly farming. SPF takes responsibility for packaging and marketing products, offering home delivery, and providing customer service. The cooperation between SFP and small farmers minimizes distractions enabling farmers to concentrate on producing NFP crops. In short, by playing a vital role during the procedure, the SFP fosters collaboration to facilitate small farmers to transition from conventional farming and to market their agricultural products. With the support and promotion from SFP, small farmers’ questions are solved, and they can smoothly produce natural farming vegetables. SFP purchases the products in guarantees consistently and takes over the marketing and customer service. Hence, cooperation – which closes to the Atayal tradition, rather than competition among small farmers – works through the process.

Autonomous community development Grounded in Atayal Peoples’ life and wisdom, TIDDA developed the NFP and the SFP from a strengths-based perspective. These two programs renounce a needs-based or deficit model. Typically, policies and social welfare programs focus on communities’ scarcity and filling gaps directly by providing grants or marketing experts. Yet, many such trials have failed. Both the NFP and the SFP focus on members’ strengths, and they recognize agricultural skills and smallland ownership as assets, offer support, and cultivate empowerment. Furthermore, Atayal people have found that farming practices are one way to foster Indigenous communities’ autonomy based on their traditional agricultural lifestyle. Although grants from the welfare system enable the Indigenous communities to develop, grants can also become a conflict. In general, social welfare grants from the public sector are 280

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distributed on an annual basis. In most cases, when the local NGO applies for funds from the public sector, regardless of whether it is the central or local government, it must propose welfare assessments and solutions. The public sector will determine whether the NGO is qualified to acquire the grants, based on experts’ reviews. Additionally, experts from the outside usually tutor and evaluate the ongoing tribal plans’ procedures. External funding mechanisms, although well-intentioned, are designed to fill gaps. However, identifying gaps and needs is grounded in a colonial and deficit perspective, a heavily problematic stance for Indigenous communities. The process of applying for social welfare grants from the public sector can make the Indigenous communities’ members feel repressed, disempowered, or even recolonized. For Suyan, as a Native, he felt a sense of alienation while applying for funds in the past few years: Every time when I applied for grants in the social welfare system for the elderly and children, my tribal community had been defined as “dependent.” Yes, lots of resources came to the community . . . but I was thinking, “Do these resources imply my tribe is needs to be advised and assisted?” With this assumption, I felt confused while taking care of elders and children. Actually, they are parts of my community and my relations. Additionally, the public sector seems to assume that the Indigenous communities can be improved by submitting grants continuously in the welfare system. Suyan was aware that he kept writing the plan and doing the same things again every other year; nonetheless, the Indigenous communities had not changed significantly. Suyan reflected, “How can we say we are taking care of them? We just didn’t let them starve to death.” For him, the external resources from the public sector or private organizations are like sugar-coated poisons; they help with basic subsistence, yet gradually make community residents forget how to think, feel their human dignity is deprived, and even simply wait to be helped. Suyan wanted to break the deadlock between the government and the Indigenous community, so he discussed with TIDDA’s members how to reduce their dependence on government grants and turn to develop NFP and the SFP. Based on his agricultural experience, Suyan slowly realized that “farming is not so scary and doomed to fail. In contrast, farming that our ancestors were good at can be our future in our Indigenous communities.” Indeed, many Atayal people along the Daan River had the farming experience, so they have agricultural skills, and a good understanding of the land. Those assets can turn things around and can kindle the imagination of practicing the autonomy of Indigenous community development. As Suyan said, “The issue of farming in the Indigenous community is not simply about what to grow, but about practicing the autonomy in Indigenous communities, instead of relying on the external resource.” When talking of Indigenous community development autonomy, a confident smile came to Suyan. He noted, agriculture could be a way for Atayal communities to practice autonomy. While I am in my farmland, it seems like the first time I can decide what I want to breathe for myself. I can do what I am really good at, not just to propose a solution plan for applying for grants, and be forced to listen to other people. This process makes me feel like being a host of myself. I think farming, what we were specializing at, can be the Indigenous communities’ real direction. The interventions promoted by TIDDA highlight the inner strength that the Atayal people already had, rather than the needs and deficits that external funders focus on in their 281

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decision-making processes. Through NFP and SFP, TIDDA found a way to reframe deficit thinking and avoid over-reliance on outside resources. Grounded by Indigenous priorities that center relationships with nature and close interpersonal connections, Atayal communities can thrive in their own way and regain their dignity. More importantly, Indigenous resilience grows from the process of developing autonomy.

Growing resilience from reconnecting with the farmland The Atayal people along the Daan River experienced the 921 Earthquake trauma 20 years ago, causing extensive trauma and the path to recovery is long. This crisis, however, was also a turning point. Atayal young people came back to their communities and started rebuilding work with resources from public sectors. As the recovery continued, members in TIDDA became aware that over-reliance on the public sector’s welfare system could be a double-edged sword, bringing benefits but also disempowerment and ultimately becoming colonial pressure. Therefore, far from relying on external and supplementary perspectives, TIDDA has tried to move beyond by implementing eco-friendly programs aligned with the Atayal tradition. In this way, they build communities’ inner strength to support the Atayal tribal people. By reconnecting with the land and implementing natural techniques, human–land relations are repaired and rebuilt. Likewise, the Atayal identity is strengthened because the eco-friendly approach benefits the environment and follows gaga. SFP reinforces collective agriculture and partnerships among the small farmers in the Indigenous communities. Thereby autonomy and Indigenous resilience in Atayal communities grow with the support of the farming programs that emphasize existing assets and strengths, including individual spirituality, interpersonal relationships, partnerships in the community, and the traditional wisdom of environment and farming. The Atayal people regained their hopes and rebuilt lives on their land. Farmlands are not just a physical environment for livelihood, but also a place where collective memories, ethnic identity, sources of energy and knowledge, and rituals are performed. The land is strongly connected with being Atayal, and Indigenous resilience is growing out from the farmland.

Conclusion This chapter describes how the Indigenous Atayal people along the Daan River in Taiwan demonstrated resilience in facing a natural disaster and colonial pressures from the external welfare system. In these communities, agricultural programs reconnect people with the farmland, guided by traditional Indigenous values. Indigenous resilience is rooted in Indigenous culture and worldviews, especially the connection with the land. As this study found, farming is not only for agricultural production, but also supports connections with lands where Atayal people have lived for thousands of years. Reconnecting with the farmland enables the Atayal to interact with nature, and allows the Indigenous communities to grow and thrive. The Atayal people demonstrate resilience based on gaga’s spirituality, collective approaches to farming, and autonomy. All are vital parts of Indigenous resilience. Indigenous Peoples in Taiwan are diverse, including substantial diversity within the Atayal tribe. While solid connections with the land are common for Indigenous populations around the world, it is crucial to recognize that social, historical and contemporary factors shape nuances among tribal communities. Still, the present case of Atayal people and how they have reconnected with the land and demonstrated their autonomy is an example of Indigenous resilience that will likely resonate in other Indigenous contexts. 282

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Chao-Kai Huang Ministry of the Interior. (2020). Population data quarterly publication. Retrieved from www.ris.gov.tw/app/ en/3910 Piling, Y., & Sayun, M. (2009). Words from Yaba: A contemplation about contemporary Tayal tradition. Miaoli, Taiwan: Shei-Pa National Park Headquarters. Rigby, D., & Cáceres, D. (2001). Organic farming and the sustainability of agricultural systems. Agricultural Systems, 68(1), 21–40. Ru, H.-Y., & Lo, E.-C. (2015). The local moral world and agricultural activities of the committed organic farmer: A case study from an Atayal community in Shilei, Jianshi Township, Xinzhu. Taiwan Journal of Anthropology, 13(1), 79–130. (in Mandarin) Stewart-Harawira, M. (2018). Indigenous resilience and pedagogies of resistance: Responding to the crisis of our age. SSRN 3185625. UN. (2010). State of the world’s indigenous peoples. New York: UN. UN. (2016). State of the world’s indigenous peoples: Indigenous peoples’ access to health services. New York: UN. Verhoog, H., Matze, M., Van Bueren, E. L., & Baars, T. (2003). The role of the concept of the natural (naturalness) in organic farming. Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics, 16(1), 29–49. Wang, M.-H. (2003). Exploring the social characteristics of the Dayan multiple meanings of gaga. Taiwan Journal of Anthropology, 1(1), 77–104. (in Mandarin) Wang, M.-H. (2008). The reinvention of ethnicity and culture: A comparative study on the Atayal and the Truku in Taiwan. Journal of Archaeology and Anthropology, 68, 1–44. Weaver, H. N. (2008). Indigenous social work in the United States: Reflections on Indian tacos, Trojan horses and canoes filled with Indigenous revolutionaries. In Indigenous social work around the world (pp. 71–82). Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing. Wexler, L. (2014). Looking across three generations of Alaska natives to explore how culture fosters indigenous resilience. Transcultural Psychiatry, 51(1), 73–92. Willis, R., Jackson, D., Nettleton, C., Good, K., & Mugarura, B. (2006). Health of indigenous people in Africa. The Lancet, 367(9526), 1937–1946. Yan, X.-Z., He, Z.-Q., Lin, Z.-S., Wu, H.-L., Wu, S.-Y., Zhang, M.-C., . . . Sun, C.-J. (2005). The budding earth: Stories of the 921 post-quake recovery area in Taiwan. Nantou, Taiwan: The New Homeland Foundation. Yen, A.-C. (2015). Development of sustainable agriculture based on land ethics: A  study case in tayal indigenous community in Jianshih Township, Hsinshu county. City and Planning, 42(2), 209–233. (in Mandarin) Yen, A.-C., Fu, X.-Z., & He, X.-F. (2011). The practice of sustainable agricultural development in indigenous community-a case study in Shi-lei indigenous community, Jienshih Township, Hsinchu County, Taiwan. Journal of Taiwan Land Research, 14(2),67–97. (in Mandarin) Zhi-Shan Foundation Taiwan. (n.d.). Origin and mission. Retrieved from www.zhi-shan.org/en

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19 EARTHQUAKES OF NEPAL Making the case for Indigenous resilience Bala Raju Nikku, Bishwash Nepali, and Hemnath Khatiwada

Introduction Nepal is a land-linked (some call it landlocked) country located in a seismic zone. It is bordered on three sides by India and by China’s autonomous Tibet region to the north. This unique geographical position gives Nepal both opportunities and challenges in terms of dealing with disasters and displacement of people. In Nepal, both natural and human-made disasters, desertification, drought, floods, loss of water supply, landslides, and Maoist internal conflict have forced displacement of people and families, especially the Indigenous populations who relocate internally to new areas in search of livelihoods (Nikku, 2018, 2020b). Long before the existence of modern governments in Nepal and elsewhere, Indigenous people lived and thrived under self-governing systems of rights, rules, and responsibilities. The 2015 Constitution of Nepal declares Nepal as multiethnic, multilingual, multireligious, multicultural, and with diverse regional characteristics. According to the 2011 census, there are 125 caste/ethnic groups, 123 languages and ten religious groups across the country. Nepal has legally recognized 59 Indigenous nationalities, referred to as Adivasi Janajati (CBS, 2011). According to government statistics, Indigenous people constitute one-third of Nepal’s total population, with the major groups being Magar (7.14%), Tharu (6.75%), Tamang (5.64%), Newar (5.48%), Rai (2.79%), Gurung (2.39%), and Limbu (1.58%; CBS, 2011). These government statistics are contested because of limitations with data collection. Reporting may also have been influenced by political interests. Indigenous Peoples’ organizations of Nepal claim that Indigenous people constitute more than 50% of the population (Bhattachan, 2020). Although Indigenous Peoples are a significant proportion of the Nepalese population, throughout the last 300 years, they have been discriminated against, marginalized, excluded, subjugated, dominated, and exploited in terms of land, territories, resources, language, culture, laws, customs and politics, and economic opportunities (Bhattachan, 2020). While Nepal adopted the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in 2007, the Nepalese Constitution (effective September 20, 2015) denies the collective rights and aspirations for identity-based federalism of Indigenous Peoples, denying their right to identity-based politics and a share of government resources (Bhattachan, 2020). This chapter, based on Indigenous narratives, explores the resilience and vulnerabilities of Indigenous people to disasters in the context of political and policy adversities, oppression, 285

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and intergenerational injustices. We argue that resilience to disasters is inherent to the Indigenous communities and is interconnected with their belief systems, rituals, cultural practices, and worldviews. This chapter explores how rules, culture, and tradition intersect with disaster management practices of the Haku Community in Rasuwa, Nepal. It builds on the notion that Indigenous communities developed resilience to disasters because of their cultural beliefs, practices, and in-depth understanding of coexistence with their environment. This chapter describes how mismanagement of disasters and bureaucratic control of Indigenous bodies, culture, and spirits are further destroying Indigenous cultures and their resilient ways of knowing and living. Mismanagement of 2015 earthquake relief, rehabilitation, and reintegration led to further violation of Indigenous rights and alienation from political governance. This chapter focuses on the Haku elders as Knowledge Holders and their experiences of loss of autonomy and alienation from their connections to land, water, and rituals when they were forced to live in internally displaced people (IDP) camps. The chapter is divided into six sections. Following the introduction, we provide background information on the Indigenous people and the Rasuwa district in the second section. The third section describes the earthquakes of 2015, followed by a description of the research methodology in the fourth section. The narrative analysis of the lived experiences of Indigenous Haku people during their displacement, their day-to-day struggles, and resilience is presented in the fifth section. The chapter concludes with a call to incorporate Indigenous constructs of resilience in disaster management policies and practices of Nepal and beyond.

Indigenous people and the district of Rasuwa Rasuwa district is located in the Bagmati Zone, approximately 124 kilometers north of the capital city Kathmandu. The district is one of the richest districts in terms of natural, religious, and cultural heritage, yet it has one of the lowest levels of economic development in Nepal (Campbell, 2015). Rasuwa has an area of 1,544 square kilometers and consists of 18 Village Development Committees (VDCs; now reorganized into five Rural Municipalities). This district is one of the northernmost districts of the central development region, with a population of about 50,000. Buddhism is the major religion in this district. The Haku settlement consist of nine wards. Each was affected by the 2015 disasters with damage ranging from severe to moderate levels. It is a five-hour hike from Dhunche (the district headquarters of Rasuwa) to reach Haku besi (bazar) and another two hours to reach Sano Haku. Haku is about 100 kilometers north of Kathmandu. The total number of households reported in Haku VDC is about 550, with a population fluctuating between 2,100 and 3,000. The Tamang are the primary Indigenous population of the district. Tamang are one of the major Tibeto-Burmese–speaking communities in Nepal. Multiple Tibetan refugee settlements were established in Rasuwa in the 1960s as Tibetans fled their home Kyirong region and settled within 25 kilometers of the Nepal–China border. In most villages of northern Rasuwa, intermarriages between Indigenous Tamang households and their Tibetan neighbors has been practiced for centuries. Although remote, Rasuwa has developed linkages with urban centers, especially Kathmandu. Subsistence agriculture and animal husbandry, coupled with tourism resources and cross-border services (China and Nepal), form the main sources of livelihood in Rasuwa. The Rasuwa Indigenous communities are heavily dependent on agriculture and livestock for food and livelihoods, despite the involvement of many households in non-agricultural income-generating activities, such as tourist services and labor in other areas (outmigration to Middle East and Southeast Asian countries). Some Indigenous people find work as daily wage laborers in road 286

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construction and hydropower projects that started in the district during the last decade. While male Tamang work for daily wages, women and elders continue to cultivate traditional crops such as millet, buckwheat, local beans, and barley, in addition to rice, potatoes, and vegetables (Joshi & Joshi, 2016). The Rasuwa Tamang communities are deeply connected to Tibetan culture, including – but not limited to – language, Buddhism, festivals, ceremonies, and dress (Murton, Lord, & Beazley, 2016). The lifestyle of solitude, coexisting with nature and the serenity of the Himalayas, is reflected in Tamang artisanship, dress, and language. Tamang people traditionally built stone houses, using local materials and wooden carvings for windows and doors. These homes are also used as guest houses for tourists, providing a night stay and food for a modest charge. Most of these traditional homes were damaged or fully destroyed during the 2015 earthquakes. Understanding the changing contexts and development trajectory of Rasuwa is crucial to understanding the impacts of earthquakes on the livelihoods of local Indigenous people. Tamang elders noticed the changes in the economic and political spheres. They mentioned changes in nature (climate), especially patterns of snowfall, increased levels of snowmelt, rainfall, flowering delays, and temperatures. During 2010–2020, Rasuwa District received an array of infrastructure projects developed in partnership with the Chinese government and private sector actors. Most importantly, these include several hydropower projects under the management of Chinese contractors, all expected to provide economic benefits to communities along the Kyirong– Rasuwa Highway (Murton et  al., 2016; Murton, 2016). Many Indigenous men found daily wage jobs, particularly in northern Rasuwa, where Chinese-built roads support construction of Chinese hydropower projects. These jobs, however, are both seasonal and risky. Additionally, non-Indigenous people who migrated from other areas before the 2015 earthquakes have profited substantially from land speculation during the hydropower and infrastructure development boom. As new restaurants, drinking establishments, and sundry shops open every month, cash flows fast – but access to arable land has become tenuous (Murton et al., 2016). These infrastructure developments caused environmental degradation in the district affecting animal husbandry and the agriculture-based livelihood of Indigenous communities.

The Gorkha earthquake of 2015 On April  25, 2015, a devastating earthquake with a magnitude of 7.8 on the Richter scale occurred in the Gorkha district, approximately 80 kilometers northwest of Kathmandu. A second earthquake with a magnitude of 7.3 struck on May 12, 2015. These two seismic events triggered landslides and avalanches in remote, rural, and mountainous regions of Nepal, killing more than 10,000 people and injuring thousands more (Government of Nepal, 2015). Thirtynine of the country’s 75 districts with an estimated population of eight million people, about one-fourth of the national population, were affected (BBC, 2015; World Vision, 2018). An estimated 2.8 million people required humanitarian assistance (UN Office, 2015). About a million houses were damaged, either partially or fully. Over 30,000 classrooms were fully or partially damaged. Five of the eight UNESCO World Heritage cultural sites were destroyed. Overall, the economic loss was estimated at about US$7 billion. The most affected districts were Dhading, Gorkha, Rasuwa, Sindhupalchowk, Kavre, Nuwakot, Dolakha, Kathmandu, Lalitpur, Bhaktapur, and Ramechhap. A total of 681 deaths were reported from the Rasuwa district, of which 90% were from Indigenous communities. After the second earthquake and numerous aftermath tremors, peoples’ perceptions of the safety and security of their homes worsened. Thousands chose to live outside of their homes (even if only moderately damaged) in makeshift camps. Kathmandu became a tent city. By 287

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June  2015, about 150,000 people were internally displaced and subsisting in more than 400 camps across the country (ICRC, 2015). The 2015 earthquakes invoked peoples’ memories of previous devastation and death. Nepal has experienced multiple earthquakes in the past 100 years. The 1934 Nepal-Bihar earthquake caused severe damage and many deaths (Rana, 1935). Given this history and the likelihood of future earthquakes, disaster preparedness and understanding resilient practices should be a pressing priority for governments in Nepal (Nikku, 2015; Nikku et al., 2019).

Displacements and governmental responses The first few weeks following the April 25 earthquake saw large outflows from Kathmandu Valley to neighboring Nuwakot and Kavrepalanchok districts. An estimated 390,000 people left the Kathmandu Valley (BBC, 2015). Similar outflows continued for up to five months to highly populated districts such as Parsa, Sarlahi, and Udaypur in the central southern region of Nepal. The number of people migrating from Kathmandu to the areas in the north was lower than the number of people migrating to the southern districts. While people from the Kathmandu Valley were migrating south, those from the northern districts were seeking refuge and safety in Kathmandu Valley. By late June 2015, an estimated 50,000 displaced people entered Kathmandu Valley from the northern districts. Over the next 12 months, the number of people living in temporary camps across the country decreased to 20,000 in 65 temporary camps from the initial count of 100,000 people. Globally, Nepal ranked as the third country in terms of disaster displacements in 2015 (IDMC, 2016). Despite political will from the state and good intentions from non-state actors to rebuild Nepal, minimal progress was evident on the ground at the time of this research in 2018. Of more than 400,000 homes earmarked for reconstruction, only 12% had been rebuilt. Very little of the US$4.4 billion in aid pledged had been received or disbursed for reconstruction purposes (Meding, Shrestha, Kabir, & Ahmed, 2017). Further, political instability due to the political parties wrangling resulted in sluggish distribution of disaster relief and aid. Relief was complicated by the remoteness of many of the affected Indigenous communities, like that of Rasuwa Tamangs. Remoteness and resource limitations were further fueled by aid mismanagement, procedural guidelines not being followed, and party politics. The National Human Rights Commission of Nepal (NHRC) conducted a detailed assessment of the human rights situation of IDPs in the aftermath of the earthquakes (NHRC, 2015). The report noted that in several instances the immediate relief failed to consider the needs of potentially vulnerable groups, including children, persons with disabilities, and women. The importance of local knowledge and coping strategies are emphasized in national policies like the Nepal Disaster Management Policy, yet the efforts of Nepalese state actors have failed in protecting the rights of IDPs, including many Indigenous people (Nikku, 2020a).

Research methodology The Rasuwa district was selected as the research site because of its large Indigenous population and high level of displacement. More than 10,000 people, one-fifth of the district’s population, were displaced after the earthquakes. Most Indigenous villages in this district reported loss of homes, lands, and livelihoods. Among village settlements, 1550 families were displaced from Haku and Dandagaon VDCs alone. Haku reported a total displacement of 550 households and 288

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hence was selected for the in-depth study. The focus of the research was to examine how these communities responded to the 2015 earthquakes, how vulnerabilities were addressed, and what resilience practices were mobilized. Prior to data collection, multiple frameworks exploring Indigenous resilience and disasters were examined. Information about Indigenous beliefs, rituals, and practices were discussed within the research team to familiarize ourselves with local practices. We further developed our approach based on Poudel’s (2008) work on Indigenous resilience (lachak in Nepali) based on the Asta-Ja (Eight “Ja”) framework. The Nepali letter “Ja” represents: Jal (water), Jamin (land), Jarajuri (plants), Janawar (animals), Jungle (forest), Jadibuti (medicinal herbs and aromatic plants), Jalabayu (climate), and Jansakti (manpower). These eight Ja helped us investigate the research participants’ economic, social, political, and cultural aspects of resilience and vulnerabilities to disasters. Applying a rights-based resilience approach to disasters and displacement further helped unpack the disaster politics and failure of the Nepalese state as a duty bearer. Our approach recognizes that disasters take place within a social context where pre-existing patterns of discrimination can engender or exacerbate vulnerability to disaster-related harm (Wisner et al., 2012). Data came from various qualitative sources including stories told by Indigenous people, images, media and government reports, and non-governmental organization (NGO) staff members. Most of the information was gathered in 2018 using semi-structured topic guides. Data was collected through individual discussions and group deliberations held in IDP camps in Haku and Dhunche. Using narrative analysis, we interpreted the stories that were told to us within the context of the post-disaster scenario. Narrative elements include – but are not limited to – how the story is structured, what functions the story serves, the substance of the story, and how the story is performed (Allen, 2017). Using this method, we were able to capture, interpret, and recap the stories told by the elders of Haku. These stories are substantial and meaningful interpretations of their lives before and after the 2015 earthquakes. Stories are part of everyday life strategies of Indigenous communities who are disaster survivors and at the same time resilient strategists. Several themes emerged from eight semi-structured conversations with elders and two group discussions with community members, including women, children, youth, and men, conducted during December 2018. We then identified the patterns of meaning across the data to offer answers to the research questions. As a result, selected thematic patterns are identified through the process of data familiarization (reading and re-reading the stories shared and other sources of data to become immersed and intimately familiar with the content). Data was coded and themes were developed and revised. These narratives reflect a dynamic interplay of post-earthquake lives, experiences, and stories (see Attride-Stirling, 2001). As external, non-Indigenous researcher and local activists, we had the privilege to listen to these stories with respect and humility. We paid particular attention to our roles in the production of the narrative data and representation of lived experience in this chapter (Eastmond, 2007).

Indigenous resilience and vulnerability to disasters Resilience to disasters can be explained as positive adaptations despite adversities. Indigenous communities are closely intertwined with nature and intrinsic spiritual elements. Indigenous elders’ perceptions of natural disasters are based on a deep understanding of their natural environment, of life, death, culture, and rituals. 289

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Indigenous communities in Nepal and elsewhere have developed an understanding and way of life based on a complex web of relations evolving over generations of lived experiences and coexistence with nature. This kind of understanding is codified and is reflected in cultural practices, traditions, and ceremonies. These intimate, foundational practices and beliefs strengthen the resilience of Indigenous communities that live close to hazards (Thomas, Mitchell, & Arseneau, 2016; Paulraj & Andharia, 2015; Wexler, 2014).

Indigenous perspectives on disaster Governments, scientists, and aid agencies have a variety of definitions, models, and explanations of “disaster,” while Indigenous Peoples may have different interpretations. Haku community members understood “disaster” as an act of gods who are angry. The local stories shared with us in Haku explained the causes of earthquakes. One elder stated, “the Earth is sitting on the head of an elephant. The elephant moved its head and hence the Earth shook and causes an earthquake.” Another perspective is that the “fish in the Earth core are moving and trying to come out and hence the Earth breaks.” Another elder shared: We have sense of place and attachment to religious practices, which are very valuable to us. We cannot live without worshipping at Ghumba and practice death and birth rituals. . . . We are all guests on this earth for two days. The day we were born and the day we die . . . so why worry for difficulties in between. (Field notes, December 12, 2018) These stories and knowledge retained by the Haku elders are retold to the younger generations and reflect many generations of experience and problem solving by Indigenous communities (Langill, 1999). Living in close contact with nature over generations, a body of knowledge is accumulated and passed on through oral traditions. The stories of displaced Haku residents demonstrate how they cope, despite being separated from their life resources due to the disaster displacement. The Haku people in IDP camps had issues with access to enough water (jal), land (jameen), animals (janvar), forest (jungle), and medicinal plants (jadibuti). This separation affected their spiritual and cultural practices and weakened their resilience.

Indigenous ways of life: hope and resilience Tamang elders in Haku shared their culture, history, ways of life, and ways they survived disasters in their stories. They stated that originally, a few of their ancestors migrated from Tibet and built a settlement now known as Haku. They estimated that the Haku settlement began some 30 generations ago. The elders noted that the name Tamang is made up of two words: Ta, which means horse, and Mang, which means rider or trader. Presumably, Tamangs were involved in horse trading or riding. Haku elders shared their collective memories of the village and how their ancestors lived in harmony with nature. While there were landslides around the village settlement, they were able to live with them. The barren steep slopes where they built their homesteads were repaired from time to time, and additional structures were added as the families grew. At the beginning, there were fewer than ten families in the original Haku village, but now it has expanded to many segments: Thulo Haku (big Haku), Sanu Haku (small Haku), Haku Besi (Haku Bazar) and Gagene

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village. “We were less than handful of 30 families in the whole of Haku, when I was young,” remembers an 80-year-old Tamang elder. In one of the group discussions, the elders reflected on their cultural lives before the earthquake of 2015: Haku is a very old settlement. A Buddhist monk from Kathmandu arrived and initiated some religious services some 40 years ago. Along with the participation of chiefs of the village, the land belonging to Haku was registered under the ownership of Shyambhu old Ghyang Trust. We did not feel bad about this decision; because we believed that, it would help in continuing religious rituals under the Gumba (temple). It is a matter of pious activity to us and connected to Buddhist values of the community. . . . With the time and other political and developmental activities took place, over the period of time the idea of individual land ownership became important to families. The entire land plots measured 40 years ago. As a result, a small land rent from each plot of land was collected and sent out to Kathmandu Seto Gumba (white monastery) until recently (the year 2000). We used to pay rent to the Monks and to the Chief of the village in form of paddy rice, banana, and other fruits including meat and cash. We the Tamang people have unique lifestyle, rituals, art and food. We are acknowledged as living memory of Buddhist culture. Dharmi jhakri (traditional healing), dance, religious fairs, and festivals have been part of our Tamang life and culture. We always cultivated potato, lentils, oats, buckwheat, millet, corn just enough for us to survive and share. With time, we are also started vegetable farming like cauliflower, cabbage, radish, tomatoes to sell them at Dhunche market. We are not rich but happy people. Gods are angry with Nepalese people and hence send the earthquakes. We are poor and miserable as we lost everything but pray that we will be fine soon. . . . (excerpts from group discussion #1 with Sano Haku elders)

Displacement and alienation from Asta Ja (eight Ja) Nepal’s laws and disaster management policies failed to recognize Indigenous ways of being and connections to Asta Ja (their livelihood resources.) This lack of recognition threatened Indigenous livelihoods and further alienated the people from practices that support resilience. Field evidence shows significant failures on the part of the government to fulfill the right to an adequate standard of living, both in the immediate aftermath of the earthquakes and for several years thereafter. Haku is remote and disconnected from urban power centers and policymaking bodies. One Indigenous youth noted that the remote location, lack of political connections, and an inability to please the representatives of state agencies made it difficult to access disaster relief and aid services. Mr. Gopi Tamang, a teacher in Haku, reported that he never imagined returning to the village to start life again after the earthquakes. The destruction affected almost all the families living in different wards of Haku, including 37 households in Ward 1, 61 in Ward 2, 60 in Ward 3 (known as Haku Besi and Phulbari), 38 in Ward 4, 46 in Ward 5 (known as Thanku), 24 in Ward 6, 43 in Ward 7, 97 in Ward 8, and 57 in Ward 9 (known as Gogone and Tiru settlements). No exact population figures are available, since the last census occurred in 2011, but there was a trend of out migration of youth to urban areas prior to the earthquakes in 2015. The outward migration has doubled after the earthquakes, laments Gopi Tamang.

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The narratives told by the Haku people frequently mention that as displaced families, “we are living the life of nomads and treated like refugees in own place.” Cheju, a Tamang youth, shared how families are coping by making difficult choices in a new settlement: About 80 families are still living (at the time of field work December  2018) in an open field in the relatively undamaged Nesing ward of Haku village. Most of these families continue to stay in the open fields instead of going back to their damaged houses to protect themselves from the frequent landslides due to the earthquakes post the disasters . . . . another 60 Haku families moved to as far as Bhatkepati, Kirtipur in Kathmandu Valley. Children also moved with their families to these new places. Our children were sent to local schools which are already crowded with local students. Our children had to go through physical, linguistic and mental adjustments. No extra support from the government to accommodate our students was given to the school. The local youth club members and friends (belonging to Newari, another Indigenous community living in Kathmandu) distributed textbooks, notebooks and pencils to our children. (Field notes, December 20, 2018) These stories describe how Tamang community members viewed disasters and how they have developed coping mechanisms. They mobilize their spiritual strengths and find meaning in their daily coexistence with nature, even when displaced. This is evident in the words of Man Bahadur Ghartimagar (age 65) from Simle village (now part of Uttargaya village municipality 5). Due to his speech disability, he never married and lived with his mother who passed away during the earthquakes as their house collapsed. He shared: As of today, I have lost everything that I possessed including my mother. I lost my home, no land and nowhere to go. My only hope that I will live respectfully until God calls me (until I die). I have been living in this camp for two years now. But thanks to my extended family members who allowed me to stay with them in this small hut not enough even for them. I am helping them in whatever ways I can. I go to nearby Jungle (forest) and collect firewood for the cooking. I pray God that our lives will be better soon. Some families migrated to urban centers like Kathmandu in search of wage labor. These families maintained their connections to Haku through their participation in cultural and religious ceremonies. As a result, these families maintained their family connections and were able to manage with support from kinship networks. Dekhi Tamang (age 45) reflected: First time in 26 years of post-marriage life, I was rather forced to travel to a long distance from my village Thulo Haku to Kirtipur with my husband, three daughters and one son right after the 2015 earthquakes. As a family, we lost all that we possessed. We first moved to a nearby camp in Nuwakot and then moved to Kathmandu after a year (at the end of 2016) not knowing the harsh life in the new place that we moved to from the IDP camp. It was no different. We believed that moving to urban city like that of Kathmandu will help us to secure safe place and will have more work opportunities. My husband thought he could even migrate to abroad in search of foreign employment (Bideshi rojgar). Our family spent ten days outside right after the quakes with my eight-month-old baby. There is no certainty about my family’s future. After 292

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moving to Kirtipur at least I was able to enrol two of our daughters into a nearby local school. I spend my time looking after the small baby and family needs. I also have tried to grow vegetables back side of our hut. The income from my husband’s daily wage work (whenever he gets) in a construction site was not enough to feed our family of six. There is no privacy, not enough to eat, sleep and pray. But we survived by maintaining our ties with relatives who moved back to Haku and we are trying to build our house back in the village. (Field notes, December 18, 2018)

Life in IDP camps: resilience in the face of despair and demeaning conditions The Haku community has co-existed with nature and its land-based resources for centuries, but life changed after the 2015 major earthquakes. The Haku Besi residents shared that 60 community members lost their lives during the disasters. Almost all houses, public buildings (five primary schools, one lower secondary school, and one sub-health post) and religious places (Haku Gumba) were destroyed or damaged. The earthquakes and subsequent landslides forced residents to vacate their villages and seek refuge in IDP camps organized at Naubesi, Satbise, Bogetetar, Dhunche (Rasuwa district), Betrawati (Nuwakot), and Machegau in Kathmandu. These IDP camps were organized by multiple agencies. Indeed, some of the camps were organized by disaster victims themselves, an indication of their strength in the face of adversity. A Tamang elder of Manigaun (now part of Uttargaya-4) noted that with the support of locals, they were able to organize their own camp, remembered Lal Bahadur Thitru. He remembers his days at the camp, and shared with us: Our 15 Tamang families of our village did not wait for the government support as it was not coming to us. Our youth decided to build a quick make shift camp in Kalte village (three hours walk from our village) with the help of locals. Later some philanthropic and religious organizations came to support us and provided us with food materials. In our camp we made sure and built a small place for our daily worship. We the elders and children used to gather every day for evening prayers. We survived the disaster which are not new to us. God was angry with us and we prayed every day and we are back in our village. With the help of my extended family members am able to build this chapra (small one-room house) and I am happy to be back in the village. The conditions in the IDP camps in Dhunche, Naubise, Kalte and Santi bazar varied from very basic (makeshift tents, no secure bathing and sanitary facilities, no child-safe places) to somewhat organized (food supplies were provided, drinking water made available, education and recreation spaces were organized). Camp provisions and management varied based on the mobilization of internal management skills and the level of external support camp residents received. These differences created further risks and fear for the Tamang communities. The National Human Rights Committee report recounts how women were exposed to the risk of trafficking in the camps in Rasuwa district. The report also notes that 233 families from Haku VDC did not receive the relief amount allocated by the government for displaced citizens, although no further information is provided (NHRC, 2015). Despite these harsh conditions and lack of continued support from the government and external donors, the Indigenous residents did not sit ideally in these camps and lament the lack of support. Rather, what was evident was an effort and hope to rebuild their lives. Most Tamang 293

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households reported moving back and forth between their villages and their IDP camps. The elders and male family members from each household visited their village to repair their houses and cultivate some food crops. These visits were usually 10–15 days at a time. Family members returned to IDP camps during monsoons and winters. These activities highlight the resilience of Indigenous communities. Continuing to cultivate crops in the middle of post-disaster lives was an effort to reconnection to their lands, water, and farm animals (Jameen, Jal, and Janwar). These activities provided additional hope and cultural sustenance which played vital roles in Indigenous livelihood rebuilding.

Connections with Jameen (land), Jal (water), animals (Janwar) and Jadibuti (medicinal plants) In our conversations with Haku elders in the IDP camps, they often mentioned their connections to the land (Jameen), water (Jal), medicinal plants (Jadibuti), and animals (Janwar), and how crucial it was for them to be connected to these resources. The elders further explained about their connection with the land. The ancestral domain (land/Jameen) is popularly known as Tamsaling. “Tam” refers to the language spoken by Tamang people, “sa” refers to the land, and “ling” refers to the territory or fragment. The elders shared that the land they live on provides them with the space to pray, food to grow to offer to God, and the air to breathe through plants on the lands. The elders were grieving because many Tamang families lost their lands due to the earthquakes and became landless. Laxmi Gurung (age 41) of Dadagaun Village (Uttargaya village municipality 2) became a single mother when her husband left her and their son about seven years ago. Ownership of the land and house remains with her husband although he is gone. Gurung has an 18-year-old son and wanted her son’s name included on the government list of beneficiaries following loss of the house and land in the earthquakes, but four years later, this has not happened. She believed that her family lost its pride and respect as the family does not own any land, and their lives will continue to be miserable. The Nepal government’s disaster management policies were discriminatory toward Indigenous people and failed to support these vulnerable families and recognize their rights to the land. The Tamang’s Indigenous worldview is guided by Buddhist teachings. Some elders mentioned that during their harsh life in the camps, away from their Gumba (religious places) and alienation from their resources, they were able to offer help by sharing their Traditional Knowledge of herbal medicines. There was lack of medical help in these camps, and many camp residents reported stomach aches and dysentery, a type of gastroenteritis that results in diarrhea with blood. The elders knew the herbs that can treat eye problems, toothache, kidney problems, and menstrual disorders of women. To address these health problems in camps, some Indigenous elders walked far distances with selected young people and collected medicinal herbs (Jadibuti) and prepared medicines. It was a great help to treat gastro-intestinal problems among the camp residents and saved many lives. Recalling how they endured previous adversity allowed Tamang elders to persevere. They recalled that they had survived on meager food and water resources for months in the IDP camps and makeshift tents next to open fields. They derived pride, satisfaction, and meaning for their lives when they helped their community by collecting medicinal plants, looking after animals, and collecting firewood for cooking. Some Tamang elders performed religious activities that include occasional Jhankrism. Tamangs call their Jhankri priest their Bonpo. These priests conducted a quick version of kyon

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gyalsi – the “driving away of the spirits” – when people fell ill in the IDP camps. Back in their villages, these priests also offer animal sacrifices at the time of bhumi puja (worshiping land) in October and November and officiate at other seasonal agricultural rites. Tamangs inscribe prayers and the names of gods on stone tablets and put them by the roadside framed by a stonewall called hiki. These practices continued even after the disasters that displaced the Tamangs from their original lands. The performance of these cultural and religious activities amidst their post-disaster chaotic lives shows the inner resilience of the Tamang elders and community. As non-Indigenous researchers, we have tried to understand the deeper meanings that could be attached to these narratives told to us. We were not able to make a clear-cut distinction between the sacred and sinful, between religious and non-religious, between the spiritual and material areas of life reflected in these narratives. The stories reflect a deep and fundamental belief in nature as God and source of life, a worldview that we struggled to internalize and document (Field notes, December 20, 2018).

Shelter (Makan): a crucial link in rebuilding lives Subba Tamang (age 75) was very worried about not having his own shelter. There are about 100 Haku families still living in temporary shelters at Khalte IDP camps. Their narratives highlighted the critical role of shelter (Makan) in rebuilding their lives. Including Indigenous Knowledge of appropriate building styles could have contributed to disaster risk reduction. Local knowledge of disaster management has often been associated with technical knowledge only (Thrupp, 1989), probably because it is the most visible and concrete aspect of local knowledge. To date, very little – if any – architectural research has been carried out in Rasuwa to record and document Tamang unique architectural practices. Reconstruction is not only about rebuilding homes, but also about rebuilding heritage. Culture preservation is the heart of Indigenous practices. Häberle and Shrestha (2019) documented: Most of the Tamang houses are built with stone and wood. Most houses in Haku are directed towards the South-East to catch sunlight as it rises in the East and shines throughout the day. The South-East walls are made entirely out of wood. The other load bearing walls are composed of dry-stone masonry. The average size of a traditional house in Haku is 5–9m long, 5–7m wide and 2 stories high. The ground floor is mainly used for livestock and cattle. In the upper floor, the family lives, eats and sleeps in one big common area around a fireplace. The attic is used as storage for agriculture produce, tools and other belongings. Another unique architectural feature of the traditional Tamang houses found in Haku is the formation of row houses lined up into the orientation of the hill. (p. 124) Building appropriate housing for the Tamangs could have been easier if Tamang Traditional Knowledge and skills were taken into consideration. The NGO staff consulted in Dhunche mentioned that as part of its reconstruction efforts, the Government of Nepal distributed two types of cash grants to earthquake-affected households: (1) emergency grants for funeral costs and the construction of temporary shelters; and (2) winter cash grants to help people adjust their temporary shelters and to buy clothes and blankets. Many Tamang families reported building a

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one-room house according to the government prescribed model to access the financial support provided for that purpose. According to one Tamang resident: I was able to build a one room house according to the government prescribed model though am not happy entirely as I was not able to include my own designs of windows and use of wood in the walls which I have learnt from my father. As a result, my house does not meet requirements of my family needs, but it met the government requirements. We are forced to continue to use temporary shelter and other partially damaged house for other purposes. Despite of all this I had to make many visits to the local government office to get the payment. Instead of waiting for government help, some Tamang IDP camp residents took steps to meet their own basic needs and continued to advocate for needed services. Haku residents are rebuilding critical community infrastructure such as the school in Pangling with the help of community members who donated their labor. Rajesh Tamang (age 40), one of the IDP camp residents in Dhunche, noted the inadequate government responses and lack of respect for their cultural knowledge. He also shared; how camp residents did not passively await government support. Rather, the camp residents took steps to meet their own basic needs and continued to advocate for their housing rights. Government did not provided lands belong to the government to locate IDP camps. Most camps are located on private lands or lands in conflict with law. But as camp residents we were able to manage put together tarps and bamboo poles, with some flooring with sand bed and wood plates on the top. We did not wait for the government support for everything. We did what we could. A  few of us were lucky and borrowed utensils from their relatives. Some people donated their used cloths. Most of us have been living in these kinds of basic makeshift shelters and were able to cook/boil rice noodles that we buy from the market. Some families were able to cook rice and dal (lentil) and other simple dishes over open fires making camps prone to fire and smoke disaster. In these camps we are living hand-to-mouth situation. The children, seniors, pregnant woman, and other people with disabilities are suffering the most. We were ruined first by the earthquakes. Second, we were devastated by the Government apathy towards us more than the disasters. But we continue to suffer because of the failure of Nepal government. This is violation of our rights now we know. We are demanding the government to compensate for these violations. We plan to go to Supreme court to seek compensation from the Government, but we did not receive any legal help from the NGOs as of now. (Field notes, December 20, 2018) The narratives describe Tamang families’ persistence despite virtually insurmountable odds, continuing inequities, and disenfranchisement in receiving post-disaster services. A few Haku families did receive an initial cash grant of 15,000 Nepali rupees (US$150) for makeshift shelters to protect them from the rains and winter season. In addition, families who lost a family member were eligible to receive 30,000 Nepali rupees (US$300) for funeral costs. Many families were unable to access this assistance, due to the paperwork and bureaucratic hurdles involved.

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Nurturing Indigenous resilience: the way forward This chapter shows how Tamang Indigenous strengths went unrecognized and opportunities to do better in terms of rebuilding post-disaster livelihoods were missed. “Building Back Better” remained as only a slogan on paper. Recognizing Indigenous Knowledge and practices to address disaster risk and build resilience is crucial. This chapter examined the extent to which Haku Indigenous people have shown resilience to disaster displacement, risk, and vulnerabilities following the 2015 earthquakes in Nepal. The evidence shows that the Nepalese state did not fulfill its obligations to prevent displacement, protect Indigenous people’s rights during and after displacement, or facilitate durable solutions for them. Despite these conditions, Haku Tamang community members survived and continue to survive in the face of adversities by mobilizing their culturally bound inner resilience practices. The experiences of Haku community members provided insights into the weak protection mechanisms extended to them as IDPs and how the government of Nepal failed to recognize and build on their existing resilience practices. The Haku case demonstrates that Tamang IDPs were more vulnerable than non-Indigenous people, as there were no opportunities for them to practice their culture and rituals in the IDP camps. In addition, there were lapses in the implementation of relief and reintegration activities. The huge gap between the community’s post-disaster needs and the resources available to them weakened the economic sustenance of the community. At the same time, the harsh conditions triggered community cohesiveness and mobilized the innate resilience woven throughout the social and cultural fabric of Haku Tamang communities. We argue that a greater engagement with existing human rights treaties and Indigenous rights is warranted in Nepal. Nepalese policymakers, planners, donors, and social workers must recognize that disaster-induced displacement is increasingly prevalent in the country and is negatively impacting Indigenous communities displaced from their sources of livelihoods: Jal (water), Jamin (land), Jarajuri (plants), Janawar (animals), Jungle (forest), Jadibuti (medicinal and aromatic plants), Jalabayu (climate), and Jansakti (manpower). This chapter documents how Indigenous elders struggled to maintain their connections with these resources. By doing so, they were able to offer critical help to their communities in the form of preparing medicines, nurturing children, and maintaining cultural connections. Disaster policies must acknowledge and respect Indigenous cultural practices, rituals, and ways life, including enhancing access to the Eight “Ja.” This Indigenous model enhances resilience and enables Indigenous Peoples to face future disasters. Respecting and reviving Indigenous ways of knowing and being offer valuable lessons for coexisting with disasters and building a disaster-resilient Nepal.

Acknowledgments The research benefits from the inputs and co-fieldwork from many colleagues, particularly Jeffrey More, Dr. Pranita Udas, Deepak Tamang and students and colleagues from the schools of social work in Nepal. Field research assistance is provided by Hemnath Kathiwada and Bishwash Nepali, local Rasuwa land rights activists and Sijal Pokharel an environmentalist from Tribhuvan University. We gratefully acknowledge the time and hospitality of the Haku residents for sharing their knowledge and stories with us. Financial and professional support from RWI Sweden and EDSW Dean’s office funds, Thompson Rivers University is critical in carrying out this

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research. We are also grateful to the reviewers and their critical comments on earlier versions of this chapter which helped us to improve the structure and coherence in our presentation of this chapter.

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20 KŪ KIA‘I ALOHA How Maunakea and the battle to protect her birthed a decolonial pilina in an emerging generation of aloha ‘āina Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio “For the beauty of Maunakea” My friends and I would sometimes roam The trails of Maunakea And in the evenings we’d come home To see her standing there The moon moves around her when she sleeps The clouds stand beside her when she weeps And I could be forgotten and a thousand miles away And still I would recall the beauty of Mauna Kea And I live in the city now And I see different things In the night when I’m alone She’s in my dreams The wind spins around her when she wakes The sun spreads his warmth across her face And I could be forgotten and a thousand miles away And still I would recall the beauty of Mauna Kea Now to any land you go, she will be with you If you love her like I do Mauna a Wākea. (Beamer, 1972)

Introduction The first time I remember my father singing “For the Beauty of Maunakea” was at a Maunakea community gathering in Wai‘anae District Park in 2014. I am certain he had sung it dozens of times in my presence before this gathering, but memory is a strange and fickle friend. And so, as it would be, this is what I know to be my beginning with this mele (song). As he tuned his guitar, he shared how this mele was written by a high school classmate and friend, Keola Beamer, shortly after their high school graduation. He told us that this composition preceded any telescopes on our sacred Mauna a Wākea. He said this ominously as the audience braced for DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-25

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yet another fight against the occupying settler state of Hawai‘i, and as we collectively vowed to protect our Mauna from any further desecration. In his telling, I could see him slowly conjuring the memory of the Maunakea he grew up with. A Maunakea without telescopes, without development, a Maunakea free from this violence. My father’s memory is faded, hard to hold, stashed away and covered with decades of new images, new realities as a Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) who hasn’t lived on the island of his birth in the malu (shade and protection) of that sacred mauna since his adolescence. As he sang, I stood beside him, fumbling my way through the harmony of a song I did not know. This happens on stage for us more often than I would like to admit. In that moment, I was too frustrated with the slow pace of the song and my lack of expertise in it to fully realize the power of the occasion. And now, I can only appreciate it as my own faded memory. A recollection that, if I am not careful, might slowly slip away. In 2014, the fight to protect Mauna a Wākea was, in my mind, a purely political struggle. To me, this conflict relied on the question of legal and political jurisdiction. I truly insisted that our future victories in Hawai‘i rested solely in those legal and political questions. This is mostly because there was a time when I believed that law and conventional politics would save us. This is also true because in 2014, I had never actually been to the summit of Maunakea. I say this to acknowledge the fact that knowing, loving and caring for this mauna changes you. And if my time on Mauna a Wākea has taught me anything, it is how much of our mo‘olelo (history, story, literature) and mana (power, authority, spirituality) I was forsaking in propelling such a limited belief. Suffice it to say, a lot has changed for me and the lāhui (Hawaiian nation/community) since 2014. In this chapter, I will explore this transformation by sharing a bit about the early days of the establishment of the Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu and the pilina (intimacies/relationships) that have been cultivated in the malu of Mauna a Wākea. I choose to tell this particular mo‘olelo because it is this intimate pilina that has made possible one of the greatest uprisings of my people since the late 19th century.

Brief political history of Hawai‘i The subject of this chapter is focused on the contemporary resilience of Kānaka to multiple waves of colonialism and oppression; however, it might be helpful for readers beyond our pae ‘āina (island chain) to have a bit of a political history. Kānaka Maoli enjoyed generations of environmental and political productivity before the arrival of foreigners in 1778. Our industrious civilization was made possible by a highly complex and nuanced political structure that allowed for Kānaka of all rank to contribute. Scholars such as Lilikalā Kame‘eleihiwa (Native Lands and Foreign Desires, 1992) and Kanalu Young (Rethinking the Native Hawaiian Past, 1998) detail some of the intricacies of this society that allowed our people to feed and care for the wellbeing of approximately one million Kanaka across eight major islands. This society was rooted in a serious commitment to our reciprocal pilina to our ‘āina, kai (ocean), and to each other. Our society was struck by a population collapse after the arrival of Captain James Cook in 1778 that ultimately made Kānaka Maoli vulnerable to foreign encroachment on our lands and in our political structure (Kame‘eleihiwa, 1992; Osorio, 2002). Disruption of ‘Ōiwi (Indigenous) practices by missionaries beginning in 1820 ultimately saw to the disembodiment of our intimate webs of relations (Osorio, 2018). The long-term effects of this trauma to our pilina continue to wreak havoc on our communities. 301

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Despite being formally recognized as an independent nation in 1843, Hawai‘i was illegally overthrown by haole (foreign, white) businessmen on January 17, 1893 (Sai, 2011). This violent seizure of our government and land base was made possible by more than a century of increasing foreign influence and the intentional “dismemberment” of our aupuni (government) (Osorio, 2002). Hawaiian-language newspapers, the primary mode of Hawaiian publishing between 1834 and the 1950s, document a strong and concerted resistance to foreign encroachment on our lands, resources, and government every step of the way. The most effective of these acts of defiance was the Kū‘ē Petitions. Following the overthrow, my ancestors organized one of the most successful petition drives in history to block the annexation of our kingdom to the United States (Silva, 2004). The Hui Aloha ‘Āina was successful in collecting 21,269 signatures apposing annexation. According to the 1896 Hawai‘i census, there were fewer than 32,000 Native Hawaiians at the time of the petition drive, meaning nearly 70% of the entire living population of Kānaka Maoli actively opposed annexation (J. Osorio, 2020, p. 10). However, armed with manifest destiny and an eye toward complete military control of the Pacific, The United States forged on circumventing international law and absorbed Hawai‘i as a territory via a joint resolution (The Newlands Resolution) in 1898 (Sai, 2011). Much of the story that follows between 1898 and today will be familiar to many Native Peoples. Our communities were encouraged to assimilate into American life, to abandon our “old” ways and commit to a more “progressive” lifestyle. Kānaka Maoli were pushed to the margins of society – we became the poor, the sick, and the incarcerated, while while white and Asian businessmen and politicians accumulated massive swaths of land, power, and resources at our expense (Trask, 1999). Certainly, it is not only our oppression that our fellow ‘Ōiwi people will find familiar, it is also our beautiful resilience. In the 1970s, the contemporary Hawaiian movement was born (Trask, 1987). Inspired and fueled by Black and Indigenous liberatory movements on Turtle Island and the anti-war movement that spread across the United States, Kānaka Maoli turned our attention back to the protection of our lands and people which were both under threat by corporate development projects. What began as an anti-eviction struggle in a pig farming village on the southeast end of O‘ahu grew into an intergenerational struggle for selfdetermination, demilitarization, de-occupation and decolonization (Trask, 1987; GoodyearKa‘ōpua et al., 2014). The mo‘olelo I tell today was only made possible because of the deep and everlasting commitment of my defiant and powerful kūpuna (ancestors, elders). Some of these kūpuna, these giants of Indigenous resistance and defiance, continue to walk among us. You can find them on the front line of every movement and struggle in our islands. You can find them leading the way and training the next generation. This is a story of our enduring aloha (love) for our ‘āina (land), and our everlasting aloha for each other as Kānaka Maoli.

The birth of the Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu On July  12, 2019, approximately 300 people met under the cover of night at a beach park pavilion in Kona, Hawai‘i. It was at this meeting that organizer and kia‘i (protector), Kaho‘okahi Kanuha, asked his fellow kānaka, “what kind of kupuna (elder, ancestor) will you be?” Charged with the strength of his ancestors, and the hope of his future decedents, Kaho‘okahi reminded the gathering of kia‘i that when our mo‘opuna (decedents) reminisce about their ancestors, they will look at the deeds we committed to in our youth. And so, it was decided that a small but dedicated group of Kānaka would caravan to Pu‘uhuluhulu that evening to occupy the base of

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our sacred mountain and consecrate a pu‘uhonua (place of refuge) while we waited for the rest of the lāhui to join us. It is important to mention that this was not the first time Hawaiians stood up and resisted development on our sacred mauna. In fact, this particular struggle began in 1968 when the State of Hawai‘i, via the Board of Land and Natural Resources (BLNR), issued a 65-year general lease for 13,321 acres of ceded lands at the summit of Maunakea to the University of Hawai‘i (UH) to build a single observatory (Kahea, n.d.). “Ceded lands” is the common misnomer for the combined Hawaiian Kingdom and Crown lands that were seized (and never returned) by the United States during the annexation of the Hawaiian Kingdom. Following its construction, developers planned and built a number of observatories and auxiliary buildings without permits (Kahea, n.d.). As an answer to public protest and outrage, the BLNR issued permits (after the fact) for the unauthorized structures (Kahea, n.d.). By 1983, the Mauna Kea Complex Development Plan was finalized, approving up to 13 telescopes by the year 2000 (Kahea, n.d.). Importantly, this 65-year master lease could be vacated at any time by the state for failure to properly care for or manage the Mauna (Kahea, n.d.). In 1998, the Hawai‘i State Auditor released a report documenting 30 years of mismanagement of the summit by both UH and the BLNR (Auditor, State of Hawai‘i, 1998). The audit did little to stall the further development of Maunakea; in fact, in the next year, two additional telescopes were constructed. In 2005, the impact of the ongoing development of the summit resulted in an environmental impact statement (EIS) that documented that the astronomy activity had caused “significant, substantial and adverse” harm. The document states that, from a cumulative perspective, the impact of past and present actions on cultural, archaeological, and historic resources is substantial, significant, and adverse; these impacts would continue to be substantial, significant, and adverse with the consideration of the Project and other reasonably foreseeable future actions. (Hawai‘i Department of Health, 2010, p. 74) Rather than stall the ongoing development, however, the BLNR moved forward to approve a “Comprehensive Management Plan” which made possible the construction of an unlimited number of observatories and auxiliary structures (Kahea, n.d.). This is the corrupt history the Thirty Meter Telescope Corporation (TMT) walked into in 2010 when it applied for a permit to build what would be the largest and most devastating structure built within the conservation use district of Maunakea’s summit. During a string of court hearings, public opposition to the project grew and was documented (Kahea Environmental Alliance, 2016). Kānaka continued to lodge our complaints and opposition to the project for years across hundreds of meetings hosted by the State Legislature, the Department of Land and Natural Resources, the UH Board of Regents Office, and the Office of Hawaiian Affairs. Wherever an official meeting or unofficial gathering for the TMT was held, Hawaiian opposition was present. Across thousands of discrete testimonies over a decade, Kānaka and our allies cited our deep and profound concern for the environment, for our cultural and religious practices, and our ongoing rights and responsibilities to care for and manage our own resources. However, the project continued to forge on. This ultimately culminated in a number of physical standoffs between Kānaka Maoli, allies, and state law enforcement during numerous demonstrations to block the delivery of construction equipment to the “build site.” Between 2014 and 2020, at

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least 80 kia‘i (including 38 kūpuna in 2019) have been arrested in their ongoing protection of our Mauna (Kuwada, 2015; Ōiwi TV, 2019). The current – and ongoing – movement to protect Mauna a Wākea was born out of the strength of those who have been standing in protection of our sacred sites for generations. It was also born out of a sincere and serious opposition to the injustice outlined in this chapter. It is important to call attention to the pilina between the overall mismanagement of the Mauna and the larger practice of mismanaging Indigenous lands under the occupying jurisdiction of the settler state. The rise of our lāhui today has everything to do with the fact that more and more of our people are being educated and are taking up our kuleana (responsibility, privilege, and authority) in overturning this long history of injustice. It would be foolish and insincere of me to limit the scope and impact of this movement to the fight to obstruct the construction of the Thirty Meter Telescope. While the TMT has become the material opponent that we have directed our energies toward defeating, it is clear through every stage of protest, demonstration, and public comment period that our aim as Kānaka reaches far beyond the blocking of a single development project. I believe this, too, can be said of the State of Hawai‘i and its unwavering and overzealous support of the TMT. Perhaps the early years of this struggle could be boiled down to a simple disagreement over appropriate sites for development; however, it does not take much to realize that the fight over Maunakea today is not simply about a telescope, or even more broadly about development. ‘A‘ole (no), this battle has grown into something much larger for both the occupying state of Hawai‘i and our lāhui. The state of Hawai‘i spent over $11 million (Dayton, 2019) in law enforcement operations in a matter of months in its attempts to remove kia‘i and allow the passage of construction equipment. This all-in approach by the state demonstrates the way Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu and our growing grassroots power pose a serious threat to business as usual in Hawai‘i. As a living alternative to the settler society in Hawai‘i, Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu offers an alternative present and future. While not completely free from the seduction of capitalism, patriarchy, and Christian morality, Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu represents the potential of a governing formation rooted in aloha ‘āina, sustainability, and kanaka-led cooperation. This is the most powerful threat we pose to the state of Hawai‘i. Kānaka at the Pu‘uhonua live in abundance in a society that is drowning in its own scarcity. We knew this history when we traveled to Pu‘uhuluhulu on the evening of July 12, 2019. We were aware that this fight was just the next iteration of Hawaiian resurgence and resilience to the rampant overdevelopment of our lands at the hands of our occupiers. We were also aware that the fight to protect Mauna a Wākea is part of a larger genealogy of Hawaiian resistance, resurgence, and resilience that has been growing since the 1970s. From the anti-eviction struggles of the early 1970s to the Hawaiian language revival movements of the early 1980s, and our ongoing struggle to protect our natural and cultural resources, Kānaka Maoli today are building upon an expansive history of Indigenous resilience and resistance. This movement is often referred to as the Hawaiian Renaissance, or the contemporary Hawaiian movement. Regardless of its title, most will agree that this movement and our continued struggle is made possible by a single idea and practice: aloha ‘āina.

Aloha ‘āina, intimacy, and Indigenous resurgence In 1976, the phrase “aloha ‘āina” was reborn into the contemporary Hawaiian National consciousness after nine brave Kānaka Maoli traveled to Kaho‘olawe in the first stage of the attempts to stop the bombing of the island that had been ongoing since World War II (Osorio, 2014). 304

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Following this first landing in 1976, the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana (PKO) was formed and thus began a series of occupations of the island to force the end of its bombing by the US Navy. In 1977, two young aloha ‘āina, George Helm and Kimo Mitchell, gave their lives as they fought to protect Kaho‘olawe (Osorio, 2014). The commitment of the PKO and the harrowing circumstances of the death of two of their leaders has had a lasting impact on our lāhui. To this day, every single Hawaiian battle that has followed has been informed by that phrase (aloha ‘āina), and the PKO’s selfless articulation of it. It is not at all uncommon for George Helm and Kimo Mitchell’s names to be uttered on the frontlines of any demonstration in Hawai‘i. We think about these two kāne (men) and their comrades often. We say their names, we sing their songs, and the memory of their sacrifice empowers our resolve. George Helm and Kimo Mitchell are legends, and their contemporaries and fellow members of the ‘Ohana (PKO), who still walk and struggle beside us, are living reminders of our resilience and the growing power of Indigenous resurgence. It is no surprise, then, that many of those early activists from the struggle to protect Kaho‘olawe have taken up important positions of leadership and support in the fight to protect Mauna a Wākea. Perhaps the only thing as powerful as their clarity of purpose and continuity of commitment, was their offering of the phrase “aloha ‘āina.” Aloha ‘āina has been translated by scholars in many ways, including love for the land, love for one’s country, and patriotism (Wehewehe.org). Our full understanding of its meaning, however, emerges from a vast collection of mo‘olelo, mele, political commentary, and petitions, much of which significantly precede 19th century written literacy in Hawai‘i. While defining aloha ‘āina as patriotism conforms to some of the ways our kūpuna defined it for themselves in the 19th century, critiques of this particular understanding have made important gestures toward disassembling some of the imported and imposed colonial assumptions, such as the alignment of nationhood and patriarchy (Silva, 2004; Osorio, 2018). Such critiques warn us to be careful when trying to make meaning of aloha ‘āina, so that we do not perpetuate the very colonial sicknesses that hinder its practice today. Kumu Noenoe Silva’s direct challenge of the use of patriotism as a definition of aloha ‘āina is significant here: “where nationalism and patriotism tend to exalt the virtues of a people or a race, aloha ‘āina exalts the land” (2004, p. 11). It is “a complex concept that includes recognizing that we are an integral part of the ‘āina and the ‘āina is an integral part of us” (Silva, 2017, p. 4). Silva’s definition of aloha ‘āina brings us back to our enormous and powerful Hawaiianlanguage archive by recalling David Malo’s critical investigation between moku (land, literally that which is severed by the sea) and ‘āina (land; literally, that which feeds) in his Moolelo Hawaii. According to Malo, “Elua inoa i kapa ia ma ka mokupuni, he moku ka inoa, he aina kahi inoa, ma ka moku ana ia ke kai ua kapa ia he moku, a ma ka noho ana a kanaka, ua kapa ia he aina ka inoa” (it is the living of Kanaka on a moku that transforms it into ‘āina) (Malo, 1996, p. 10). In this way, we are encouraged to remember the reciprocal pilina between our ‘āina and our Kanaka – that both have the mana (power, authority, spirituality) to transform and feed each other. It is this recognition of a reciprocal and genealogical relationship that distinguishes aloha ‘āina from other forms of nationhood and nationalism. In studying and living aloha ‘āina, I am concerned with how Kanaka Maoli articulations and practices of pilina and intimacy with each other are profoundly intertwined with our pilina and intimacy with ‘āina. Our mo‘olelo continually show us this correlation, also impressing upon us how aloha ‘āina informs our articulation of aloha to each other. Any unraveling of our complex ‘upena (fishing net) of pilina and intimacy, therefore, also disembodies our practices of governance and nationalism. In addition to the obvious religious and moral agendas being imposed, bringing patriarchy into Kanaka Maoli relationships through the advocacy of the 305

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nuclear household also served the nineteenth-century missionaries’ wish to replace aloha ‘āina practices with Western notions of nationalism and patriotism. Because of this history of dispossession, how we practice pilina must be restored as a central component of Kanaka Maoli nation building. Understanding and practicing aloha is the necessary first step. Without re-embodying the vibrant and diverse ways we have embodied aloha as a people, there can be no aloha ‘āina. This makes aloha ‘āina both deeply political and personal. In the late 19th century, Joseph Nāwahī, aloha ‘āina and founder and editor of the nūpepa (newspaper) Ke Aloha Aina, wrote a series of pieces about aloha ‘āina that offered as an analogy the properties of a magnet. On the second-to-last page of the nūpepa’s first issue, in an article entitled “Ke Aloha Aina, Heaha ia?” (“What is Aloha ‘Āina?”), he wrote, O ke Aloha Aina, oia ka ume Mageneti iloko o ka puuwai o ka Lahui, e kaohi ana i ka noho Kuokoa Lanakila ana o kona one hanau ponoi . . . ina i hookokoke ia na kui hao Mageneti i kahi hookahi, alaila, he mea maopopo loa me ke kanalua ole o ka manao ua ume like no lakou a pau loa kekahi i kekahi. (Nāwahī, 1895, p. 7) In the editorial, the author describes the power of aloha ‘āina by comparing it to the mana of a magnet. In this description, we learn how aloha ‘āina articulates not only a magnetic force that draws a Kanaka to our ‘āina, but also creates and maintains a pilina between Kanaka and ‘āina. Further, the author is making a direct connection between aloha ‘āina and one’s desire and struggle for independence. On the same page, an article entitled “Ka Mana o ka Mageneti” explicitly relates the properties of magnets to the pilina between those of the lāhui: Pela no na kanaka i piha i ke aloha no ko lakou Aina hanau no hoi. Ua hiki ia lakou ke hoolauna mai i na kanaka a me na keiki, a me na ohana o lakou; a ike mai ia lakou iloko o ka ume mageneti o ke Aloha Aina. (Nāwahī, 1895, p. 7) Nāwahī continues by writing that aloha ‘āina also results in a pilina between Kānaka, in that aloha ‘āina are able to recognize the aloha ‘āina in each other. This account of aloha ‘āina offers a peek into the intimacy of aloha. Rather than simply a political imperative that draws people together through reason, self-interest, and propaganda, aloha ‘āina is an internal love for place and community so strong that it cannot be overcome. Aloha ‘āina is also a natural and imbedded practice of relating to one’s home for Kānaka Maoli. Aloha ‘āina is that pull to place, that internal compass orienting Kānaka Maoli toward intimacy and self-governance simultaneously. The effective practice of aloha ‘āina creates and maintains two relationships: to the land itself, to that which feeds; and through that ‘upena of pilina, to one’s community. These pilina are themselves inseparable, relying upon each other for survival. Because of the unending series of attacks upon our Kanaka Maoli land base, which forces Kānaka to constantly assert our kuleana to manage and govern our own lands, much of contemporary Hawaiian scholarship has focused on the political imperative of aloha ‘āina. However, I argue that our engagement with aloha ‘āina as that diverse and vibrant collection of multibodied relationships between Kānaka Maoli, our ancestors, peers, descendants, and the environment – the powerful unifying alignment and attraction that Nāwahī likened to magnetism – has been neglected (Osorio, 2018). By the time we established the Pu‘uhonua at Pu‘uhuluhulu in 2019, aloha ‘āina was a concept that was common among our people. It was a phrase used in our schools, written into our 306

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contemporary songs, expressed through a diverse collection of arts. But for many of us who were joining a front-line movement for the first time, this would be our first experience with the extreme intimacy forged between ourselves and our near and distant ancestors along with our comrades in an aloha ‘āina struggle.

Ke Kānāwai Māmalahoe and the Cattle Guard Eight Practicing and taking seriously aloha ‘āina not only brings kia‘i of Maunakea into a contemporary genealogy of struggle and Hawaiian activism; it also binds us in an ancient pilina with our Kūpuna and our mo‘olelo. This was shown most clearly through the proliferation of traditional ‘ike (knowledges) through daily protocol on the Mauna, and through the blending of modern civil disobedience tactics and ancient Hawaiian mo‘olelo of justice. One key mo‘olelo that informs our struggle to protect Maunakea is the mo‘olelo of the Kānāwai Māmalahoe. As the story goes, during an expansion expedition in Puna, Kamehameha Pai‘ea’s foot was caught in the pāhoehoe (lava rock) while chasing after a couple of lawai‘a (fishermen) from the area. While trapped, one of the lawai‘a took his paddle and struck it so forcefully against the head of the future mō‘ī (supreme ruler) that the paddle was shattered. Rather than killing the ali‘i (leader/chief), the lawai‘a ran off. Such an offense and violation to the mō‘ī could have easily resulted in these fishermen being put to death. However, when the lawai‘a was brought before the mō‘ī, Kamehameha instated the Kānāwai Māmalahoe (the kānāwai of the splintered paddle). E nā Kanaka, E mālama ‘oukou i ke akua A e mālama ho‘i ke kanaka nui a me kanaka iki; E hele ka ‘elemakule, ka luahine, a me ke kama A moe i ke ala ‘A‘ohe mea nāna e ho‘opilikia. Hewa nō, make (Williams, 1996, p. 87) In this kānāwai, Kamehameha granted all Kānaka the right to exist without fear of harm. Kamehameha does this by calling for his people to first care for the akua (divine elements, gods), Kūkā‘ilimoku, and from that guidance to also care for the people, great and small, those young and old. In the final lines, he orders that all Kānaka should be allowed to lie and sleep in the streets without any disturbance to them. This Kānāwai is often referred to as Hawai‘i’s first human rights law, and many turn to the mo‘olelo for guidance on how our leadership should protect and serve its most vulnerable communities (Hawai‘i State House of Representatives, 2014). However, because nothing is safe from the toxic grip of the settler state, this mo‘olelo has also been grossly misappropriated by the Honolulu Police Department (HPD) who wear the image of the splintered paddle in the center of their badge (honolulupd.org). This mo‘olelo is not just Hawaiian wrapping paper we can dress mechanisms of settler state violence in to call their practice pono (balance, just, righteous). This mo‘olelo is a kānāwai (law) whose power lies indisputably upon the ‘āina it was birthed from. This mo‘olelo reminds us that kānāwai can give and take life – making it at least as powerful as any state or city statute. Today, as thousands of Kānaka Maoli gather upon Ke Ala Hulu Kūpuna (Maunakea Access Road) in the protection of Mauna a Wākea, we reflect upon this mo‘olelo and its 307

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kānāwai as we carefully negotiate the pāhoehoe (lava rock) terrain that encircles us. As we reflect upon this mo‘olelo, we have built and developed institutions that support our adherence to its kānāwai. With the creation of the Hui Kūpuna kāko‘o (elder care), the Mauna Medics Hui (medics), the Kapu Aloha kia‘i (safety), and even the Pu‘uhuluhulu University (education), the wellbeing of each and every Kanaka upon Maunakea is seriously considered and invested in, just as Kamehameha instructed (Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu). As such, the movement to protect Maunakea is not only a movement to protect our ‘āina, it is a movement that is rapidly growing because of our investment in our protection of each other upon our ‘āina. It is a movement that brings us in closer alignment to the principles and values of aloha ‘āina. One of the many examples of this was the creation of the Cattle Guard Eight. Just three days after we first arrived to Pu‘uhuluhulu, and one day following the official ceremonial sanctifying of the Pu‘uhonua, the kia‘i of Maunakea planned and executed our first blockage. At approximately 3 a.m. on July 15, 2019, about a dozen kia‘i made our way up the Maunakea Access road. Walter Ritte, Kaleikoa Ka‘eo, Noelani Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, ‘Īmaikalani Winchester, Mahi‘ai Dochin, Kamuela Park, Malia Hulleman and myself were to chain ourselves to each other and a cattle grate that crossed the main road, while Māhealani Ahia, Kahala Johnson, Jennifer Noelani Ahia, and others were to serve as our protection. Our objectives were clear: we were there to block any incoming construction vehicles and to prohibit any further desecration of our mountain. Each of us were trained in non-violent direct action and civil disobedience, but most importantly, each of us were trained in our mo‘olelo. When eight of us kia‘i chained ourselves to the cattle guard, we understood that the threat of our arrest and removal was not only offensive in the face of the settler state’s lack of jurisdiction over the ‘āina that we were chained to, but rather it offended a kānāwai as tangible as the crest worn by Hawai‘i’s largest law enforcement agency. As we chained ourselves to that guard, we held the words of Kamehameha within our bones. We knew that as Kānaka, we had the kuleana to lie in the streets without fear of harm. When we asserted ourselves based upon that kuleana, carrying our mo‘olelo carefully within us, we challenged not only the TMT’s movement of construction vehicles – we challenged the occupying settler state of Hawai‘i’s marriage to its rule of law. We lodged this challenge not in a state of chaos or lack of order, but rather within the organized adherence to our kānāwai that have existed hundreds of years before the state of Hawai‘i took its first stolen breath. We remained there, chained to the cattle guard, in the malu of our sacred mountain and surrounded by the aloha and protection of our fellow kia‘i, for 12 hours. And for every evening since that morning, some of the most powerful and fragile members of our Lāhui literally sleep in the Ala Hulu Kūpuna (Maunakea Access Road) in freezing temperatures while our young devote themselves to carrying for their wellbeing and safety. The irony here is that, by our kānāwai, the protection of our ‘āina and kūpuna is the kuleana of our leadership. However, our “leadership” instead spend their time and resources planning our removal to allow the safe passage of construction equipment. This demonstrates to us, once again, that the state’s god is capitalism, the first thing it must protect. But today, we Kānaka are remembering our akua, our ‘āina, and each other. And we will continue to mālama (care for and protect) what the state will not. Just two days later, the TMT corporation and the State of Hawai‘i gave kia‘i another opportunity to demonstrate our commitment to the mountain and each other when they arrested 33 kūpuna and five kōkua (attendants) at the base of the Maunakea Access Road (‘Ōiwi TV, 2019).

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“Falling in love in the malu of the Mauna” It’s Wednesday And I find myself standing In the shadow of a mauna that loves me like islands emerging from the sea Like a sky scattering herself in stars Like a lāhui kanaka growing I’m standing in the malu of a movement That’s captured a generations heart and attention I find myself Here My body A kīpuka expanding Into Pele’s pāhoehoe grip Holding my quiet And in my silence I hear her wailing It’s Wednesday and I find myself Without searching Arms linked with a line of women I barely know But was destined to love A line of women stretching back for thousands of generations Pō, turned light, turned pūko’a turned slime turned gods in a time of mere men Who more fierce then these bodies of islands These bodies of women These moku turned ‘āina Spilling into our sea of islands These hands stretched out Feeding a generation Accustomed to starvation It’s Wednesday and I am holding her arms Like I am holding this mo’olelo Strong but tender enough to let both breathe Deep I am praying to be a wāhine worthy of this moment Worthy of these hands Holding me right back And then Aunty tells me We are the generation they always dreamed of So it’s Wednesday and now I am weeping And every kūpuna that ever fought,

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ever cried, ever died so that we would know for sure how to stand Is singing through me And somehow I am still standing Arms linked in a line of women Holding me And all I have to offer them Is this story That is incomplete. (J. H. Osorio, 2020) It was a Wednesday the day the police carried our kūpuna away in zip ties. On July 17, 2019, I watched alongside my Lāhui as 38 of our beloved kūpuna stood fiercely in their aloha for our ‘āina and were hauled away by state and Hawai‘i County law enforcement officers. Their names were Billy Freitas, Kim Burke, Keone Turailte, Richard Dillion, Michelle Noenoe WongWilson, Kaliko Kanaele, Dr. Pua Kanaka’oke Kanaele, Luana Busby, Mililani Trask, Onaona Trask, Walter Ritte, Loretta Ritte, Hooulualoha Hookena, Roberta Bruett, Maxine Kahāulelio, Jimmy Nani‘ole, Alikas Desha, Desmond Haumea, Skippy Ioane, Danny Li, Tomas Belsky, Jim Albertini, Donna Keala Leone, Renee Price, Momi Patricia Green, Ana Kaho’opi’i, Raynette Robinson, Peleiholani Eileen, Hailey Reese, Deena Lakeland Hurwitz, Nohea Kalima, Sharol Ku’ualoha Awai, Leilani Ka’apuni, Deborah Lee, Carmen Hulu Lindsey, and Marie Alohalani Brown. Hundreds of thousands of people clung to their Facebook and Instagram live feeds while nearly a thousand kia‘i (protectors) lined the Ala Hulu Kūpuna (Mauna a Wākea Access Road) and flooded the pāhoehoe with our tears. Because of the success of the events and messaging surrounding the Cattle Guard Eight just two days earlier, the humble gathering at the Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu had grown to over 1,000 brave kia‘i ready to stand up and put our bodies between our Mauna and any acts of desecration. We stood proud, basking in the wealth and brilliance of our people. We also stood anxiously, because as our numbers grew, so did the number of law enforcement officers and their weaponry and machinery. As we grew to the greatest activation of our people since the Kū‘ē Petition drive in 1897, we wondered if we would be met with force that contemporary Kanaka Maoli had never before encountered. In the wake of our rising wave, the state assembled its army of law enforcement officers, pulling from at least six separate agencies including DOCARE, Honolulu Police Department, Maui PD, Hilo PD, Hawai‘i Island Sheriffs, and National Guard. And while these officers collected their riot gear, including sound cannons, mace, tear gas, and four-foot batons, our Kumu, masters of ceremony, led us in the kāhea (call) of our akua. When July 17, 2019 arrived, our lāhui was prepared. As police took our kūpuna, one by one, each empty seat quickly filled by another kupuna ready to take a stand until no elders remained. The rest of us, their mo‘opuna, gave the officers only our silence. Not even the satisfaction of our wailing grief would surround them. And as our silence grew, so did our mana. When the final kūpuna were hauled away, the place where they once sat was flooded with hundreds of mana wāhine (women of power, spirituality), supported by our kāne (men) at our backs. And again, our people controlled the road, controlled our destiny, and continued to protect our

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‘āina. This morning is painfully and beautifully documented in the short film Like a Mighty Wave (Inouye, 2019). When the mana wāhine took the road, we remembered the teachings of our kūpuna, we sang our mele, and we chanted our oli, while some even danced our hula. In Hawai‘i, we often come face to face with our ‘ohana in uniform on the frontlines. Many kūpuna were hauled away by their nephews; while many of us wāhine stood face to face with our cousins, uncles, and even siblings while we blocked the road. This makes for a complex and intimate experience with police violence on the front line of our movements. Because of this intimacy, we offered aloha to the officers as they struggled before us. We reminded them that we stood there for our children and their children. But most of all, we held tightly onto each other. We insisted that we would protect our lāhui as fiercely as we would protect our mauna. We understood in that moment how the two were the same. The next morning, the number of kia‘i who gathered at Pu‘uhuluhulu had tripled, and day by day, we continued to grow as thousands of Kānaka and allies answered the call to kia‘i our mauna. The wealth of our mana resounded across the pae ‘āina (island chain), while the state cowered in its incompetence. Our Kia‘i continue to govern the Pu‘uhuluhulu and Ala Hulu Kūpuna with aloha ‘āina, in strict kapu aloha (a firm commitment to justice and balance with each other and our natural relations). Our people are rising like a mighty wave. In less than a year, our movement has brought thousands of people to the Mauna physically, and hundreds of thousands virtually (puuhuluhulu.com). Most of these kia‘i had never stood in the malu of Mauna a Wākea before. That is thousands of people, like myself in 2014, who had never had the opportunity to develop an intimate pilina to one of our most sacred ‘āina. Through our collective Ea (breath, rising, independence), and our commitment to aloha ‘āina, we brought these Kānaka home. We have cultivated in our people an intimacy with a part of our ‘āina we had been strategically estranged from. We have given Kānaka back something that was taken away from us. Kānaka living around the world are reconnecting not just to Mauna a Wākea, but we are also taking these lessons of aloha and pilina to our home communities. This movement, and the sacrifice of our kūpuna, prepared us for such a strong and unrelenting commitment. As we continue to grow, we will remember that it was this very intimacy of aloha ‘āina that pulled islands out of the depths of the sea, that called upon the great koa (a native tree, warrior) of our history to fight against a variety of oppressive forces, and that mobilized Kanaka Maoli opposition to US imperialism and annexation. The intimacy of aloha ‘āina carried 15,000 Native Hawaiians to march to ‘Iolani Palace in 1993 in recognition of 100 years of occupation. Twenty-five years later, in 2018, aloha ‘āina called another 20,000 of us to return to that march to celebrate the vibrancy of our resilience and resurgence. It was that same aloha ‘āina that then resulted in upwards of 5,000 kia‘i joining us at any given time at the Ala Hulu Kūpuna to protect our mountain. It is putting this intimate aloha ‘āina to action today that has resulted in similar uprisings in our communities in Waimānalo (Hūnānāniho), Kalaeloa, Kahuku, and Hakipu‘u, and will surely empower the continued rising of our kia‘i on Maui (Nā Wai ‘Ehā) and Kaua‘i (Save Hanapēpē Salt Ponds).

I could be forgotten, and a thousand miles away And I could be forgotten and a thousand miles away And still I would recall the beauty of Mauna Kea

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I opened this mo‘olelo with a story about the elusiveness of memory. But somehow, this mo‘olelo is also about the resilience of memory and the power of remembering. The power of remembering our past, and the pilina that we have been reclaiming, are crucial to this movement. Our mo‘olelo and kūpuna teach us that it is our pilina to our ‘āina, and to each other, that gives us the kuleana and mana to govern our lands and mālama each other. We should celebrate the many ways our people are returning to an aloha ‘āina that is not simply political, but also deeply intimate and emotional. The growing intimacies shared between each other and our ‘āina are our greatest wealth. I believe it is only a matter of time until we succeed in removing every telescope from the slopes of Mauna a Wākea. But the truth is, if we do not also commit to bringing our lāhui to this place to remember our love for each other and our love for her, we still will have lost. The fact remains that the 13 telescopes upon Mauna a Wākea demonstrate, quite physically, the ways colonialism has been successful in Hawai‘i to force our forgetting of ourselves and our places. Each and every one of those buildings, a scar upon our ‘āina, is a mark of our weakened memory and our neglect. Of course, we did not all forget the great and important pilina we had to this sacred ‘āina, but certainly not nearly enough of us remembered in the times when our ‘āina was threatened most. Today, our lāhui is rising in our remembrance. Today, we call out to Mauna a Wākea and all our ‘āina under threat and commit to protecting the sacred pilina between us. When we do so, we know we are not so much protecting our ‘āina as much as our ‘āina is giving us the opportunity as Kanaka Maoli to reclaim our humanity as ‘Ōiwi (Indigenous people) by living in pilina and pono with her. I must implore that we all do the important and emotional work of establishing intimacy with these issues and these places. If your reasons to support the protection of Mauna a Wākea (or any ‘āina) are purely logical and political, I urge you to take the time to go and visit these places and develop an intimacy with them. Go fall in love with your mauna, your rivers, your oceans. For it was not just our right to self-determine how we manage our resources that were taken from us by colonialism and military occupation; it was our intimate pilina with our people and our ‘āina that has been stripped away from us. It is essential that we take that pilina back. And if for any reason, you cannot make the pilgrimage to these sacred places, gather your families and play this song. Play your songs. Tell your stories, together. Sing them over and over until every part of your body remembers, until every one of our mo‘opuna refuse to ever forget. This is the way we rise. Now to any land you go, she will be with you If you love her like [we] do Mauna a Wākea

References Auditor, State of Hawaii. (1998). Audit of the management of Mauna Kea and the Mauna Kea science reserve: A report to the governor and the legislature of the state of Hawaii (Vol. 98–6, pp. 1–54). Honolulu, HI: State of Hawai‘i. Retrieved from http://files.hawaii.gov/auditor/Reports/1998/98-6.pdf Beamer, K. (1972). For the beauty of Maunakea. Honolulu, HI: Mountain Apple. Dayton, K. (2019, November 5). TMT law enforcement costs jump to $11M, almost half spent by Hawai‘i County. Honolulu Star Advertiser. Retrieved from https://bit.ly/2EuCKEV Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, N., Hussey, I., & Wright, E. (2014). A nation rising: Hawaiian movements for life, land, and sovereignty (1st ed.). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Hawai‘i Department of Health. (2010). Final environmental impact statement: Thirty meter telescope project. Island Hawai‘i, HI: University of Hawai‘i, Hilo.

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Kū Kia‘i Aloha Hawaii State House of Representatives Resolution 12: Approved also by the House of Representatives. (2014). Retrieved from www.capitol.hawaii.gov/session2014/bills/HR12_.HTM Inouye, Michael. Pu‘uhonua Pu‘uhuluhulu. (2019, December 9). Like a mighty wave. Retrieved from youtube.com/watch?v=4J3ZCzHMMPQ Kahea Environmental Alliance. (2016). Timeline of Mauna Kea legal actions since 2011. Retrieved from http://www.kahea.org/issues/sacred-summits/timeline-of-events Kame’eleihiwa Lilikalā. (1992). Native land and foreign desires. Honolulu, HI: Bishop Museum Press. Kuwada, B. (2015, July 6). We are not warriors, we are a grove of trees. Ke Kaupu Hehi Ale. Retrieved from https://hehiale.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/we-are-not-warriors-we-are-a-grove-of-trees/ Malo, D. (1996). Ka Moolelo Hawaii: Hawaiian traditions (Malcolm Naea Chun, Ed. and Trans.). Honolulu, HI: First People’s Production. Nāwahī, J. (1895, May). Ke Aloha Aina, Heaha ia. Ke Aloha Aina [Honolulu], 25. Ōiwi TV. (2019, September 17). Maunakea Kūpuna Arrests – July 17, 2019 [Television broadcast] Honolulu, Hawai‘i: ‘Ōiwi TV. Retrieved from https://bit.ly/2APFO0p Osorio, J. (2014). Hawaiian souls: The movement to stop the US military bombing of Kaho‘olawe. In A nation rising: Hawaiian movements for life, land, and sovereignty (1st ed.). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Osorio, J. (2020). Ho‘opi‘i i ka Lāhui. In Kū‘ē Petitions: A Mau Loa aku nō. Honolulu, HI: Kaiao Press. Osorio, J. H. (2018). (Re)membering ‘Upena of intimacies: A Kanaka Maoli Mo’olelo beyond queer theory. Ann Arbor, Michigan: ProQuest Dissertations Publishing. Osorio, J. H. (2020, January 13). On the frontlines of maunakea. Flux Magazine. Retrieved from https:// fluxhawaii.com/maunakea-movement/ Osorio, J. K. K. (2002). Dismembering Lāhui: A history of the Hawaiian nation to 1887. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press. Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu. Pu‘uhuluhulu.com Sai, D. K. (2011). Ua Mau Ke Ea = Sovereignty endures : An overview of the political and legal history of the Hawaiian Islands, Honolulu. Hawai‘i: Pū‘ā Foundation, 2011. Silva, N. K. (2017). The power of the steel-tipped pen : Reconstructing native Hawaiian intellectual history. Durham: Duke University Press. Silva, N. K. (2004). Aloha betrayed: Native Hawaiian resistance to annexation. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Trask, H.-K.(1999). From a native daughter : Colonialism and sovereignty in Hawaii. Revised edition. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press. Trask, H. (1987). The birth of the contemporary Hawaiian movement: Kalama Valley, O‘ahu. Hawaiian Journal of History, 21. Honolulu, HI. Hawaiian Historical Society. Williams, Julie Stewart et al. (1996). ‘O Kamehameha nui. Hawaiian-language ed. Honolulu, HI: Hale Pa‘i o nā Kula ‘o Kamehameha. Terry Young, K. G. (1998). Rethinking the native Hawaiian past. Florence: Routledge.

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21 LEADING THROUGH COLLECTIVE RESILIENCE Creating an Indigenous mental health response to climate change Kee J.E. Straits, Julii M. Green, Devon S. Isaacs, Melissa Tehee, and Margaret Smith Introduction Human spiritual, physical, emotional, and mental wellbeing is interdependent with the wellbeing of our environment. Indigenous Peoples have long been leaders in maintaining this intimate relationship. We use the term “Indigenous” to encompass the multitude of cultures and people represented within it. We use “American Indian” when relevant to the legal definition in the United States and “Native American” when referring specifically to Indigenous people of the United States. The authors endeavored to maintain our Indigenous voices and respective worldviews through the process of writing this chapter. We held women’s councils in virtual circles and deliberated on linear versus circular thinking. We discussed the issue of tenses and definitions that ceaselessly challenge writing about our experiences while simultaneously living in their context. We engaged in an intentional process of honoring community knowledge and making it central to our process. We stand in our truth of being equals writing this work. We stand in honor and respect as each having unique contributory value in this circle, together. This chapter describes the impact of climate change on Indigenous communities and their mental health. It reviews recent Indigenous movements in response to environmental concerns, (e.g., NoDAPL, Mauna Kea), and describes a culturally relevant model of support. The chapter provides a framework for health and mental health professionals to engage with activists and movements. We emphasize strength-based, culturally-informed engagement with a focus on resilience. Indigenous models of resilience can lead the world in responding to large-scale crises tied to climate change.

Indigenous communities, climate change and mental health Every year, thousands of people indigenous to Turtle Island (Indigenous terminology for North America) gather for ceremonies of healing and resilience. In the Southwest and Southeast, late summer pow wows implement aspects of the Green Corn Ceremony for growth and renewal (Mooney, 1891). In the Northern United States, Indigenous people wait for the DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-26

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first snow to tell Winter Stories recounting histories, lessons, and great deeds of ancestors, cradled by our collective memory (Greene, 2005). These ceremonies inform tribal identities. Ceremony connects generations as people gather to share meals and Indigenous practices for living. Ceremony and resilience are deeply connected to weather and seasons. Winter Stories cannot be told without snow. Now, the snow comes later or does not come at all. It is so hot during Green Corn season that Elders struggle under shade trees and umbrellas, seeking relief from the harsh sun. Ballplayers risk heat exhaustion during a-ne-jo-di, or stickball, games. Traditional foods and medicine plants integral to ceremonies are harder to cultivate and obtain. The animals once used in traditional meals are unwell, and their numbers are dwindling. Indigenous people know something is out of balance.

Climate change The impacts of climate change on Indigenous Peoples are vast (Brugnach, Craps, & Dewulf, 2017; Turner  & Clifton, 2009; Zimmerer, 2014). Changing food sources in the Arctic and Pacific regions and threatened water sources across the United States (e.g., drought, flooding, contamination) are only a few immediate concerns. Climate change, fueled by industrial interests that degrade the environment for profit, also leads to forced migration and diaspora across the world. As resources change, people are impacted. For example, Indigenous youth migrate to urban areas and Indigenous communities must move from militarized zones due to land and resources disputes. Recently, the COVID-19 pandemic illuminated how deforestation can alter our land connections and relationships with all species, opening the doors to novel diseases (EHN Staff, 2020). While Indigenous Peoples are experiencing stress, anxiety, depression, trauma, job loss, and loss of life due to COVID-19 (Altiraifi & Rapfogel, 2020; APM Research Lab Staff, 2020), we also recognize positive environmental shifts across the planet. Restrictions on human movement and travel briefly provided significant decreases in air pollution (Berman & Ebisu, 2020; Zowalaty, 2020) and anecdotal evidence of wildlife increases due to less human activity (Rutz et al., 2020). These trends provide a small measure of hope that human behavioral change can improve our environment; however, human complacency and industry greed have also demonstrated their obduration during COVID-19 through acts such as the oil and gas industry’s petitions to roll back regulations and seeking billions in federal aid (Gardiner, 2020). All that the land produces, and all that influences it, both natural and man-made, reverberate through every iota of our existence. Indigenous Peoples are intimately tied to the land. As such, loss of land and its desecration have substantial impacts on our ways of life and our mental and physical health. The land represents our origins, histories, and resilience.

Indigenous mental health connections to climate and environment Climate change is associated with increased mood and anxiety disorders and intense emotional reactions. The loss of connections to homeland, as well as social networks, perpetuates these challenges (Cunsolo Willox et al., 2013; Norton-Smith, Lynn, Chief, & Cozzetto, 2016). Tribal community members know biophysical climate change and psychological health are connected. For example, food insecurity, increased diseases, and rates of mortality and morbidity may impair mental health (Cunsolo Willox et al., 2015). Changing weather makes hunting more dangerous in the Arctic, increasing the risk of death or injury as well as the possibility of 315

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food insecurity (Cunsolo Willox et al., 2015). Climate change affects Indigenous communities in Alaska through re-traumatizing experiences related to acculturative stress, disrupting social determinants of health, causing loss and grief, creating “generalized stress of an uncertain future,” and inhibiting enculturation because of disconnection to the very land that informs ceremony and tribal lifeways (Bell, Brubaker, Graves, & Berner, 2010, p. 5). Climate-connected environmental crises or catastrophes on Indigenous lands carry a range of psychological and social consequences. When uranium was mined extensively on the Navajo Nation (with borders spanning the four US states of Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) between 1940 and 1980, it resulted in widespread consequences for environmental and human health (Fryberg & Eason, 2017). In March 1979, the United Nuclear Corporation’s Church Rock Uranium Mill (located on Navajo Nation) tailings pond spilled, causing the largest radioactive accident in the United States and the second largest globally after Chernobyl. The spill released 90 million gallons of radioactive waste into rivers. The radiation released was more than three times that of Three Mile Island. The lack of governmental responsiveness and public knowledge about this catastrophe exemplifies the racism through omissions about the atrocities that Indigenous Peoples face (Fryberg & Eason, 2017). A Church Rock elder (personal communication, 2011), Mr. Teddy Nez, shared that although physical consequences of exposure were finally acknowledged (kidney disease, bone and lung cancer), the psychological consequences of chronic radiation exposure, living on contaminated lands, and depending on water sources exposed to radiation were not recognized. Mr. Nez explained that grassroots community assessments illustrated community members’ elevated fear, anxiety, flashbacks, sleep difficulties, sadness, and avoidance of triggering activities. For example, the sound of a large truck would trigger flashbacks of the trucks that transported uranium from mines. Research on psychological effects of uranium and radiation exposure is small, but indicates that individuals experience traumatic psychological effects from human loss and bereavement, environmental loss and contamination, and feelings of betrayal by the government and mining industries. These may result in hypervigilance, nonempirical belief systems about the exposure which contribute to fears about current and future effects, prolonged psychological effects, and anxiety and depression (Markstrom  & Charley, 2003; Vyner, 1988). Similarly to the Babushkas of Chernobyl (Scheidt, 2018), the Church Rock community members refuse to leave their homeland. Instead, they continue to fight for cleanup, understanding that cultural, emotional, and spiritual connections to the land provide immeasurable emotional and spiritual strength. They recognized their people have place-based histories and relationships with the land that span generations. Indigenous communities are particularly susceptible to mental health concerns because of the meaningfulness of the land and events tied to it. Many tribal communities experience historical grief associated with loss of homelands and traditional ways of life that may be exacerbated by climate change and disruption of the land (Luber et al., 2014). Climate change is expected to have the most significant impacts among disadvantaged communities (Fritze, Blashki, Burke, & Wiseman, 2008). Severe weather and natural disasters will lead to acute traumatic stress, social and economic disruption will impact environmental determinants of health, and “emotional distress and anxiety about the future” will likely result in hopelessness (Fritze et al., 2008, p. 2). For Indigenous people, there are additional considerations such as the ongoing effects of racism, exposure to violence, and loss of cultural identity tied to original lands. Western research and Indigenous evidence both indicate that addressing mental health needs in Native communities from an environmental and climate threat perspective is long overdue.

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Needs and gaps for addressing climate crisis-related mental health Colonization has contributed to current and ongoing inequities in health, education, economics, and political realms (Fridkin, 2012; Williams, 2012). Initial colonization and dehumanizing of Indigenous Peoples were rationalized through the Doctrine of Discovery, stereotyping Indigenous people as savages (Memmi, 1965; Williams, 2012). Federal Indian policy has furthered dehumanization and historical trauma through such acts as removing American Indians from their ancestral homelands; assimilation policies, including forced removal from families into religious and government-run boarding schools; and the era of termination and relocation, in which the federal government tried to terminate tribal recognition and relocate American Indians into cities and away from reservations (Getches, Wilkinson, Williams, Fletcher, & Carpenter, 2017). These examples of historical, intergenerational, and individual trauma contribute to increased risk of developing PTSD after a disaster or crisis. Before discussing specific needs around climate crisis-related mental health for Indigenous communities, we offer some thoughts to clarify the term “crisis.” Crisis can refer to either a situation of intense difficulty or danger at a specific point in time, or the critical turning point of a disease where death could result (Oxford English and Spanish Dictionary, n.d.). When mentioning “climate crisis” or “environmental crisis,” we refer to the current moment when global warming or worsening of the environment may have reached or will reach a point of irreversibility that threatens the livelihood of humans. This threat can also be understood as creating both individual and community mental health crises. The challenge in distinguishing the two frames for “crisis” is that our mental health intersects with the wellbeing of our environment (Bowles, 2015; Durkalec, Furgal, Skinner, & Sheldon, 2015). This connection between emotional and environmental is rarely made for Indigenous Peoples, who have more exposure to the consequences of climate change and environmental degradation. Health professionals and researchers must reconsider the root causes of mental health crises in Indigenous communities. Trauma- and stress-induced behavioral symptoms may be reframed as a normative response to environmental or climate crisis. Existing models for dealing with the mental health consequences of natural disasters and other crises such as disease outbreaks include Roberts’ Assessment, Crisis intervention, and Trauma treatment (ACT), Critical Incident Stress Management (CISM), Roberts’ Seven-Stage Crisis Intervention Model, Psychological First Aid (PFA), Mental Health First Aid, and Stress First Aid (Hierholzer, Bellamy, & Mannix, 2015). These are early interventions meant to occur immediately following a large-scale disaster or community-level crisis (within hours) or within 1–4 weeks after the incident. These interventions assess for immediate threats and level of physical/psychological functioning, reduce fear responses, augment strengths and coping skills in response to the disaster, and connect to supports and follow-up care for recovery. These models are built on broad underlying assumptions regarding crisis situations: they have a definite beginning and end, present a problem beyond individual control and without resolution in the immediate future, pose a threat to safety and livelihood, and are of outsized proportions to the immediate internal or external resources available. These models also share commonalities in their progressive steps, moving from assessment of the situation and safety to establishing rapport, providing individual or group assistive action, and following up with resources. We must question three assumptions that underlie existing crisis interventions: 1) framing the crisis as a behavioral health risk or deficit inherent to or “within” the affected individual or community; 2) aiming to return to the socio-economic, cultural-historical and political structures and processes that set the context for large-scale crisis as a goal of recovery;

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and 3) neglecting to recognize Indigenous strengths or build from an Indigenous cultural and spiritual center. Existing mental health crisis models have not been empirically tested for efficacy with Indigenous communities. Additionally, they ignore the role that social determinants of health and historical factors such as colonization have in Indigenous health disparities. For example, suicidality is considered a psychological phenomenon, associated with individual psychiatric illness; yet, research suggests that for Native communities experiencing suicide clusters, suicidality may be more aptly characterized as a social expression of oppressive systems and structures, not personal failings (Wexler & Gone, 2012). Second, these models’ assumption of terminal singleincident disasters does not adequately incorporate the ongoing threatening conditions to livelihood and wellbeing that Native communities endure (historical and intergenerational, chronic, large-scale trauma). Finally, the mental health framework is entrenched in a medical model deficit paradigm that stigmatizes normative mental health responses to environmental threats. This indifferent framing neglects to follow mental health repercussions from environmental threats back to the power structures that maintain unequal outcomes in response and recovery for Indigenous communities and negates communities’ inherent capacity for resilience. Catastrophic events require culturally centered and resilience-honoring mental health interventions, especially as more Indigenous communities become directly impacted by climate change and other environmental crises. The intersection of Indigenous mental health and climate change must be contextualized within an understanding of colonization’s destructive effect on the cultural and social structures of our people. Colonizers harmed our economic, kinship, political, and spiritual/religious systems (Hill, 2011). Communities exposed to crises require empowerment and self-governance to address their specific needs (Warry, 1998). Integrating Indigenous approaches to healing (e.g. storytelling, advice from Elders, including family and community, and ceremony) would strengthen mental health when encountering environmental crises in Native communities and populations (Hill, 2011; Stewart, 2007). Hill (2011) outlines considerations for integrating Traditional Knowledge into crisis intervention planning. She sheds light on Aboriginal health, culturally oriented interventions, and prevention strategies which healthcare workers might utilize in times of distress. She further identifies recommendations for integrating Indigenous Knowledge and Traditional Medicine into interventions for at-risk Aboriginal populations or communities in crisis. Poor mental health is associated with a history of colonialism. Conversely, addressing injustice contributes to wellness in our communities (Hill, 2011). Strengthening cultural identity, community integration, and political empowerment improves mental health for Aboriginal populations (Hill, 2011). We must ensure that policies support the restoration of traditional practices, language, and knowledge to developing strategies for this generation’s healing and wellness. Fritze et al. (2008) call for “well-informed responses and strategies” on multiple levels (e.g., local, regional, legislative) to counteract the deleterious effects of climate change (p. 8). However, federal and state policies rarely protect the Indigenous rights needed to shape futures and destinies. Terminology, like sovereignty and self-determination, fall on closed ears when spoken by Indigenous Peoples. We have seen it again and again, pipeline after pipeline, violations of human rights, and disproportionate criminalization of Indigenous activism when attempting to protect natural resources.

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ecological response that understands we are a part of and not separate from our environment. We present several examples of Indigenous collective ecological responses that exemplify how these are characteristically different from dominant society examples of resilience.

Water Walkers of the Great Lakes region Many Indigenous people have spoken and acted regarding the environmental concerns facing us today. Environmental leader Josephine Mandamin (Anishinabek Nation) began the Water Walkers in 2003. As an Elder, she walked around the circumference of the Great Lakes region to offer prayers and develop awareness about what was happening to the waters and the consequences of our actions, should we not take matters to hand now. Many joined as Water Walkers to draw attention to the fundamental importance of water. Mandamin spoke beautifully to each of the characteristics, qualities, and personalities of each of the lakes, as well as the generations behind and ahead of us (Indian Country TV, 2008). She called for raising our collective consciousness and raising the dignity and respect in our relationship with the waters (Bear, 2008). The Water Walkers understood a threat to the waters was a threat to us all, and that our sacred relationship with the waters forms the basis of our ongoing survival.

Water Protectors at Standing Rock From April  2016 until February  2017, the largest modern gathering of Indigenous Peoples convened to protect sacred lands, clean water, and sovereignty. The Energy Transfer Partners’ Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) was set to go under the Missouri River a half mile north of the Standing Rock Sioux reservation lands. Local tribes south of DAPL construction sought an alternate route for the pipeline to prevent contamination of the only water source available to their communities. Relational connections to care for and protect the Earth were interpreted as radicalized and dangerous (often framed as protests rather than objections to irreparable harm) within the media and across mainstream society (Fryberg & Eason, 2017; Isaacs, Tehee, Green, Ellington, & Straits, 2020; Smith, Tehee, Straits, Knudsen, & Rose, 2018). When the Oceti Sakowin and Sacred Stone camps emerged near Standing Rock, their impromptu formation of communities – complete with healthcare, food supply, construction, education, spiritual centers, donation centers, and more – demonstrated the strengths of Native Peoples. The term Water Protectors exemplifies seeing ourselves as one with the environment under threat. It refers to individuals with deep spiritual relationships with water and land who supported with their physical presence the cessation of oil pipeline construction that could potentially leak and threaten the waters, and therefore, threaten all our relations that require water to live. Mitakuye Oyasin is a Lakota phrase that, translated, loosely means “all my relations.” It is a phrase that one may use upon entering into ceremony and that holds a power in and of itself to draw on the interconnectedness that we humans have with each other, all animal and plant life, and beings considered “non-living” such as the Earth and water. This creation or recreation of connectedness at the camps reinforced our unity, allyship, and responsibility to each other and the waters we protect.

Kapu Aloha at Mauna Kea Themes of resilience were especially important during the proposed construction of the controversial Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) on the Big Island of Hawai‘i. If built, the telescope (part of a larger astronomical observatory project) threatened to destroy the mountain of Wākea. 319

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Mauna a Wākea is recognized by the Kānaka Maoli (or “real people” of Hawai‘i) “as home to numerous akua (gods)” and is considered sacred “in collecting the waters that sustain life” (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, 2017, p. 189). Defenders of Mauna a Wākea, who also consider themselves protectors not protestors, had understandable concerns surrounding settler colonial exploitation and found themselves situated between the difficult legal policies of Hawaiian Kingdom law and settler state law. In 2015, faced with impending desecration of the Mauna, protectors gathered to march against construction, citing decades of cultural and environmental impacts as a result of summit telescopes. Protectors practiced “kapu aloha” – a philosophy and practice of nonviolent engagement, grounded in teachings by elders that emphasize carrying oneself with compassion for all people and the “discipline of empathy” (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, 2017, pp. 189–190). What started as a small gathering of protectors soon swelled to a much larger organized response. Like at Standing Rock, the activism at Mauna Kea resulted in blockades and arrests.

At the heart of this . . . is a question of power: the choices made on Mauna Kea reflect who is granted authority to make decisions for Native Hawaiians, contested lands, and for the nature and terms of cultural practice on these lands. (Kahanamoku et al., 2020, pp. 3–4)

The Ceibo Alliance of the Ecuadorian Amazon Between 1964 and 1992, the Texaco/Chevron oil company devastated a region of the Amazon with 17 million spilled gallons of crude oil, 18 billion gallons of toxic waste water, and a complete abandonment of unlined open air pits filled with toxic waste (Baldwin & Paz y Miño, 2020). Four Indigenous nations (Kofan, Siona, Secoya, and Waorani) suffered the most severe impacts: land loss from oil company takeover; contamination of the Aguarico river, the central source for potable water; and diseases such as cancer and immune system deficiencies (Aguilar, 2018; Anderson, 2019; Zaitchick, 2019). The Kofan leader, Mr. Randy Borman, described the nearest oil town of Lago Agrio as “running with oil down the streets” (personal communication, June 1998). The Kofan found many unique avenues for defending their rights to preserve communal livelihood. Early in the fight against encroaching oil rigs, to which the Ecuadorian government turned a continuous blind eye, the Kofan utilized rampant negative stereotypes about Indigenous Amazonian Peoples (e.g. savage cannibals) to their advantage. Although many of their traditional ways had gone underground, subsumed by Christian values, and they had long adapted to Western clothing through a history of heavy evangelical missionizing in the area, a group of Kofan came dressed in traditional regalia with spears in hand ordering the workers of one oil rig to abandon the site (Randy Borman, personal communication, June 1998). This tactic terrified the workers, who shut down the site and fled, unaware of the peaceful history of the Kofan. The Kofan, along with the Siona, Secoya, and Waorani, united to create the Ceibo Alliance. Together, they integrated Indigenous strengths and traditions along with strategic engagement with legal systems and modern technology to win legal rights to over one million acres protected from oil companies, loggers, miners, poachers and settlers (Romo, 2020). The will for community preservation and self-determination led to innovative programs such as ecotourism, building medicinal gardens and ceremonial houses, freshwater turtle preservation, educational scholarships and community legal aid (Randy Borman, personal communication, 1998; Cepek, 2018; Townsend, Borman, Yiyoguaje,  & Mendua, 2005). Despite the insidious destructive 320

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powers of international corporations, the strength of the collective, adherence to and calculated use of Indigenous identities, and re-creation of lifeways connected to land have won the Kofan battles in the courtroom and carved a culturally and politically powerful path for future generations.

Resiliency and protection across Indigenous movements These Indigenous movements highlight resilience in Native Peoples’ responses to environmental and climate-related crises threatening the livelihood and wellbeing of local tribes: 1) building relational community; 2) attending to Indigenous values and centering those values during formation of responses; 3) taking sovereign action to create protection; 4) spirituality through ceremony; 5) feeding, clothing, and sheltering everyone; 6) networking locally, nationally, and internationally; and 7) bringing together traditions and technology. The Indigenous movements described in this section provide living models of our relational responsibilities to each other and the land, water, mountains, and skies. Both the Water Walker and Water Protector movements began with prayer. The Water Protectors and the Ceibo Alliance asked their relations for help, and people came together to support these efforts. Remarkably, these movements manifested something extraordinary in the way they lifted perceived barriers between people. Indigenous Peoples and non-Indigenous allies united across the world, especially in the unique application of technology and social media. In many of these movements, mni wiconi (water is life) was the central force driving protection. Indigenous activism at Mauna Kea provides an example of sovereign response based on non-violent action, despite coloniality. All these examples considered their respective Indigenous teachings and wisdom and, at the heart of it, this exemplified Indigenous resilience.

Cultural resilience for Indigenous mental health Indigenous models of resilience are holistic and collective (Kirmayer, Dandeneau, Marshall, Phillips, & Williamson, 2011). We view ourselves as a small, yet equal, part of Creation (Maldonado et al., 2016; Anishinaabe and Aniyunwiya elders, personal communications, 1998–2017). Creation, as it is customarily seen among many traditional peoples, includes the physical and sacred attributes of the waters, land, air, minerals, animals, birds, aquatic and plant life, and meteorological phenomena, among others. There is a natural extension of our responsibilities to our non-human relations. We do not view ourselves as superior. Rather, there is a reciprocal relationship with these other beings, a parallel to our relationship with the spiritual world. From a traditional perspective, the relationship between humans and our non-human relations are not unidirectional in terms of communication and impact, but are ongoing and dynamic. We observe and make meaning of the environmental changes occurring in the context of our respective teachings, stories, and traditional ways (Maldonado et al., 2016). Our ability to take in multiple perspectives is fundamental to Indigenous resilience. It is critically important to do this when considering a circle of equals. Many Indigenous people have clans or groups that connect us to the natural world and outline our specific responsibilities to it. We consult with all in the circle, including those who represent the natural world. Everyone within a particular nation recognizes where they stand in relation to each other and their responsibility to each other (Aniyunwiya elders, personal communications, 2008–2015). Our resiliency operates with reciprocity of respect. We view ourselves as mutually dependent upon all elements of Creation and the natural world (Anishinaabe and Lakota elders, personal communications, 2000–2010). We understand our responsibility to our relations in the natural 321

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world as a means of maintaining ecological, social, and spiritual balance in our world. This includes sustainable development, conservation practices, mapping and protecting culturally relevant medicines/plants, protection of/and education about biodiversity, rights of “personhood” for nature/sacred geographical features (i.e., the Klamath River), restoration and revitalization efforts, and cultural tourism. In addition to the simple daily activities of recycling and minimizing our carbon footprint, many of us share our respective traditional stories of Creation with our children and consciously work toward linking everyday activities with those teachings. We attempt to model both the behavior and the thought process to facilitate the integration of the knowledge for the next generation. In our Indigenous traditions, we maintain a long view of the future and consider the impact of our decisions as they relate to multigenerational sustainability. Many Indigenous people understand that we do not live simply for ourselves in this generation but must make current decisions with the responsibility inherent in planning for Seven Generations forward from us (Anishinaabe and Lakota elders, personal communications, 1998–2017). Indigenous people maintain our own ecological science and traditional ways of knowing as they relate to the natural world (Whyte, Brewer, & Johnson, 2015). Our practices of cooperation with the natural environment facilitate balance and harmony with our relations. This enables us to live within our means and have the necessary available resources for survival. Alternatively, a failure to uphold our responsibilities could result in the disasters prevalent in the world today. It is the combination of our collective perspective-taking, our understanding of the reciprocal nature of respect for our relations, traditional ways of knowing, and emphasis on multigenerational sustainability that form the basis of our collective strength, resilience, and adaptation in relation to environmental challenges. It is understood that what we take from the Earth and what we put into the world will impact us and all others. Our choices impact long-term sustainability for all of Creation. For these reasons, many Indigenous people have spoken and acted regarding the environmental concerns facing us today.

An Indigenous resilience elevation model Instead of a mental health crisis intervention model (whereby outsiders to the community intervene in a crisis and attribute to the community an inherent inability to respond and recover), we offer a model for Indigenous communities to respond to crises that often originate in or are generated by unequal power and oppressive structures outside of the affected community. Our model activates and elevates existing resiliencies within our Native communities (see Figure 21.1). It developed organically in response to events at Standing Rock when the Society of Indian Psychologists (SIP) organization was approached by a Water Protector from the camps (Isaacs et al., 2020). All authors are American Indian/Indigenous psychologists or psychologists in training, and SIP members, and were actively involved in leading, coordinating, and/ or implementing the combined and individual strategies that led to the proposed model. This model incorporates mental health best practices for crisis intervention while seeking to heal root causes by supporting Indigenous movements toward self-determination and resolution of external threats to community integrity. Its intent is to build on strengths and resilience within Native communities and further activate or propel these resiliencies into coordinated action and support of Indigenous movements for wellbeing (Isaacs et al., 2020). The LINCC WEB model (Straits, Green & Society of Indian Psychologists, 2019) consists of five deliberate strategies for an Indigenous-centered response to externally generated events

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that pose a threat to the physical and psychological safety of both the individual and the community. These strategies are: 1) local Indigenous and national coordination; 2) consultation line; 3) word warriors; 4) education and dissemination; and 5) boots on the ground. We use examples from Standing Rock to illustrate these strategies in action.

Local Indigenous and national coordination (LINC) The first of these strategies, local Indigenous and national coordination (LINC), reflects the importance of the local Native communities most impacted leading the call to action, identifying the needs and strengths, and anchoring actions within local Indigenous values and practices. From this center of strength, any Indigenous or non-Native ally drawn to the central purpose of that action (or possessing a specific skill set to contribute) can join in recognition of the local Indigenous strengths already activated. Tapping into connections and building networks from the center outward, we acknowledge our relational ties and obligations to the local community, the community for which the relationship to the land is most impacted. The Water Protector movement at Standing Rock was initiated by Standing Rock Sioux elders and youth, and emanated out to neighboring tribal communities, Native American communities throughout the United States, and Indigenous communities globally. At Standing Rock, local centering had a visceral representation in the sacred fire that burned continuously at the heart of the camps. A center-outward growth was also used in the case of the Ceibo Alliance for building networks and local-to-national coordination leveraging two assets of Native communities: relationship and land. Any mental health professional or organization wanting to assist in elevating existing resiliencies during crisis must acknowledge their relationship with the affected community and understand the interdependence of our shared future. Furthermore, professionals and organizations must take responsibility for redirecting the power of their own relationships and networks to further elevate the strengths of the community at the center.

Consultation line (C) The second strand of the LINCC WEB provides indirect outside support through cultural consultation. Cultural consultation can be an effective tactic for ensuring the primary knowledge and source of problem solving comes from Knowledge Holders and experts within the community. It builds on the strengths of having multiple perspectives in collective action. Standing Rock taught us that a cultural consultation line must be a deliberate and strategic construction of a large team of individuals who, when brought together, provided a depth and breadth of Indigenous experience. At Standing Rock, the cultural consultation line provided offsite Indigenous mental health services around-the-clock to responders on the ground. All consultants were screened for qualifications, including specific areas of expertise, and attended an orientation and overview of common experiences and issues occurring on site, as well as available resources, and how this might intersect with their own identities. The cultural consultation line was developed following requests from within the camps to support the mental health of those there (center-outward growth). This strategy was more aspirational than achievable at the time given the limitations to providing clinical services across state lines without proper licensure (Isaacs et al., 2020). As active participants during Standing Rock, we recognized our limitations, as we were only able to provide cultural consultation and psychoeducation.

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Word warriors (W) The word warriors strand of LINCC WEB targeted the identification of oppressive structures and found ways to challenge and re-mold these structures by influencing policy and decisionmaking utilizing traditional media outlets, social media, and letter-writing campaigns. As mental health professionals at Standing Rock, we relied on international law, well-documented mental health research, and traditional wisdom to develop and disseminate succinct messages to targeted audiences with power to change systems. We had a cadre of Native professionals in the field who volunteered to write a position statement, op-eds, letters of support, and general fliers. The word warriors’ actions were a resilient mental health strategy that supported sovereign action. This strategy targeted systems-level change arising from a multigenerational sustainability outlook on mental health. Developing a meta-level strategy such as word warriors recognizes that storytelling exists at a community level. This can help counter-story the dominant narrative highlighted in mainstream media, social media, popular news outlets, and local sources such as radio and television. Storytelling is a well-documented traditional communication and healing tool. The power of telling one’s story contributes to growth and resilience. Josephine Mandamin of the Water Walkers wielded the power of storytelling to remind us of our traditional connections and relationship to water. In Western psychology, evidence-based strategies such as narrative therapy are utilized for treating PTSD. Narrative therapy implements a type of personal storytelling to process and overcome trauma while regaining a positive perspective and hope. Technology was used during the Standing Rock movement to adapt the strength of Indigenous storytelling to fit modern modes of communication (e.g., Facebook live feeds). The Ceibo Alliance is learning to adapt their storytelling through drones, geo-mapping, and electronic imaging. As mental health professionals, we strengthen community resilience and wellbeing by amplifying Indigenous Knowledge and ensuring stories reach the eyes and ears of those who can be influential allies.

Education and dissemination (E) The education and dissemination strategy within the LINCC WEB model targeted the activation of peer-to-peer, family, traditional, and local support for creating a sense of safety, calm, self-efficacy and hope. The SIP mental health professionals developed brief educational materials for Native and non-Native Water Protectors. The people working on this strand often had immediate contact and experience on the ground with those directly and peripherally impacted by Standing Rock events. These professionals also had experience with traditional strengths and historical traumas in Native communities specifically, both with children and adults. Additionally, some contributing experts had experience in the military or other situations where response to large-scale disaster or crisis training and re-entry into environments where there is no imminent threat to life are considered normative. Western mental health knowledge and Traditional Knowledge on wellness were integrated to create more relevant culture-honoring information dissemination for Water Protectors. This is consistent with themes of collective resilience drawn from Indigenous communities.

Boots on the ground (B) The “boots on the ground” strand of LINCC WEB is the most representative of widely used mental health crisis intervention models. It consisted of pulling together Indigenous mental health experts from across the country who were willing and able to share information, 324

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strategies, and resources from the other LINCC WEB components. This was another strategy more aspirational than achievable in finding individuals available and able to be a physical presence at Standing Rock for more than a few days. However, using technology to support those on the ground on a rotating basis was an innovative byproduct of Indigenous community resilience. As there was great diversity in the Indigenous representation at the Standing Rock camps, we built on the resilience feature of multiple cultural perspectives. Prior to coordinating this strategy, we conducted a resource scan for local Indigenous mental health providers (representing local tribal expertise) already serving in various capacities and looked to fill in the gaps. In comparison to the mental health models presented previously, LINCC WEB had a much broader outlook for building or elevating Indigenous resilience in response to a crisis. It went beyond influence at the individual and community level to reach policy- and governmentallevel influence (e.g., White House, tribal leaders, government officials) through position papers and op-eds in the word warriors strategy. LINCC WEB strategies incorporate Native culture, spirituality, and unique factors (e.g. historical and contemporary trauma) within every strand and future iteration to create a model that any Indigenous community could adapt. Most crisis model interventions assume a relatively stable “pre-crisis” context to which to return after a single-incident crisis. LINCC WEB was formulated with the keen awareness that Native communities often do not have recovery time between multiple large-scale traumas that have been enacted over multiple generations and are ongoing.

A cultural resilience framework for future applications and global Indigenous wellness We call on other mental health practitioners to flip the “crisis” framework to one of cultural resilience. Recognizing that the unique history of Indigenous Peoples includes the strengths of our diverse communities, our group of Indigenous mental health providers acted in unity with Standing Rock. Our model of response to environmental crises threatening the basic lifeways of Indigenous communities was built in real time in collaboration with individuals from diverse Indigenous nations across the country. Building networks and relationships that united diverse perspectives was key to incorporating policy-aimed strategies that dealt with structural racism. Mental health interventions that include ways to influence the larger systems within which we operate are rare. We intentionally set our model of healing and resilience to align with prayer and ceremony, an approach that no other crisis model takes. Such a model assumes that the individuals and collective are not the ones in crisis but are proactively responding with traditional tools of resilience to counteract a dysfunctional or unbalanced system. Mixing the new virtual worlds of technology in which our youth hold expertise, along with traditional healing practices and stories, is an example of multigenerational sustainability that helps us envision future wellness strategies. Finally, we bring our relationship with Mother Earth and the land we live on into concepts of mental wellbeing. COVID-19 underscored significant disparate impacts of climate-related crises on Native communities. Although this may seem like novel information to mainstream health research and practice communities, Indigenous people continually experience the effects of externally generated crises and have been fighting to respond on a community and collective level for decades. As Indigenous Peoples, we must develop new structures, networks, relationships, and solutions that extend Traditional Knowledge and carry our communities forward into a new era. To do so, we must first address existing challenges. A glaring challenge during Standing Rock was the inability to effectively coordinate across Native communities to provide targeted support by knowledgeable Native providers due to legal and political service gaps between sovereign nations, within-state entities, and national 325

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structures. Many Native communities across the United States experience a lack of communication infrastructure. Although 82% of households across the United States have internet subscriptions, only 53% have access to the internet on tribal lands (Wang, 2018). Until recently, these barriers went largely unrecognized. Infrastructure development and advocacy for policies that support this infrastructure are key components of providing appropriate mental health support to tribal individuals, families, and communities. Despite this barrier, Native Peoples in the Americas have effectively utilized technology to communicate and elicit environmental justice movements. For instance, Robyn (2002) argues that Indigenous Knowledge is technology, stored through song, dance, values, and ceremony. Modern technology is being used to document and record those aspects of Indigenous wisdom to create “transferable knowledge” across generations for sustainability (Robyn, 2002, p. 200). Internet and other capabilities for storing and sharing this data increase accessibility. “Livestream” ability allows for instantaneous documentation of the effects and response to climate crises. The lack of coordination between federal, state, and tribal governments leaves gaps in our ability to provide mental health services during large-scale crises. Increasing policy-level support for tribal sovereign action, as well as backing this with sufficient resources, would enable Native communities to fully exercise Indigenous innovation. Developing this model during Standing Rock shed light on significant barriers when serving Indigenous communities. Future iterations of this model must address these concerns to increase effectiveness, as any model is only as effective as resources and barriers allow. In the meantime, mental health professionals must be aware that services and support for Native Peoples might fall between jurisdictional, legal, political, and social gaps. Developing national collaborations across tribes that could be executed instantaneously would benefit tribal communities with swift recognition and response to Native-specific needs, as well as tapping into cultural resources to address those needs. Broadening our applications of crisis models to think about resilience activation, we make some recommendations. These recommendations center local Traditional Knowledge, acknowledge the usefulness of technology, situate change as systemic and structural, encourage collaboration, and are grounded in a strengths-based approach: • •

•

• • •

•

Look to the actions of local Indigenous leaders for guidance. Engage in additional ways to influence policies, politics, and social structures via Native warriors and their allies using words as their weapons for change. This could be through social media (e.g., Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, etc.), or local and national news outlets (e.g. CNN and other news networks), to name a few. Collaborate with local tribal communities, national tribal organizations, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), World Health Organization (WHO), Indian Health Services (IHS), and Native community-based organizations to develop culturally relevant psychoeducational materials. Create virtual and hard copy tool kits with prevention strategies in local tribal languages using art/symbols of specific tribes to better inform community members. Merge Native traditions with virtual technology for creative cultural supports that range from cultural consultations to virtual pow wows to digital traditional stories for healing. Support growth of virtual supportive services for, by, and in Native communities. Work with non-profit and community-based organizations, cell phone companies, and government entities to extend wireless capabilities in tribal communities and villages (or mobile alternatives) so there is consistent access to mental and physical healthcare. Continue to acknowledge, promote, and uplift the strengths and resilience of Native communities at all levels. 326

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• Local: Tribal mental health department/ clinic, regional Indian health services, state Psychologists, on-site clinic/ volunteers to camps, other local organizations/ individuals • National: Psychological associationsAPA and allied divisions (e.g. div. 35, sec. 6; div. 27), ABPsi, AAPA, NLPA, Native research network

• Standing rock crisis intervention survey of specialities • Development of on-call calender • Coordination with on-site providers for support • Problemsolving lack of internet and cellular connectivity

• New York times letter • Letters to the US president, senators and Congress • SIP statement opposing DAPL • SIP editorial to Indian country • APA letter supporting standing rock • SIP documentation and testimony to United Nations special rapporteur • SIP educational paper regarding the use of counterterrorism tactics

Education and dissemination

Local Indigenous and National Coordination

LINCC WEB: A national mental health response model to support Indigenous movements under threat

• Identify prevalent psychoeducational needs with camp providers • Develop fliers for water protectors: tips for veterans; acute stress; PTSD; reactions to trauma; guest Etiquette in native communities; children witnessing violence; returning home • Identify methods and locations for dissemination

• Research on legal/ethical practice and temporary licensure • Vetting team to ensure qualified providers • Development and implementation of culturally relevant training and orientation for mental health providers to standing rock • Deployment and debrief process • Re-integration

Figure 21.1.  Society of Indian Psychologists’ LINCC WEB Model to Elevate Resiliency

We need psychologists and other mental health providers to advocate for understanding, planning for, and addressing mental health impacts of communities most affected by climate change. Conscientious health providers must respond to large-scale crises threatening Indigenous wellbeing. First, they must understand that there are already vast resources and cultural institutions that propel our communities forward. Leading through collective resilience means holding the space for Indigenous action. Second, health and mental health providers must move beyond intervention approaches that singularly address illness within individuals. If we desire sustainable change, the focus must be on healing broken systems and structures. Perhaps, more than anything else, health providers are called to support and nurture Indigenous-led movements rooted in culture, relationship to all things, center-outward unity, and prayer. The Peoples’ voices and actions rising to protect our land, water, sky, and magma center are ultimately the most powerful tool for Indigenous healing, as every one of us is rooted in the sacred Mother Earth that we walk upon from our birth. Her wellbeing is paramount to our own.

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PART V

Reframing the narrative From problem to opportunity

Indigenous Peoples are often depicted in terms of deficits. We are problematized and pathologized. The authors included in Part 5 reframe this narrative as they highlight resilience in areas often considered particularly problematic for Indigenous Peoples, including education, trauma, economics, and health. Examples from Canada, the United States, Fiji, and Papua New Guinea illustrate a shift from deficit perspectives to creating opportunities.

Where does the problem lie? Indigenous Peoples remain distinct from surrounding settler societies, and these differences are often presumed to be deficits. The colonial context shapes how professionals assess Indigenous people, resulting in problematic labels. In fact, the authors in Part 5 identify colonization as the root cause of many problems, including social determinants of health. Health and social disparities often reflect unaddressed trauma, both historical and contemporary. Although Indigenous people are disproportionately affected by pandemics and receive little support from states, we are not passive victims. Resilience is also an outcome of suffering, adversity, and challenges. Despite their legal and moral obligations, settler states have not built adequate health infrastructures. Likewise, education systems have failed Indigenous people. Authors in Part 5 indict colonial systems for being unwilling to provide necessities that others take for granted, such as tools to learn to read and write. Further, elements that Indigenous Peoples see as strengths are often deemed problematic by settler societies. For example, customary Pacific land ownership (land collectively owned by kinship groups) is seen as a barrier to development by Westerners, since customary practices limit individual rights that are presumed to encourage business growth. In fact, collective ownership and related cultural relationships contribute to business sustainability and community wellbeing.

Resistance and persistence Strength forged through adversity leads to resilience. Indigenous reciprocity norms guide people to fulfill social and cultural obligations and responsibilities. Offering and receiving help, and participating in communal labor that benefits other individuals and the larger community, enables survival. The authors provide examples of how resilience flows from our beliefs, values, and DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-27

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ways of knowing. Communities and their members find ways to care for one another, despite limited infrastructure. Chapter authors describe how attachment to traditional lands remains significant. Indigenous people retain understandings of the natural world that are immense, holistic, and composite. The environment cannot be viewed solely from an economic perspective. People and spirituality remain linked to the land. Resilience is apparent in holistic Indigenous pedagogy and traditional perceptions of disability that do not marginalize individuals but value their contributions to the community. The authors in Part 5 describe holistic models of healing developed by visionary individuals and family members who became advocates, demanding assistance and justice when systems fail us. Chapter 23 describes healing from trauma through the Warrior Spirit Movement (WSM). This movement works to stop the cycle of trauma, emphasizing self-care and wellness techniques for children exposed to adverse childhood events. The WSM provides trauma education and treatment, while teaching resilience grounded within the principles of trauma-informed care. Healing happens when we leave our wounding behind and let go of self-destructive beliefs. Indigenous Peoples have power and agency. This is apparent in the active and proactive responses to COVID-19 described in Chapter  25. Indigenous Peoples developed culturally appropriate and specific responses including exercising sovereignty through border closures to protect their citizens. The authors remind us that we are all related. This is clear in recognizing the vulnerability of humans and natural world during the COVID-19 pandemic. Likewise, the resilience of people is inextricably connected to the resilience of the Earth.

Decolonizing and relying on traditions to create new ways forward As we reclaim and rely on our traditional ways, we shed the shackles of colonial mindsets and find new ways to move forward. As the author of Chapter  22 notes, a new pedagogy must evolve that incorporates Indigenous Knowledge and ways of learning to decolonize stigmatizing perspectives of disability. Indigenous ways of knowing and listening to elders provide solutions for our troubled world and inform our survival as humans. Elders’ teachings are the foundation of the WSM described in Part 5 and can inform educational systems. Ceremonies and traditional practices provide ways to work through grief and trauma. Blending ceremonies with Western interventions can promote healing. Likewise, drawing on traditional concepts such as solesolevaki and wanbel described in Chapter 24 support economic development and community wellbeing. Authors in Part 5 describe the importance of relationship building to enter Indigenous communities as researchers, using cultural protocols as appropriate. Chapter 25 offers a call to action for Indigenous academics, researchers, and scholars to lead the vision and create a roadmap for the future, harnessing the growing momentum for Indigenous nationhood. Sovereignty and self-determination are emphasized. The authors of Chapter 23 describe the process of becoming a self-determined hospital (funded but not controlled by the Indian Health Service), a process that allowed local community control and incorporation of Navajo healing practices and ceremonies. Chapter  25 describes how tribal governments used their inherent sovereignty to shape responses to the COVID-19 pandemic, noting that sovereignty is not about isolation and sharing across borders is valuable. Throughout Part 5, authors remind us that, as Indigenous Peoples, we know what our communities need. We have the power to raise our voices to acknowledge and challenge disparities, drawing on our inherent sovereignty. We all have roles to play and contributions to make

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in our communities, in the regeneration of the world, and in securing the future for coming generations. We have what we need. With crisis comes opportunity. We take care of ourselves and each other. Strength and resilience during the pandemic must not be mistaken for a false sense of hope or complacency. We recognize ongoing vulnerabilities and that disparities may intensify; thus, activism is essential. This is the time for the rebirthing of society, both generally as well as for Indigenous Peoples. We must work in partnership for the wellbeing of all humanity. Our vision is inclusive, with no one left behind. This is an opportunity to question why basic human needs like clean water go unfulfilled in many Indigenous communities. The authors in Part 5 highlight opportunities and strategies to address challenges and disparities.

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22 REFRAMING DISABILITIES Indigenous learners in Canadian educational systems John Terry Ward

Introduction This chapter is based on my lived experiences as a Métis of Algonquin, Wendat, and FrenchCanadian origin from the traditional Algonquin territory of Kitchisibi, as well as on my research as a Ph.D. candidate in education studying the educational experiences of Canadian Indigenous children with disabilities. I struggled through the colonial school system with dyslexia. These struggles built my resilience and transformed me into who I am today – graduating with a Ph.D. Researching this topic has given me the opportunity to rediscover myself as an Indigenous person and also to show others how I overcame challenges of being labeled as “different” or having a disability. My life story built my resilience. Indigenous children are misdiagnosed in school for many reasons, but often it is because evaluators are not familiar with Indigenous cultures. Misdiagnosis may occur because a child has not had the same preschool background as other children so is unfamiliar with the material discussed or with a classroom way of learning. Other times, Native children may have some type of learning disability, but do not receive the services and education they need to succeed. All too often, professionals pathologize difference as deficit. This chapter explores the clashes between Indigenous forms of learning and the colonial education system of Canada, and particularly, how these clashes manifest for Indigenous people with disabilities. The concept of disability is critiqued, and the impact of labeling explored and contrasted with holistic Indigenous philosophies and understandings; ways of thinking that recognize differences without the presumption of deficits. While decolonizing disability perceptions and labels is imperative in all areas, this chapter focuses specifically on Indigenous resilience for children who have been labeled with learning disabilities and their experiences within the education system. Indigenous resilience is highlighted through my personal story, along with descriptions of traditional Indigenous Knowledge and pedagogies. Ultimately, a new pedagogy must evolve whereby Indigenous ways of learning can be incorporated into the regular school system at all levels to create a supportive and holistic learning environment for all.

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Indigenous Peoples of Canada There are three distinct Indigenous groups in Canada are First Nations, Inuit, and Métis. Data on Indigenous people is unreliable since many do not want to share their information with the Canadian government, the source of many of their struggles. That being said, the following Table provides a general overview of the numbers and locations of Indigenous Peoples in Canada. According to the Canadian Census for Population of 2016, Indigenous people account for 1.67 million or 4.9% of the Canadian population (Trevethan, 2019, p. 7). Although the three main groups of Indigenous Peoples in Canada have previously been revealed, Table 22.1 will illustrate the greater breakdown of the other classifications that are not always taken into consideration. See information below that is taken from the Government of Canada Indigenous Services Canada website (2020). In 2017, among Indigenous people living off-reserve, 32% of First Nations people, 30% of Métis, and 19% of Inuit were identified as having one or more disabilities (Hahmann, Badets, & Hughes, 2019). Disability among Indigenous people in Canada is significantly higher than in the non-Indigenous population, and actual rates may be higher (Burlock, 2017). Possible reasons for these disparities are explored later in this chapter. Being Indigenous and having a disability are both stigmatized in Canadian society and seen as deviant from the norm. Indeed, within the Canadian colonial context, a synergy is created between these two marginalized identities. Table 22.1  Canadian Indigenous population

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My background When I was born, I had a stroke that led to a speech impediment. After multiple psychological assessments, it was determined that I needed various remediation therapies, so my mother took me to New York City, where a doctor diagnosed me with dyslexia. My mother advocated for me, leading to accommodations within my Individual Educational Plan that insured I would have extra help in school. Accommodations included access to special language-oriented classes, alongside my regular classes. Despite these guarantees, my mother had to fight every step of the way for a proper education for me. Not being an expert in the field and not knowing anyone to help her, she felt alone. Her strength and resilience were forged through adversity. Being Indigenous and dyslexic, my learning needs were not a priority for the school system. I did not even have a proper classroom. Not only did I not receive the support and accommodations that I was entitled to, but I was also belittled by my teachers. In one instance, when I was 9, I accidentally tripped in school and injured another student’s foot. With my severe speech impairment, I could not quickly defend myself, so the teacher blamed me. After I responded with, “this class sucks,” and angrily said, “I am not stupid,” my teacher dragged me to the principal’s office. After interrogating me, he angrily grabbed my arm and escorted me back to class where he forced me to apologize to all the students. The children laughed. In my humiliation, I began stuttering so could not get the words out. My teacher then told me to stop acting like a baby and speak normally. I was sobbing so much by the time I got home that after hearing what had happened, and seeing the bruises on my arm, my mother confronted the principal and asked him what gave him the right to abuse a child. She then said that he was taking it out on me because of what she had said to the reporters as they had printed my words in the local newspaper, “Your special class is a garbage class, where you put everyone that can learn together.” He then admitted that she was right. My mother, replied, “if this is a Catholic School, remove the crucifix, as Christ has already left your office with that child.” Even to this day, some 30 years later, I have still never set foot in that school. My parents were furious, especially my father, who had been abused at his school – an experience so traumatic that he never got over it. The colonial education system failed us. It was unwilling to provide us with the necessities that many other children take for granted: tools to learn to read and write. In response, my mother sought literature on dyslexia and attended university classes to learn from experts in the area. Her resilience was rooted in my desire to read, write, and be accepted in the school system, not laughed at, abused, and placed in a storage room then hallway since there was no room for a specialized class. My mother told me of another child who tried to commit suicide because of the teachers’ approach, which had intensified his stress. His freedom was at the other end of a rope. Fortunately, teachers found him before he could harm himself. Later, he learned he was dyslexic and not stupid. He went on to become a great member of society. My mother’s experiences with my challenges and struggles led her to establish a school for children with dyslexia, funded by donations and staffed by volunteer teachers. She has presented at conferences, given seminars in universities, and advocated for people’s rights to reading and writing, all within a colonial system that seems to have pushed back on all fronts. Examples of her efforts include Heritage Academy, founded because there was no other place to teach dyslexic children and youth (www.heritage-academy.com/our-school), and the Canadian Dyslexia Association, which offers free publications to help people understand that dyslexia is not truly a disability (www.dyslexiaassociation.ca/english/smt.shtml). Her school and her knowledge are essential and noteworthy, but, at every turn, professionals tried to discredit her because she had no professional credentials, nor was she part of the educational regime. Ironically, when she

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called a university asking who could best be able to help her child, after a few minutes, the response given was her own name and number to contact. This completely left her speechless. Likewise, some 30 years later, a professor at the same university inquired as to who could best help her dyslexic child, and my email was given. My mother was just as stunned the second time as I was myself, since I had just started my Ph.D. at the same university. My mother’s strength inspired me to pursue my own dream of obtaining a Ph.D. in education. The path of resilience is one that inspires me to become a better person. My parents’ resilience and strength led me on the same journey that my mother so boldly walked.

The history of education for the Indigenous Peoples of Canada Indigenous Peoples had their own types of education before the French and British arrived. Indigenous pedagogy is holistic and circular, based on orality, multisensorial learning, and visualbased imagery. Indeed, Gilroy et al. (2018) examined how the World Health Organization and the United Nations (UN) “identified how European colonization and colonialism has had a dramatic global impact on the health and welfare of millions of Indigenous Peoples” (p. 1344), leading to Indigenous people having staggering rates of disabilities. Francis (2016) defines “disability as substantially limiting a major life activity,” that affects a “broad coverage of individuals” (p. 1031). Limitations are an inherent component of this definition; therefore, living with the label “disability” is a struggle. This idea of disability originates from colonial medical and social models anchored in a certain wellness norm. For Indigenous Peoples, disability is a foreign term, steeped in colonial ideologies. When tied to colonial schooling, it has been used to classify and label how children learn, without consideration for cultural differences. With colonization, the Canadian government instituted its traditional linear approach to learning. This fundamental component of colonization erased the Indigenous cultural identity and their natural way of learning (pedagogy). This method became the driving force behind the infamous and dreaded Indian Residential School (IRS) era. Indigenous children were referred to as “dirty” or “unclean,” “dark skinned,” “stupid,” or “savage Indian,” and told, “your ways of learning are wrong.” These racist slurs reflected the values that formed the foundation of the Canadian educational system. The learning disability classification includes a range of labels such as dyslexia, ADD, and ADHD. Students who learn differently are often labeled as having a learning disability. Colonizers enforced their rule by labeling ethnic groups, undermining how an Indigenous person thinks, learns, perceives knowledge, and contributes to society. Labeling subjugates them rather than allowing for more positive characteristics (Lovern, 2014). How Indigenous children learn is attuned to the ways Elders impart Traditional Knowledge, a style quite different from that typically used by Western educated teachers (Hansen & Antsanen, 2016). Indigenous children were not allowed to write left-handed, speak their own languages, or use their customs and ceremonies based on their holistic cultural pedagogy (Elder A. Smith St-Georges, personal communication, July 1, 2020). Even being ambidextrous was frowned upon as “the work of the devil” among the Catholic schools, which my father personally witnessed. All education had to conform to Western ways. The IRS policy was “a systematic, intergenerational, state-planned program of brainwashing aimed at removing ‘the Indian’ from the minds and souls of Indian children” (Cardinal, 1999). It was this act that led to what is now referred to as a cultural genocide (MacDonald, 2019). This created intergenerational traumas, school phobias, post-colonial stress disorders, and the stigma of being different/ disabled (Wilk, Maltby, & Cooke, 2017). All led to a staggering number of school dropouts, 338

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further leading to alcoholism, criminal activity, and even suicide. Forcibly separating children from their Indigenous ways of learning was the catalyst for their learning disabilities, but it also planted the seeds of resilience. Not allowing Indigenous children to fully utilize their strong visual-spatial learning abilities within a colonial linear system contributed to their struggle and to their dyslexia. As the colonial system did not accommodate Indigenous ways of learning, this led to labels that belittled and limited students, and fostered abuse by teachers who were not trained properly to deal with children from Indigenous backgrounds. This remains the case today in many schools in Canada. The act of assigning a label of disability or learning disability is a colonial mechanism that does not align with Indigenous perspectives of difference. The biased terms used for Indigenous people fed into labeling school children as disabled. Some children labeled with learning disabilities were presumed to be lazy (Mullins & Preyde, 2013), although they may have been bored with a curriculum that did not reflect their cultural context. The fact remains that every child learns differently. If they can process knowledge and communicate in their own way, it inspires them and contributes to their success, happiness, and resilience amidst the ongoing systematic act of colonialism. The struggle of learning-disabled children who must navigate colonial obstacles in the education system is like walking through a dense forest; one cannot walk in a straight path, but can only stumble in and out among the trees. Our own way of learning that spans thousands of years is by lived experiences with a richness that strengthens our resilience.

Disabled or mislabeled? The UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (2011) identifies disability as “an evolving concept (which) results from the interaction between persons with impairments and attitudinal and environmental barriers that hinder their full and effective participation in society on an equal basis with others” (p. 3). This UN definition emphasizes interaction between individuals and their context as central to understanding disabilities. Other definitions, however, are not attentive to context so squarely place disability as an issue within the individual. For example, according to the Learning Disability Association of Canada (2015), learning disabilities are defined as “disorders which may affect the acquisition, organization, retention, understanding or use of verbal or nonverbal information” (para 1). In an excerpt from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5) (American Psychiatric Association, 2013), “Dyslexia is an alternative term used to refer to a pattern of learning difficulties characterized by problems with accurate or fluent word recognition, poor decoding, and poor spelling abilities” (p. 67). While these definitions may be technically accurate, they do not account for a societal context that includes racist and colonial attitudes. Toombs, Kowatch, and Mushquash (2016) stated that “definitions (of disability) are derived largely from research involving non-Indigenous youth so may fail to incorporate unique characteristics from Indigenous perspectives” (p.  4). Canadian Indigenous communities view the term “disability” as a colonial tool used to limit how a society naturally learns, clashing with and dismissing their Traditional Knowledge. In Western conceptualizations, productivity is what delineates abilities from (dis)abilities (as in not being able). Therefore, Western disability evaluations see only the faults of the “dis” rather than the abilities. By definition, people with disabilities are presumed to be unable and thus unproductive. Ironically, many famous personalities – including several American presidents – were dyslexic, but lived very productive lives (The Ability Center, 2021). Indeed, dyslexia is often misinterpreted and can actually be a gift. 339

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A common pedagogical practice within schools is to separate students with so-called disabilities from students with abilities. Lovern (2014) notes that “Western social hierarchies by establishing certain identities as superior and others as inferior  .  .  . shape how people with disabilities are defined and treated within Western communities and institutions” (p. 1). These dynamics continue to manifest in contemporary educational settings. Western standardized tests and classroom configurations do not consider the cultures or ways of life of Indigenous people. It could be argued that Indigenous people are disproportionately labeled with a disability as they are misunderstood, and thus misdiagnosed. This reflects a report by the Ontario Human Rights Commission (OHRC, 2018) that “Indigenous students are  .  .  . over-represented in special education placements” (p. 94). Indigenous children may have a higher rate of disabilities and learning disabilities, than the general Canadian population because the curriculum does not allow them to be who they are or consider their different learning style (Dion, 2017). These divisions of Western and Indigenous standpoints impact schooling, and lead to the misdiagnosis of disabilities. No matter how disability is defined or researched, though, its root lies in a Eurocentric theory that limits a person’s ability to be a productive member of society, especially, if one is from an Indigenous background. Through the 20th and 21st centuries, labels regarding disability such as feeble minded, retarded, and special learner were common. Labels changed over time to fit the social norms of the day and to suit the needs and consciences of those who implement them. Although disability terminology frequently changes, the fact remains that labels can marginalize and stigmatize people, undermining the self-esteem of those being labeled (Thomson, 2012). According to the Society of Indian Psychologists (SIP, 2015), no Native American members were involved in the consultation, evaluation, or assessment process of developing the DSM-5 to offer alternative or more holistic interpretations. This lack of inclusion could result in inappropriate assessments, including high numbers of false positives and erroneous diagnosis. Further, labels given by professionals can have long-term detrimental effects (SIP, 2015). The Canadian Council of Children and Youth Advocates (CCCYA, 2019) explains that in “British Columbia, youth indicated the fear of stigma and labelling” (p.  17). Labeling had a negative impact that often exacerbated insecurities and past trauma for troubled youth. From an Indigenous perspective, the colonial term disability negatively influences one’s wellbeing and sets boundaries between the individual and their own body, mind, and spirituality that conflicts with their harmony (Wheeler, 2014). The label “ ‘disability’ has been imposed on Indigenous Peoples without consideration of how they conceptualize disability and impairment” (Gilroy et al., 2018, p. 1027). Indeed, the term learning disabled never existed within Indigenous languages until first contact (Nielsen, 2012), and words and meanings do not necessarily translate effectively. Indigenous people needed no words for children with “disabilities,” as all people blended into society together wherever they fit best. Deconstruction of the term disability (or taking it apart or dismantling it) is clearly needed. Recognizing a disability by labeling it can be useful for qualifying for services and accommodations in schools (Kahane & Savulescu, 2009), but there are significant dangers inherent in mislabeling or defining a child solely by a disability label. Labeling is a common way of classifying students in colonial schools, which has a major impact on students’ self-esteem (Weaver, 2015). With the wide misuse of the word “disability,” many children who did not fit into the colonial system suffered traumatically. However, all our struggles are there as a challenge to be overcome and can make one more and more resilient daily. Different Indigenous Peoples had their own ways of referring to what a “disability” was prior to colonialism, but with Western influence, the term has been greatly altered among Indigenous Peoples. “Native American healing is not the overcoming or elimination of these 340

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differences, as is seen in Western cultures” (Lovern, 2014, p. 2). Indigenous Knowledge goes far to enhance the resilience found in those labeled. It is essential to decolonize this “disability” concept from a negative connotation, as it does not align with the ideals rooted in Indigenous Knowledge.

Indigenous perspectives on learning, inclusion, and disabilities Weaver and Yuen’s (2015) book entitled All My Relations uses a common phrase from Indigenous prayers and statements that acknowledge thanks to past, present, future, and communal family connections. Thus, Indigenous people acknowledge that people with disabilities should be empowered as normal, active members of a harmonious community. Indigenous cultures include disability alongside wellness, spirituality, and living in harmony with challenges. An individual is a member of a community, although they may learn differently. Indigenous pedagogies and ways of learning emerge from Indigenous life experiences, and therefore differ from colonial models. Indigenous learning stems from their lived experience gathering knowledge about the environment, holistic medicine, and understanding how the world works (Absolon, 2011). This pedagogy includes all members equally in a holistic, handson approach without relying on Western evaluations (Weaver, 2015). These approaches are often misunderstood by colonialists because they are different. Indigenous people learn according to their environment, which is comprised of simultaneous “multisensory small-group activity, beginning with observation which evolves into tactile hands-on experiences” (Alberta, 2005, p. 42). Lived experience defines who they are as humans, both physically and non-physically, and enables their connections to communities, people, family, their ancestors and even the spirit world. These provide a way of embracing one’s own uniqueness and let one contribute to society without limitations. Indigenous Knowledge sees the mind, spirit, and body as able to overcome and achieve. Each lived experience differs from person to person, so no matter who one is, each person must be judged on their own merit. Thus, a person with a disability who interacts differently than others is to be seen as whole and beneficial to that society. This idea is at the heart of their resilience as a People, as it truly makes them who they are – accepting and tolerant. Indigenous resilience is culturally grounded within spiritual and holistic knowledge, forming a fundamental basis for educational pedagogy (Fleming & Ledogar, 2008). Atwool (2006) echoes that one’s “culture is only an asset when children are connected and grounded, particularly, when the culture they belong to is treated as ‘other’ by the dominant culture” (p. 325). Kahn et al. (2016) observe that “Elders’ narratives express the importance of bridging dominant and traditional cultures to develop resilience and self-confidence in order to participate in both worlds” (p. 122). This ability to bridge both worldviews enables students to progress naturally, especially those who are of mixed heritage, as they often face greater discrimination. This knowledge can bolster Indigenous identity, which has historically been misinterpreted by “oppressive labels associated with the term ‘disabled’ ” (Rivas, 2018, p. 1048). Therefore, a strong stance on educating for Indigenous resilience also strengthens traditions.

Decolonizing disability Kirmayer et al. (2011) declare that “the notions of resilience that have emerged in developmental psychology and psychiatry in recent years require systematic rethinking to address the distinctive cultures, geographic and social settings, and histories of adversity of Indigenous Peoples” (p. 84). Brooks et al. (2015) explain that “resilience is not just an individual’s capacity to 341

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cope with adversity, but a community’s capacity to extend resources to sustain well-being and provide these resources in culturally relevant ways” (p. 707). The basis of resilience in Indigenous epistemology is a combination of family, spirituality, and the Elders’ participation in knowledge sharing, support, and ceremonies that uphold our identity within this holistic approach (HeavyRunner & Marshall, 2003). Kahn et al. (2016) say that “resilience is exemplified in Elders’ lives and how resilience strategies are linked to cultural teachings and values, youth activities, and education” (p. 117). We, as Indigenous Peoples, the stewards of the land and protectors of the next generation, have an obligation to ourselves to set our own paths of resilience that align with our Traditional Teachings, ceremonies, and Elders’ oral traditions. Engaging with Elders, Knowledge Holders, and community members helps us understand how resilience has developed and how it can create an alternative disability theory, one that would benefit all Indigenous people. Thus, Indigenous people must follow the ways of our ancestors, learn from our lived experiences, and build our own paths of resilience. This is why we gather knowledge and share who we are. Resilience redefines us as children of Mother Earth. In Algonquin, this means we have our own strengths and ways of overcoming challenges. We will not be put aside, but we will hold our heads high. This is Indigenous resilience. Indigenous scholars are actively working to Indigenize methods of knowledge production, which, in turn, can inform our thinking about disability. By decolonizing the term disability, Indigenous people perceived to have a disability can have a more positive approach in lifestyle following Indigenous protocols that depict “Indigenous first, disabled second” (King, Brough, & Knox, 2014, p. 744). Any discourse on disability that fails to include Indigenous cultural ideologies of diversity results in gaps in education. Western disability studies have often ignored the oral histories and lived experiences of Indigenous people with disabilities (Meekosha, 2011). The time has come for Indigenous resilience to reshape outmoded colonial practices and build bridges. Passing on our knowledge establishes a foundation for new Indigenous resilience. Indigenous people are working to decolonize mainstream education and reshape understandings of how we have lived, according to our rich history and holistic knowledge in areas such as the environment (climate change), medicine (homeopathic), and disabilities (learning differences).

Understanding and implementing the 4Rs Framework Indigenous epistemology emphasizes the importance of the 4Rs Framework of respect, relevance, reciprocity, and responsibility, which is applicable in the family, community, and classroom (Kirkness  & Barnhardt, 2001). Following the 4Rs ensures a proper dialogue between Indigenous communities (Peoples) and education boards that might not be fully aware of past activities that harmed communities. Centering the 4R framework within disability educational settings affirms Indigenous values (Ahuriri-Driscoll, Lee, & Came, 2021). Following the wisdom learned from each leaf (concept) informs how best to approach disabilities within educational settings. The first “R” is the notion of respect for the family, for others, and especially, for the knowledge of the Elders (Denzin & Lincoln, 2008). How First Nations people understand disabilities and interpret them from the Elders’ knowledge systems is referred to as “culturally responsive resilience processes” (McCubbin & Moniz, 2015, p. 218). Showing respect and the ability to reconcile with colonial society from a cultural perspective contributes to honoring the knowledge shared (Diamond, 2012), which leads to resilient people. Respect in colonial educational settings is a fundamental attitude when trying to understand the individual and how their disability reflects who they are. Anderson (2006) notes that 342

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Figure 22.1  The 4Rs Framework

“disabled teachers embody pedagogies of justice, interdependence, and respect for differences. Teaching (with a) disability reveals spaces in education that often get silenced. Who decides which stories are worth being told?” (p. 368). It is this ability to provide respect that is a fundamental part of the 4Rs system. Ahuriri-Driscoll et al. (2021) look at how an Indigenous public health educational setting can provide a positive approach toward “respectful interaction [that] is . . . a core component of professional competence” (p. 152). Edwards and Da Fonte (2012) emphasize the need to respect cultural backgrounds, which will enable “mutually supportive relationships with families, (so) teachers will improve their ability to manage individual and classroom behaviors” (Walker, Johnson, & Randolph, 2021, p. 223). The second “R,” relevance, signifies an acceptance of resilience within the viewpoint of cultural interactions and community engagements. Cultural relevance is essential for nurturing resilience within Indigenous populations (Smith, 1999). Carter and Draper (2010) articulate an understanding of the relevance and relationships needed to understand and be responsive to disability within an educational setting. Furthermore, we must evaluate the relevance of various types of disability models, how they can be implemented, and how they can help us understand the “continuous process of changing social attitudes to disability” (Amponsah-Bediako, 2013, p. 122). Meyers et al. (2012) emphasizes the need to address the “relevance of culture, ecology, and politics, organizational consultants must be aware of how they are perceived to be aligned with key members of the school/system culture” (pp. 113–114), which is essential in understanding dynamics of disability within an educational setting. This ability to connect with a student who has a disability by building dialogue based on cultural similarities as a way Indigenous relations approaches education as a relevance method in understanding how a disability or learning disability affects the student. The third “R” of the framework, reciprocity, is evident as the “implementation of resilience research calls for information to flow both ways in these partnerships” (McCubbin & Moniz, 2015, p.  219). This collaboration or cooperation between teacher and student will benefit 343

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the educational learning setting by being able to promote a positive and dual understanding that is needed within Indigenous pedagogy. McCubbin and Moniz (2015) went further to provide an Indigenous lens that “meaningful resilience research with Indigenous populations involves the establishment of reciprocity and allows a collaborative foundation upon which current and future research is securely based” (p. 222). Subedi (2006) emphasizes the importance of reciprocity in Indigenous research that reveals the prevalent notions of local research, which automatically benefits the participants and/or their communities. This approach toward a resilience-focused research process to enable reciprocity within the dialogue of disability will enable trustworthiness between the teacher and student. The fourth and fundamental “R” regarding resilience is Indigenous ethical protocols of responsibility. Responsibility to oneself, one’s Elders, one’s family, and one’s community is the core of Indigenous identity. When understanding the interworking of disability within educational settings, the effects of labeling, stigmas, lifelong traumas, and phobias are not the sole responsibility of the individual, but that of their family and even community (Fleming & Grace, 2016). How a person’s disability affects them ultimately “lies with that person” (p. 8), but the responsibility of providing a safe place to learn is a combination of the responsibility of school, teachers, family, and all our relations. Infusing these 4Rs into the education system not only honors Indigenous worldviews, but it also becomes a way of conducting decolonization by conciliation, which in turn becomes reconciliation regarding colonial practices. It also greatly develops resilience in academia. This collaborative partnership that Indigenizes learning prevents unwarranted traumas on community members. Thus, it is essential for ultimately helping those affected by labels of disabilities within the community (Ungar  & Liebenberg, 2013). These four guiding principles provide structure and direction as we consider resilience research and service implementation (McCubbin & Moniz, 2015).

Reframing education for children with learning disabilities Schools on traditional homelands are a source of resilience, social wellbeing, and spiritual health with connections to family (Altamirano-Jimenez, 2009). A strong educational foundation based on relationships and supported by family and community provides a positive and safe learning environment where students can learn, regardless of their challenges. This unity in togetherness stimulates resilience in the students (Morales, 2008). Currently, many Indigenous communities have severe resource constraints, leading in disparities in health, education, and food equity. Addressing these underlying disparities is central to supporting educational success. Educational systems can be maximized to teach, support, and enhance resilience. Condly (2006) stated that “what is considered risk or resilience in one culture may be the norm or rebellion in another” (p. 226). Indigenous resilience in education does not merely challenge the colonial system(s); it also shows how an inherently and culturally different society has its own in-built systems of knowledge transfer, so children can be educated based on their own learning styles. Indigenous Knowledge is a growing field within the education system that reflects Indigenous views without relying on colonial education approaches (Gone, 2019). Rowe et al. (2020) link lived experience and Indigenous Knowledge as a way of strengthening communities and building resilience. Elders can transmit oral history that spans generations, creating a shared knowledge that becomes the core of resilience. Dunn’s (2014) method of “identification, not definition” suggests that individuals assess their experience from within their parameters by self-identification, land connection, socio-political economy, and social 344

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interaction, which build up a resistance to the Western ways that they had previously been having to adapt to. Traditional Knowledge sharing gives those students labeled with a disability an equal opportunity and changes their perception of their disabilities. Having been taught myself by various Elders and Knowledge Holders throughout my life, I am aware of how that knowledge builds resilience. Elders who understand the challenges that Indigenous students face in mainstream education systems can provide direction and leadership. Resilience is demonstrated by our Elders, who have become internationally renowned teachers, politicians, activists, and government employees. The final step of building resilience is acknowledging the Elders’ contributions as the basis of Indigenous identity. The more resilient students are, the more success they can achieve when they become the leaders of tomorrow. As a knowledge seeker (a term that replaces the Western “researcher” or “investigator”), myself, I aim to become more resilient by continuing to learn new knowledge and share what I have learned, while following the 3L’s of Algonquin teachings: look, listen, and learn. Schools should be a place where students can learn without persecution, but unfortunately, this has not been the case for all children. If more Indigenous cultural educational practices were incorporated into the public school curriculum, fewer children would be labeled with disabilities and learning disabilities. Children labeled as disabled and those who learn differently face significant challenges. These children should be observed, not judged, analyzed, or subjected to colonial labels that only regulate and limit them. How these same children learn to interact and live with others in accordance with colonial society constructs determines how resilient they become. Indigenous resilience is a fundamental process within education, particularly with regard to learning disabilities. It involves struggle and courage, and is a new means of how to overcome challenges so the next generation will not have to endure the same problems. All this has increased resilience among those affected with disability labels. Hansen and Antsanen (2016) show that “resilience among Indigenous students in education is manifest in their ability to balance negative and positive feelings about the way they perceive and feel about themselves and the world” (p. 2). Having more Indigenous teachers would reflect societal diversity (IDA, 2015) and can help affirm the resilience of Indigenous students. Our Elders and tribal teachers remind us that disability does not define a person. Indigenous understandings promote resilience, while raising self-esteem and engaging students. This heightened resilience makes students aim higher to obtain academic achievement (Kirmayer et al., 2011). The result is more future Indigenous academics, whose Indigenous Knowledge could also validate new alternative methodologies. Thus, Indigenous researchers could express themselves according to their own lived experiences.

Positive steps for the future There is a resurgence in teaching Traditional Knowledge in public schools and institutions of higher learning; a new resilience is awakening. This has led Indigenous teachers, principals, parents, and communities to take back their schools and implement pedagogies that reinforce holistic and Traditional Knowledge. Even though past injustices still haunt those who struggled in colonial schools, especially in off-reserve schools, resilience forged through adversity has resulted in a positive move forward. Gilroy et al. (2018) assessed how studies in Indigeneity, education, and disability should be viewed as a new and continually developing positive step forward into tomorrow, as together, they build resilience in youth. Resilience directly binds us as Indigenous people because of our 345

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unique lived experiences, how we thrive amidst challenges, and how we can overcome obstacles by placing our knowledge and people in places of authority. For this reason, Elders’ lived experiences should provide Traditional Knowledge in conjunction with educational programs, better known as “design of resilience education” (Kahn et al., 2016, p. 118). We must emphasize our own standpoint, including self-definition, and reclaim our identity beyond labels and colonial classifications. The time for change is now. From professions that were once off-limits to Indigenous people, as they were white male–dominated fields, a resurgence of Indigenous leaders has evolved in academia, politics, medicine, law, government, and in other areas where change is occurring. A way must be found for both colonial and Indigenous education systems to work together so Indigenous students can succeed in this changing world. Revising educational processes and systems, especially how teachers interact with people with learning disabilities, is in fact part of our strength, along with our oral histories as protectors of Indigenous Knowledge. Taking back our place in society by telling our lived experiences will enable the next generation to stand tall and be able to speak for themselves to show who they are and where they are from with pride. We must remain resilient and follow the guidance and strength of our ancestors. We will no longer let others define who we are or what is best for us. A person who learns differently should not be bound by colonial social constructs. Our strengths and abilities should not limit who we are, nor label us according to colonial values and assessments that do not follow our approach to learning and processing knowledge. This is the essence of Indigenous resilience. The time to act is now. After having struggled within the colonial education system myself, I have grown to be more resilient. My own lived experiences became the catalyst for pursuing a Ph.D. in education, so that others would not suffer as I did. My mother’s resilience grew from the many struggles she faced with me. She then flourished in her career as she tirelessly and continually provides a safe space for countless children with dyslexia. Our resilience gives a voice to the voiceless, for we are the future.

References The Ability Center. (2021). Disability trivia: Presidents with disabilities. Retrieved from www.abilitycenter. org/2019/02/disability-trivia-presidents-disabilities/. Absolon, K. E. (2011). Kaandossin: How we come to know. Halifax, NS: Fernwood Publication. Ahuriri-Driscoll, A., Lee, V., & Came, H. (2021). Amplifying Indigenous voice and curriculum within the public health academy – the emergence of Indigenous sovereign leadership in public health education. Higher Education Research & Development, 40(1), 146–161. Alberta, (2005). Our words, our ways: Teaching first nations, métis and Inuit learners. aboriginal services branch and learning and teaching resources branch. Edmonton, AB: Minister of Education. Altamirano-Jimenez, I. (2009). Nunavut: Whose homeland, whose voices? Canadian Woman Studies, 26(3/4), 128–134. American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (DSM-5). Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association. Amponsah-Bediako, K. (2013). Relevance of disability models from the perspective of a developing country: An analysis. Developing Country Studies, 3(11), 121–132. Anderson, R. C. (2006). Teaching (with) disability: Pedagogies of lived experience. The Review of Education, Pedagogy, and Cultural Studies. 28(3–4), 367–379. Atwool, N. (2006). Attachment and resilience: Implications for children in care. Child Care in Practice, 72(4), 315–330. Brooks, C. M., Daschuk, M. D., Poudrier, J., & Almond, N. (2015). First nations youth redefine resilience: Listening to artistic productions of “Thug Life” and hip-hop. Journal of Youth Studies, 18(6), 706–725. Burlock, A. (2017). Women with disabilities (pp. 89–503-X). Ottawa, ON: Statistics Canada. Cardinal, H. (1999). The unjust society. Vancouver, BC: Douglas & McIntyre.

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Reframing disabilities Carter, E. W., & Draper, J. (2010). Making school matter: Supporting meaningful secondary experiences for adolescents who use AAC. In D. McNaughton & D. R. Buekelman (Eds.), Transition strategies for adolescents and young adults who use augmentative and alternative communication (pp.  69–90). Baltimore, MD: Paul H. Brookes. CCCYA. (2019). Canadian council of child & youth advocates: A national paper on youth suicide. Ottawa, ON: Government of Canada Press. Condly, S. J. (2006). Resilience in children: A review of literature with implications for education. Urban Education, 41(3), 211–236. Denzin, N., & Lincoln, L. (2008). Introduction: Critical methodologies and Indigenous inquiry. In N. Denzin, Y. Lincoln, & L. Smith (Eds.), Handbook of critical and indigenous methodologies (pp. 1–20). London: Sage Publication. Diamond, J. (2012). The world until yesterday: What we can learn from traditional societies. New York, NY: Viking. Dion, J. (2017). Falling through the cracks: Canadian Indigenous children with disabilities. International human rights internships program: Working paper series. McGill Centre for Human Rights and Legal Pluralism, 5(12), 1–38. Dunn, M. (2014). Defining Indigenous knowledge. Retrieved July 9, 2019, from www.theoryofknowledge. net/areas-of-knowledge/indigenous-knowledge- systems/defining-indigenous-knowledge/ Edwards, C., & Da Fonte, A. (2012). The 5-point plan. Fostering successful partnerships with families of students with disabilities. Teaching Exceptional Children, 44(3), 6–13. Fleming, J., & Ledogar, R. J. (2008). Resilience and Indigenous spirituality: A literature review. Pimatisiwin, 6(2), 47–64. Fleming, M., & Grace, D. (2016). Best practice in supporting Indigenous students with disability in higher education. Report submitted to the National Centre for Student Equity in Higher Education (NCSEHE). Curtin University Press, Perth, AU. Francis, L. (2016). Perspectives on the meaning of “disability”. AMA Journal of Ethics, 18(10), 1025–1033. Gilroy, J., Dew, A., Lincoln, M., Ryall, L., Jensen, H., Taylor, K., Barton, R., McRae, K., & Flood, V. (2018). Indigenous persons with disability in remote Australia: Research methodology and Indigenous community control. Disability & Society, 33(7), 1025–1045. Gilroy, J., Uttjek, M., Gibson, C., & Smiler, K. (2018). Yuin, Kamilaroi, Sámi, and Maori people’s reflections on experiences as ‘Indigenous scholars’ in ‘Disability Studies’ and ‘Decolonisation’. Disability and the Global South (Special Journal Edition), 5(2), 1344–1364. Gone, J. G. (2019). Considering Indigenous research methodologies: Critical reflections by an Indigenous knower. Qualitative Inquiry, 25(1), 45–56. Hahmann, T., Badets, N., & Hughes, J. (2019). Aboriginal people survey: Indigenous people with disabilities in Canada: First nations people living off reserve, Metis and Inuit aged 15 years and older (pp. 89–653-X). Ottawa, ON: Statistics Canada. Hansen, J. G., & Antsanen, R. (2016). Elders’ teachings about resilience and its implications for education in Dene and Cree communities. International Indigenous Policy Journal, 7(1), 1–17. HeavyRunner, I., & Marshall, K. (2003). Miracle survivors: Promoting resilience in Indian students. Tribal College Journal, 14(4), 15–18. IDA. (2015). The right to education of persons with disabilities: The position of the international disability alliance. From the IDA’s Submission on Inclusive Education, Submitted for the CRPD Committee’s Days of General Discussion on the Right to Education. Indigenous Services Canada. (2021). Annual Report to Parliament. Retrieved September  20, 2021 from https://www.sac-isc.gc.ca/eng/1602010609492/1602010631711#fn4 Kahane, G., & Savulescu, J. (2009). The welfarist account of disability. In K. Brownlee & A. Cureton (Eds.), Disability and disadvantage (pp. 14–53). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Kahn, C. B., Reinschmidt, K., Teufel-Shone, N. I., Oré, C. E., Henson, M., & Attakai, A. (2016). American Indian elders’ resilience: Sources of strength for building a healthy future for youth. American Indian and Alaska Native Mental Health Research, 23(3), 117–133. King, J. A., Brough, M., & Knox, M. (2014). Negotiating disability and colonization: The lived experiences of Indigenous Australians with a disability. Disability & Society, 29(5), 738–750. Kirkness, V. J., & Barnhardt, R. (2001). First nations and higher education: The four Rs –respect, relevance, reciprocity, responsibility. Journal of American Indian Education, 30(3), 1–15. Kirmayer, L. J., Dandeneau, S., Marshall, E., Kahentonni Phillips, M., & Jessen Williamson, K. (2011). Rethinking resilience from indigenous perspectives. The Canadian Journal of Psychiatry, 56(2), 84–91.

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John Terry Ward Learning Disability Association of Canada. (2015). Official definition of learning disabilities. https://www. ldac-acta.ca/official-definition-of-learning-disabilities/ Lovern, L. L. (2014). Embracing difference: Native American approaches to disability. Tikkun, 29(4), 37–40. MacDonald, D. B. (2019). The sleeping giant awakens: Genocide, Indian residential schools, and the challenge of conciliation. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. McCubbin, L. D., & Moniz, J. (2015). Ethical principles in resilience research: Respect, relevance, reciprocity and responsibility. In L. Theron, L. Liebenberg, & M. Ungar (Eds.), Youth resilience and culture. Cross-cultural advancements in positive psychology (Vol. 11, pp. 217–229). Dordrecht: Springer. Meekosha, H. (2011). Decolonising disability: Thinking and acting globally. Disability & Society, 26(6), 667–682. Meyers, A. B., Meyers, J., Graybill, E. C., Proctor, S. L., & Huddleston, L. (2012). Ecological approaches to organizational consultation and systems change in educational settings.  Journal of Educational and Psychological Consultation, 22(1–2), 106–124. Morales, E. E. (2008). A  focus on hope: Toward a more comprehensive theory of academic resiliency among at-risk minority students. Journal of At-Risk Issues, 14(2), 23–32. Mullins, L., & Preyde, M. (2013). The lived experience of students with an invisible disability at a Canadian university. Disability & Society, 28(2), 147–160. Nielsen, K. (2012). A disability history of the United States. Boston: Beacon Press. OHRC. (2018). Ontario policy on accessible education for students with disabilities. Retrieved from www.ohrc. on.ca/en/policy-accessible-education-students-disabilities. Rivas, M. C. (2018). Indigenous perspectives of disability. Disability Studies Quarterly, 38(4), 1041–5718. Rowe, G. Straka, S., Hart, M., Callahan, A., Robinson, D., & Robson, G. (2020). Prioritizing indigenous elders’ knowledge for intergenerational well-being. Canadian Journal on Aging, 39(2), 156–168. SIP. (2015). Society of Indian psychologists open letter to the DSM-5 task force and the American Psychiatric Association. Logan, Utah: Society of Indian Psychologists, Utah State University. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. New York: New York. Zed Books. Subedi, B. (2006). Theorizing a ‘halfie’ researcher’s identity in transnational fieldwork. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 19(5), 573–593. Thomson, M. M. (2012). Labeling and self-esteem: Does labeling exceptional students impacts their selfesteem? Support for Learning, 27(4), 158–165. Toombs, E., Kowatch, K., & Mushquash, C. J. (2016). Resilience in Canadian indigenous youth: A scoping review. International Journal of Child and Adolescent Resilience, 4, 4–32. Trevethan, S. (2019). Strengthening the availability of first nations data. Ottawa, ON: Indigenous Services Canada & The Assembly of First Nations. Ungar, M.,  & Liebenberg, L. (2013). Contextual factors related to school engagement and resilience: A study of Canadian youth with complex needs. Journal of Child and Youth Development, 1(1), 3–26. Walker, J. D., Johnson, K. M., & Randolph, K. M. (2021). Teacher self-advocacy for the shared responsibility of classroom and behavior management. Teaching Exceptional Children, 53(3), 216–225. Weaver, H. (2015). Disability through a native American lens: Examining influences of culture and colonization Journal of Social Work in Disability & Rehabilitation, 14(3–4), 148–162. Weaver, H., & Yuen, F. K. (2015). All my relations: Understanding the experiences of native Americans with disabilities. London, UK: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group. Wheeler, S. (2014). Legacies of colonialism: Toward a borderland dialogue between Indigenous and disability rhetoric. Disability Studies Quarterly, 34(3), 1–5. Wilk, P., Maltby, A., & Cooke, M. (2017). Residential schools and the effects on Indigenous health and well-being in Canada – a scoping review. Public Health Review, 38(8), 1–5.

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23 IGNITING THE WARRIOR SPIRIT TO ADDRESS HISTORICAL TRAUMA AMONG INDIGENOUS PEOPLE Tasha Seneca Keyes and Kenneth G. White Jr. Introduction Today, the world is facing several crises including health pandemics, record high unemployment rates, food shortages, and climate change, just to name a few. Native people are affected at disproportionate rates by these calamities, and are particularly vulnerable when living in rural and remote locations. Pre-existing health and mental health conditions, inequalities in healthcare, and basic forms of living to maintain or support oneself contribute to the dangers many Native and Indigenous Peoples face (Eschner, 2020; Rural Health Information Hub, 2020). The 2020 global pandemic of COVID-19 has placed a spotlight on these disparities. Many Native communities find ways to care for one another, despite the limited infrastructure available for pandemic responses. They do this by viewing infectious pandemics as community problems and utilizing traditional practices and ceremonies to address them. There are many examples of responses to the pandemic. Some Native communities have ceremonies where they isolate themselves from others in order to cleanse, heal, and recover spiritually and emotionally (Smith-Morris, 2020). Others recount Elders’ stories of airborne disease and seek their guidance and council about how to rely on the land to protect and heal their communities (Smith-Morris, 2020). Running to greet the morning dawn is a way that some Native Americans in Arizona feed their spiritual wellbeing and condition their bodies (Koithan & Farrell, 2010). Traditional arts and craft makers have combined their knowledge about past pandemics and skills into making non-medical masks featuring Indigenous designs (Banning, 2020). Storytelling is another traditional way to open doorways into different perspectives and ideas about how to deal with the current situation (Banning, 2020). With the current pandemic, illnesses, and other traumas that society faces, our survival as humans on this Earth may depend on understanding Indigenous traditional ways of knowing and listening to the Elders. This chapter will recount how a group of both Indigenous and Anglo-Americans are drawing upon the counsel of Native Elders from many generations to create a movement that recognizes and implements a combination of relevant trauma science and age-old Indigenous traditional healing practices into a model of holistic healing that addresses historical and present-day trauma. This movement, called the Warrior Spirit, views historical

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trauma as the symptom and the Warrior Spirit as the remedy (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). The overarching goal of the Warrior Spirit Movement is to construct a healing model that affects individuals through systemic change within Native communities. This chapter reviews the literature on traditional ways of knowing, childhood trauma, and some of the barriers to healing for Indigenous Peoples. Next, the foundations for the Warrior Spirit Movement are described, along with how it is being implemented by a group of visionary individuals, and the future goals for addressing historical and current trauma among Native people and communities. The terms Native American, Native, and Indigenous are used interchangeably to respectfully refer to the people in the United States and across the world who are the earliest known inhabitants affected by colonization.

Adversity and traditional ways of healing Indigenous resilience starts and ends with traditional ways of knowing. These are flexible, fluid, and provide a way to heal. Mason Durie (2006), a Māori scholar from New Zealand, defines Indigenous resilience as: Superimposed on adversity and historic marginalization, Indigenous resilience is a reflection of an innate determination by Indigenous Peoples to succeed. Resilience is the polar opposite of rigidity. It provides an alternate perspective to the more usual scenarios that emphasize Indigenous disadvantage and allows the Indigenous challenge to be reconfigured as a search for success rather than an explanation of failure. (p. 8) When conversations about Native issues arise, they often focus on things such as high rates of poverty, mental health issues, suicide, and substance use, coupled with low educational outcomes and health disparities. These issues are just a few of the inescapable reminders of the unaddressed historical, intergenerational, and current traumas that many Native Peoples face. It is well established that resilience can be an outcome of suffering and challenge. However, in an effort to change the deficit narrative, the focus must start and end with the ways of knowing that produce the resilience and determination of Indigenous Peoples. “Trauma is not a disorder but a reaction to a kind of wound. It is a reaction to profoundly injurious events and situations in the real world, and indeed a world in which people are routinely wounded” (Burstow, 2003, p. 1302). Trauma is a spiritual injury, a soul sickness, soul wounding, and ancestral hurt (Duran, 2006). The terms “cumulative trauma” and “historical trauma” refer to the collective and compounding emotional, psychological, and spiritual wounding over time, both over one’s life span and across generations (Brave Heart, 1995). Trauma is a wound to the soul that is felt at the core of Indian people in agonizing proportions. Traditional ceremonies and practices provide ways for Native people to work through and resolve their grief. However, at various times throughout history, traditional ceremonies and practices have been outlawed, further complicating the healing process for many Native and Indigenous people (Linklater, 2014). Native ceremonies involve the individual, the family, and the community in the healing process (Koithan & Farrell, 2010). Traditional ceremonies and practices restore the harmony necessary for health, allowing a Native person to maintain a mental, emotional, and spiritual balance (Koithan & Farrell, 2010). Without harmony, Native people can become vulnerable to the impact of trauma, in their daily lives and to their soul (Hodge, Limb, & Cross, 2009).

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For thousands of years, Native Peoples and their communities have relied on a combination of prayer, native plants and diets, herbal medicines, manipulative therapies, and ceremonies to prevent and treat illness (Cohen, 2018). Ceremonies may last for days or weeks, and the more people who participate, the greater the healing energy (Koithan  & Farrell, 2010). Living in harmony with the Earth has meaning and purpose. The ceremony that welcomes the seasons and the harvest honors this connection to the Earth and the environment (Koithan & Farrell, 2010). The oral tradition of sharing stories and legends teaches positive behaviors, as well as the consequences of failing to adhere to the laws of nature (Koithan & Farrell, 2010). Talking circles also draw upon the oral tradition of Indigenous people to heal from trauma. Talking circles are deeply rooted in the traditional spiritual practices of Indigenous people. In these gatherings, participants sit in the circle to contemplate an issue, problem, or question (Mehl-Madrona & Mainguy, 2014). They can take a variety of forms and are also called peacemaking or healing circles (Mehl-Madrona, 2007, 2010). Typically, a talking circle begins with a prayer by an Elder or the person convening the meeting. One function of the talking circle is to alter communication patterns by restricting combative responses and debate to promote listening and reflection (Mehl-Madrona & Mainguy, 2014). Participants of the talking circle speak only when they are in possession of the talking stick or a sacred item such as an eagle feather or fan (Mehl-Madrona & Mainguy, 2014). Taking turns to speak and listen cultivates respect for individual differences while fostering group cohesion (Wolf & Rickard, 2003). Research has shown that talking circles can be a culturally useful tool when Native participants are focused on healing from substance use (Vick Sr, Smith, & Herrera, 1998). They have also been found to help individuals and communities coping with mental health issues (Mehl-Madrona & Mainguy, 2014).

Western Knowledge: ACEs trauma research When a child has regular exposure to frequent and/or prolonged adversity, they are at increased risk for difficulty in adulthood. These are called adverse childhood experiences, or ACEs, and include incidents such as childhood emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, neglect, witnessing violence, poverty, the loss of a parent (to death or incarceration), having a family member with a mental illness, or growing up in a home where family members were addicted to alcohol or drugs (Felitti et al., 1998). Studies have found that Native Americans have exorbitantly high adverse childhood experiences that contribute to their overall health conditions and severe disparities (Brockie, Heinzelmann, & Gill, 2013; National Advisory Committee on Rural Health and Human Services, 2018; Warne & Frizzel, 2014; Warne & Lajimodiere, 2015). This is not surprising, considering the prevalence of family separation, loss of land, loss of tradition, loss of culture and language, and ongoing settler colonialism. While individuals can respond differently to ACEs, people with multiple ACEs can experience an excessive activation of their stress response system (this includes the neuroendocrine system, the parasympathetic nervous system, and the immune system) that can lead to longlasting damage to their body and brain (Brockie et al., 2013). It is documented that adverse childhood experiences can become biologically embedded in the genes of individuals who experience them, thus providing an explanatory mechanism for health disparities (Berens, Jensen, & Nelson, 2017; Ehlert, 2013; Hertzman & Boyce, 2010). Research suggests that these changes produce epigenetic modifications that alter the function but not the structure of the gene and can create substantial long-term and short-term effects on an individual’s health and wellbeing, as well as across generations (Brockie et  al., 2013; Hostinar, Sullivan,  & Gunnar,

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2014). For instance, when children experience four or more ACEs, their risk for alcoholism is increased by 7.4 times, drug abuse by 10.4 times and suicide attempts by 12.2 times, as well as increasing the risk for diabetes, cancer, heart disease, and chronic lung disease (Felitti et al., 1998). The original ACE studies were conducted on white, middle-class, urban individuals, but the outcomes look similar to the health and social problems confronting many Native American communities (Brockie et al., 2013; Burnette et al., 2017; Press, 2019). The life expectancy of individuals with six or more ACEs is 20 fewer years than someone who did not suffer childhood adversity (Felitti et al., 1998). The research clearly shows that adverse childhood experiences contribute to lifelong health and mental health difficulties.

Barriers to healing Accessing and receiving quality health and mental health services continues to be a major problem for Native people and communities (Gone, 2004; U.S. Department of Health and Human Services: Office of Minority Health, 2019; Johnson & Cameron, 2001). Indian Health Service (IHS) is the primary federal healthcare provider and advocate for approximately 2.6  million American Indians and Alaska Natives (Indian Health Service, 2020). IHS was created in 1955 within the Department of Health and Human Services to provide healthcare to federally recognized Alaska Native and American Indian tribes living on reservations or in rural communities. The following year, the Indian Relocation Act of 1956 encouraged Native Americans to leave their reservations and rural homelands and assimilate into urban areas. However, IHS continued to primarily serve rural and reservation areas. Today, the majority of Native Americans live in urban centers, outside of tribal lands, or in off-reservation areas with limited urban IHS locations that are severely underfunded. Likewise, Native people who are members of tribes not recognized by the federal government do not qualify for IHS services and healthcare (Sarche & Spicer, 2008). IHS is contributing to the difficulties Native people have with accessing quality healthcare, and furthermore exacerbating the extreme health disparities that we see among Native people (Gone, 2004; SAMHSA, 2019; Warne & Frizzell, 2014). Another issue that complicates the healing process for Native people is navigating the dominant paradigm of Western psychiatry and psychology. For example, psychiatry and psychology focus on the way a traumatic event adversely affects a person’s mental and physical wellbeing, whereas many Native American traditions and perspectives emphasize the ways the traumatic events disrupt a person’s mental, physical, environmental, and spiritual life forces (Daniels & D’Andrea, 2007). These different approaches can be confusing for some Native people and can make it difficult for them to open up and address deep-seated, historical, and generational wounds. The fear associated with re-traumatization is real; therefore, feeling safe when addressing trauma is paramount. Fergus and Zimmerman (2005), public health researchers, emphasize that for many people, the normal way of overcoming and successfully managing the effects of traumatic events is to avoid the potential negative outcomes associated with this risk of being vulnerable. Avoiding the risk associated with being vulnerable has been found to be a component of resilience (Fergus & Zimmerman, 2005).

Integrating Western and Indigenous Knowledge Research indicates that healing from past adversities and trauma is possible when traditional Native ceremonies are integrated with mainstream psychology (Brave Heart  & DeBruyn, 1998). Some scholars, however, view the integration of Western Knowledge and Indigenous Traditional Knowledge as problematic because the conceptual and philosophical models are 352

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categorically divergent (Atran, 2001; Watson-Verran  & Turnbull, 2001; Cruikshank, 2005). Likewise, the power differential ascribed to Indigenous and Western Knowledge is highly problematic. Bohensky and Maru (2011) argue that unfortunately, the cultural beliefs and practices associated with Traditional Knowledge must conform to Western conceptions about knowledge. Fox et al. (2005) indicate that power differentials can occur when combining Western science and Indigenous Traditional Knowledge and can have unintended and/or undesirable outcomes, particularly for Native people. When combining these two knowledge bases, it is important that careful consideration is given to the power dynamics in mind (Fox et al., 2005). Alternatively, other scholars view combining these forms of knowledge as a natural progression in understanding one another. The integration of Western science and Traditional Knowledge allows for the preservation of Indigenous ways of knowing, which benefits and values both scientists and Indigenous people (Maffi, 2001; Maffi & Woodley, 2012). Unifying scientific and Indigenous Traditional Knowledge is commensurate with social justice and supports the sovereignty, autonomy, and identity of Indigenous Peoples (Bohensky & Maru, 2011). The Warrior Sprit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma, through Native Health Care Solutions LLC, is a grassroots non-profit movement that integrates Western science about trauma with Traditional Knowledge and healing to address the many serious problems associated with trauma (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). The founder of the Warrior Spirit Movement and contributing author of this chapter is Kenneth G. White Jr., MSW. In addition, Dan Press, J.D. and Dr. Tami De Coteau, Ph.D. Licensed Clinical Psychologist founded the Roundtable on Native American Trauma Informed Initiatives. The founders of the Warrior Spirit Movement and Roundtable recognize the opposing conceptual and philosophical mindsets of Western Knowledge and Indigenous Traditional Knowledge. Table 23.1 compares the characteristics of Western Knowledge and medicine with traditional Indigenous Knowledge and healing to clearly show the differences and how they both are helpful in certain contexts and combinations. This has been a useful way for the founders to be cognizant of the power dynamics between Western and Traditional Native Knowledge, and to find ways to integrate these two distinct knowledge bases and move the Warrior Spirit Movement forward in Native communities. The founders have used Table 23.1 when working with behavioral health and medical teams to incorporate traditional healing as part of the client’s treatment that may include referring

Table 23.1  Characteristics of Western Knowledge and Traditional Knowledge Western Knowledge and medicine

Traditional Knowledge and healing

Science Linear – point A to point B Psychology Mental health issues Evidence-based Focus on the mind and behavior diagnosis

Spirituality Circular and holistic Warrior spirit Balance and harmony Unconditional acceptance Holistic wellness – focus on physical, mental, and spiritual Prescribe ceremony Provider is a medicine man or woman

Prescribe medication Providers are professional mental health providers (psychia­ trists, psychologists, licensed clinical social workers) Money-driven industry (capitalism) Evolving methods and practices

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Community-driven industry (collectivism) Centuries-old, generational practices

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Native patients to a medicine man/woman healing ceremony (K.G. White Jr., personal communication, September 25, 2020). They have also used this list when discussing the approved providers list for the state Medicaid program in Arizona to include a registered medicine men and women. It has been useful to find ways to allow a psychologist and a medicine man/woman to support Native clients during individual and/or group therapy (K.G. White Jr., personal communication, September 25, 2020).

The foundations of the Warrior Spirit Movement The Warrior Spirit Movement started in 2016 when Kenneth G. White Jr. was the Director of Legislative Affairs for the Tsehootsooi Medical Center in Fort Defiance, Arizona. White worked with other staff to create a healthcare model that combines Western medicine behavioral health programs, services, and therapies with traditional healing approaches. This model incorporates Diné (Navajo) medicine men and women in the overall approach to healing trauma among Dine’ receiving services at the Tsehootsooi Medical Center located in Fort Defiance, Arizona on the Navajo Nation. It is part of the Fort Defiance Indian Hospital Board Inc. (FDIHB) and is founded on health, wellness, and Native tradition. Healthcare services are provided in two facilities to an estimated 47,000 people, with the majority of its patient population coming from the Navajo Nation (Fort Defiance Indian Hospital Board, 2020). It considers community health as “a comprehensive, systematic, coordinated approach to affecting long-term behavior change by influencing the community (cultural) norms through education and community organization” (Fort Defiance Indian Hospital Board, 2020). FDIHB is certified by the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS; Fort Defiance Indian Hospital Board, 2020). On March 28, 2010, FDIHB became a self-determined hospital, which means it is not under the control of the Indian Health Service (IHS) and the community has control of its operation and management (Fort Defiance Indian Hospital Board, 2020). This local control allows the hospital board to incorporate practices that align with the Navajo healing practices and ceremonies. Since leaving the Tsehootsooi Medical Center, White has devoted his time to fully growing the Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma. The Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma addresses four broad categories of resilience for those who have suffered childhood traumas. First is to stop the cycle of trauma by preventing it in future generations. Second is to identify self-care and wellness techniques in the schools and treat Native children early, when their brains are still malleable from the impacts of trauma. Third is to provide trauma education and treatment for those who have been negatively impacted by past and present traumatic events, such as those suffering from substance use disorder. The last category is to teach resilience to those who have been affected by childhood traumatic events (Press, 2019). The Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma embraces the teachings of the Elders and promotes the idea that all human beings have the Warrior Spirit that draws from one’s ancestors and resides as internal wisdom (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). Acceptance and healing occur when participants respect their own Warrior Spirit, as well as honor the different belief systems and ways of life held by others. The use of Indigenous wisdom and healing varies among tribal and/or community members. Some Native people turn to their traditional practices and ceremony as their sole source of intervention. Others have incorporated Western ideas and philosophies, along with science and religions in their approach to how they live and deal with trauma. There are other Native people who have not had the opportunity or exposure

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to come to know their Warrior Spirit or their traditional ways of knowing due to factors – such as acculturation, displacement, foster care, adoption, and boarding schools – that have prevented them from gaining this knowledge. The many ways of being are valued and viewed as a Native person’s resilience and inner strength. In the Indian way, some things just are. There is no need to prove to others what you believe to be true. This principle is instilled in the Indigenous way of life from time immemorial. Native people’s acceptance of their existence is based upon the teaching of their Elders. (K.G. White Jr., personal communication, 2017) Based on a person’s way of life, there are various meanings and understanding of the Warrior Spirit. Regardless of how individuals, communities, and Tribal Nations interpret the Warrior Spirt, the objective is to identify the Warrior Spirit in one’s self and learn to rely on it. The goal of the Warrior Spirit Movement is to help contemporary generations heal from past and present trauma while preventing future generations from suffering from the effects of trauma. Many Native Elders describe the Warrior Spirit as “a vibrant living being that has been present in Indian Country for generations and is the force, healing power, essence and foundation that the Creator gave Native Americans to heal” (Press, 2019, p. 5). Dr. Anthony Pico, a former Tribal Chairman of the Viejas Band of Kumeyaay Indians, describes the Warrior Spirit for the Southern California Kumeyaay people by noting that: the Kumeyaay community values of compassion, empathy, respect, ceremony, kindness, and humility are what has sustained us for over 10,000 years. The Warrior Spirit brings into focus our ancient values that are in direct opposition to settler colonialism that promotes the individual over community. The concept of the individual eventually divided us. The Warrior Spirit is our patron saint we pray to; that will heal the trauma of the past that has been endured for hundreds of years. (A. Pico, personal communication, September 26, 2020) Dr. Pico says that the Warrior Spirit is lighting the pathway to encourage our people to try new healing modalities that are providing hope to the Kumeyaay people: Our belief is the Warrior Spirit, with the help of our God will deliver us from the agony of trauma beginning now and into the next several generations. The pathway to healing for the Kumeyaay through the Warrior Spirit has already begun. (A. Pico, personal communication September 26, 2020) Tami DeCoteau, a member of the Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara Nation, describes her tribe’s definition of the Warrior Spirit as active, vibrant courage and full of hope: Our traditions teach us that our bodies are manifestations of spiritual energy that connects us with all other energies in the universe. Tapping into our body and how we feel enables us to access our inner wisdom, which is much greater than our intellect, as well as the corresponding universal mind and collective strength. (T. DeCoteau, personal communication, September 27, 2020)

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The Warrior Spirit is innate masculine wisdom, separate from gender constructs and is contained within men and women. It originates from the heavens, is upward moving, and views obstacles as opportunities for growth. The Warrior Spirit acknowledges that the cause is greater than the self. When properly balanced with feminine energy, the Warrior Spirit is both fierce and loving, creating health within us and around us: While westerners define warrior as a person engaged in warfare, our tribal traditions teach that the Warrior Spirit is our innate and collective Indigenous wisdom. To heal is to leave our wounding behind; we cannot create healthy people and communities if we continue to hold on to the self-destructive beliefs about ourselves and others. (T. DeCoteau, personal communication, September 27, 2020) Through prayer, ceremonies, and the lifelong input and advice received from the Native Elders, Kenneth G. White Jr., one of the authors of this chapter, a member of the Navajo Nation, and the founder of the Warrior Movement to Heal Historical Trauma, has respectfully articulated what the Warrior Spirt means in the following poem: All Native people have the Warrior Spirit within themselves It is a gift from God Almighty Some people recognize they have it, some don’t Those that do, male or female, are true Warriors in Native society The Warrior Spirit is a physical, mental, and spiritual state of being and Native way of life. It unconditionally recognizes, honors and embraces one’s Native essence; identity and historical and traditional foundation The Warrior Spirit is an intrinsic, all encompassing, embedded character, behavior, and spiritual way of humbling, healing and empowering oneself through the recognition, awareness, and application of self-respect, and the prayers and traditions of our ancestors The Warrior Spirit is a universal and unwavering duty and responsibility to meet the needs and ensure the wellness of Native people and Mother Earth as defined by the Great Spirit from the beginning of time, to today, and in the future The Warrior Spirit never sleeps or rests It is always awake, vibrant, and ready to take on any new challenge The Warrior Spirit is righteous and full of grace and power The Warrior Spirit never gives up until the goal is completed Find, embrace, and celebrate the Warrior Spirit within you. (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020)

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Implementing the Warrior Spirit Movement With a call to action from Native American tribes and communities, the Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma held conferences in 2018 focused on integrating traumainformed approaches with healing ceremonies in Native communities. The primary goal of the conferences was to educate Native communities about healing from historical, intergenerational, and contemporary trauma. A trauma-informed approach acknowledges the widespread impact of trauma and understands the potential paths for recovery; recognizes the signs and symptoms of trauma in clients, families, staff, and others involved with the system; and responds by fully integrating knowledge about trauma into policies, procedures, and practices, and seeks to actively resist re-traumatization. (SAMHSA, 2014, p. 9) The “Calling upon the Warrior Spirit” conferences have offered presentations and ceremonies from healthcare professionals, scientists, and traditional healers within the tribal communities about approaches to healing through holistic, culturally sensitive programs, services, and systems (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). The Warrior Sprit conferences, the website, and handbook inform and support participants to establish a trauma-informed team within their community to address historical and current trauma. There is widespread acknowledgment that each tribe and community is unique and a one-size-fits-all approach will not work (Press, 2019). Therefore, when the founders of the Warrior Spirit Movement collaborate with tribes and Native communities, they utilize a trauma-informed model that acknowledges the importance of buy-in and support from the tribal leaders and council in order to address trauma within the community (Press, 2019). The Warrior Spirit founders help to develop a traumainformed team of community members to work with institutions in the community, such as the schools, the courts, law enforcement, housing organizations, workforce development, Tribal Employment Rights Office (TERO), and Elder councils to identify trauma-informed strategies that meet the values and needs of the various institutions (Press, 2019). The trauma-informed team also works jointly with the Tribal and/or community Native leaders and council, while assuring that the Native institutions are reinforcing one another and building resilience across and within the entire Native community (Press, 2019). Having a trauma-informed team is vital for pursuing sustainable trauma-informed care within Native communities. Through activities, such as conferences and collaborating with other tribes to address trauma, the founders believed that it was important to develop common group norms that are extensions of Indigenous wisdom and leadership. They practice these norms when engaging in discussions, planning, and executing the Warrior Spirit conferences and tribal collaborations. They are: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Honor and respecting our ancestors. Hold the advice and guidance from the Elders in the highest regard. Operate using a flat hierarchy, meaning that there is no one leader and collective decisionmaking is the norm. Work collaboratively to build consensus. Make decisions and problem solve using spiritual, ceremonial, and environmental foundations. Listen to one another. Do not dictate. Do not impose an artificial timeframe or deadline. Hold unconditional respect for tradition, culture, language, and history.

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The use of these norms in meetings allows participants, Native and non-Native alike, to open their hearts and allow their Warrior Spirit to guide them.

Moving forward Various Native communities have been working with the support of the Warrior Spirit Movement to address trauma in their communities while building resilience. In April 2018, the Gila River Indian Community in Sacaton, Arizona held the first Warrior Spirit Conference (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). This event had more than 100 participants and 23 presenters. In October 2018, the Viejas Band of Kumeyaay Indians near San Diego, California held the second conference and ceremony event (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). This event had over 350 participants and 45 presenters from throughout the country. After this conference, the Kumeyaay formed a Warrior Spirit tribal committee, including tribal Elders, to work on future planning sessions. The focus of the Kumeyaay Warrior Spirit committee is to support youth and parents with developing culturally relevant programming to develop positive parenting skills (A. Pico, personal communication, September 26, 2020). In April 2019, the Navajo Nation had a Warrior Spirit Conference with 150 participants and 32 presenters (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). Then as a follow-up from the initial meeting at the Gila River Indian Community, the Navajo Nation in Window Rock, Arizona held a meeting in September 2019 (Igniting the Warrior Spirit, 2020). Current projects include collaborating with the Leupp Elementary School, located in Leupp, Arizona on the Navajo Nation, and the Karyn Purvis Institute of Child Development at Texas Christian University to address trauma in elementary school settings. The plan is to develop and implement a holistic healing model that combines Indigenous practices with Trust-Based Relational Intervention® (TBRI) at this elementary school setting (Karyn Purvis Institute of Child Development, 2020). It is called the Diné Trauma Project and focuses on helping students develop wellness skills at an early age and address their trauma and healing as they grow older. This new partnership and action by the Warrior Spirit Movement, the Karyn Purvis Institute of Child Development, and Leupp educators intends to recognize and inspire students, teachers, and the community to celebrate their identity, culture, languages, history, elders, and resilience through an educational model of self-care, wellness, and healing. Future Warrior Spirit Conference and Ceremony events are in the planning stages to be held in 2021 and 2022, at locations to be determined. Archsol, an architectural firm, in collaboration with Native Health Care Solutions, LLC drafted a rendering of a Traditional Healing Circle model with the goal of building this in tribal locations. This holistic Traditional Healing Circle model incorporates traditional services (medicine men/women, sweat lodges, talking circles, healing ceremonies) with behavioral health departments serving Indigenous populations. The model complements the work of psychologists and psychiatrists providing care, one-on-one counseling, and group therapy to patients experiencing trauma-related conditions. There are also ongoing plans to host a virtual learning conference that focuses on developing traumainformed care parenting skills, as well as educating Native high school and college students to improve their self-care and wellness skills as they relate to trauma. Finally, the Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma plans to create a documentary film in 2021 featuring individuals involved with the Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma describing their experiences with developing and implementing trauma-informed approaches in rural and urban settings, and in tribal communities.

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Conclusion Native Americans have experienced significant adversity, both historically and in contemporary times. Research has documented that adverse childhood events often have implications for wellbeing in adulthood. While Native people experience various barriers to healing, integrating Western and Indigenous Knowledge can present pathways to wellbeing. This chapter describes the grassroots non-profit Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma, which is committed to stopping the cycle of trauma, healing, and strengthening resilience in Native communities by combining Traditional Knowledge and Western science. The integration of Indigenous Traditional Knowledge and scientific knowledge is thought by some to be a difficult endeavor to execute because of their conflicting conceptual and philosophical premises; however, the founders of the Warrior Spirit Movement believe that combining the two knowledge bases is an approach that preserves Indigenous ways of knowing while also supporting the sovereignty and identity of Native people. The Warrior Spirit Movement embraces the teachings of the Elders and promotes the belief that all human beings have the Warrior Spirit, which some call internal wisdom, informed by one’s ancestors. The Warrior Spirit is a source of power that can promote healing. Building on four Warrior Spirit Movement conferences, current projects include a collaboration with an elementary school to implement a holistic healing model for Native children and building an integrative Traditional Healing Circle and health center to assist all Native people in their path toward healing and resilience.

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24 THE RESILIENCY OF INDIGENOUS ENTREPRENEURIAL SETTINGS IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC Notions of solesolevaki and wanbel in the case of Fiji and Papua New Guinea Hennah Steven and Suliasi Vunibola Introduction The Pacific understanding of customary land is land that is collectively owned by related kinship groups under traditional forms of tenure. From a Western development perspective, customary land ownership is a barrier to economic development (Duncan, 2018; Hughes, 2010). This form of land tenure is perceived as limiting individual land rights that can encourage viable business growth. However, findings from recent studies on Indigenous businesses based on customary land in Fiji and Papua New Guinea (PNG) revealed the values of collective ownership and cultural relationships established in connection to customary land contributed to business sustainability and improved wellbeing for communities (Steven, Banks,  & Scheyvens, 2019; Vunibola & Scheyvens, 2019). The chapter explains how entrepreneurs of Nayarabale Youth Farm in Fiji and women at Blue Corner Farm in PNG are driving meaningful changes for themselves and their communities. The Pacific Vanua research framework (Nabobo-Baba, 2008) was utilized to study these small businesses established on customary land. Successful utilization of solesolevaki and wanbel were identified as vital factors for business resilience and community wellbeing in these entrepreneurial settings.

Background Fiji and PNG are Melanesian island states in the South Pacific. Both countries are made up of mainland and smaller islands. The Fiji archipelago consists of some 300 islands and 540 islets over about three million square kilometers in southwestern Oceania (Macdonald  & Foster, 2020). There are two main islands: Viti Levu, where the capital Suva is, and Vanua Levu, where Nayarabale Youth Farm is situated. PNG is in the eastern part of the island of New Guinea that shares a land border with the Indonesian province of Papua toward the west. More than DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-30

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Map 24.1  Map showing location of Fiji and Papua New Guinea in the South Pacific Source: Derived from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oceania_UN_Geoscheme_-_Map_of_Australasia.svg

600 islands scatter the coasts. With a total land area of 462,840 square kilometers and 5,150 kilometers of coastline (Commonwealth Secretariat, 2020), the country’s topography of the mainland is covered by a chain of mountains and valleys. The Blue Corner Farm Limited is on the mainland. Fiji has a population of over 900,000, with 57% Indigenous Fijians and 38% Indo-Fijians. Most Indigenous Fijians live on customary land. PNG sustains a population of over eight million people who are predominately Papua New Guinean Natives. Of this, 85% live in rural areas and subsist on customary land. Land held collectively under traditional tenure is high in both countries: 88% in Fiji and 97% in PNG (Paterson & Farran, 2013). Peoples’ understanding of the land is immense, holistic, and composite, making it inappropriate to look at land from a narrow economic perspective. Land provides a source of food security, enables cultural reproduction, enhances social connections, and is where ecological management is practiced for sustainable livelihoods (Anderson, 2006; Swiderska, 2020). It is also a vital resource where Indigenous Pacific Islanders create entrepreneurial undertakings (Scheyvens, Banks, Meo-Sewabu, & Decena, 2017). The case study businesses are in these settings where attachment to traditional land remains significant. For Indigenous Fijians, customary land is collectively owned by the mataqali (land owning units). The tui ni vanua is the paramount chief for the vanua (can also refer to district in contemporary Fijian context). The vanua is made up of a group of yavusa (clans) which are composed of a group of mataqali (sub-clans/land owning units). This is subdivided into tokatoka or matavuvale (extended families) consisting of people from the same lineage. Each sub-group has its own chiefs operating within its traditional hierarchy endowed with socio-cultural obligations and responsibilities (Nayacakalou, 1975; Seruvakula, 2000). During traditional gatherings like reguregu (funerals), the chiefs of a yavusa lead their people and present iyau (food and traditional artifacts like mats and whales’ tooth) and i sevusevu (entry 363

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protocol involving the presentation of kava plant roots – piper methysticum) to the tui ni vanua, the paramount chief of the community that is in mourning. The kava plant is an important traditional crop. The roots are dried, pounded, and mixed with water, making a drink for cultural ceremonies. A visitor is required to observe this cultural protocol and present the i sevusevu to gain access to Indigenous Fijian communities. These traditional processes are part of the bula vakavanua (way of life) for Indigenous Fijians and are conducted collectively using solesolevaki (Ravuvu, 1983; Seruvakula, 2000). In PNG, land is collectively owned by related kin groups descended from the same ancestor. Customary land is passed on either through patrilineal (father’s line) or matrilineal (mother’s line) lineages (Arutangai & Crocombe, 1987). Membership and access to land is traced through these lines. If a clan’s founding ancestor is a female, the descendants inherit membership and property rights through their mother (Antonio & Griffith-Charles, 2019). If a clan is founded through a male ancestor, inheritance and membership comes through the father. Sometimes adoption or marriage into and residence in a particular area establishes a right to use land. A member’s productive use of land – for example, farming – and participation in important social and cultural programs such as ceremonial exchanges also cement access to customary land (Arutangai & Crocombe, 1987). Clan groups linked to the same land area develop customs, values, and socio-cultural relationships. Maintenance of these cultural elements strengthens one’s membership. For an outsider to access a community, which is usually made up of several clans of related family groups, it is important to establish a trusting relationship with community members. These refer to those who actively participate in socio-cultural obligations and have strong links to their land and people.

Fundamentals of resilience across South Pacific cultures with a focus on Fiji and PNG Most Pacific islanders live in village settings with strong connections to their land, cultures, and families that form part of the Indigenous social systems that people draw on for support. Some of these socio-cultural factors have been discussed in the literature that focuses on PacificIndigenous communities and their ways of engaging in community and economic activities (Cahn, 2008; Curry, 1999; Curry  & Koczberski, 2012; Horan, 2002; Meo-Sewabu, 2015; Ratuva, 2014). Kinship, reciprocity, cultural obligation, communal labor, and land are fundamental social protection mechanisms for Pacific communities (Ratuva, 2014). Kinship provides a source of collective support for a community’s social, economic, and psychological needs in times of crisis. Reciprocity encompasses the requirement for the exchange of goods and services to ensure community needs are met. Examples of reciprocity in the Pacific include kerekere (Fijian), totoa (Samoan), and bubuti (Kiribati), all of which refer to asking for assistance in times of need, which are then repaid with assistance in the future (Ratuva, 2014). Cultural obligation is another critical element that underpins the existence of people in village settings in the Pacific. An individual’s problems and needs become the entire community’s problems and needs, which make everything shared and accessible by individuals through fulfilling social and cultural responsibilities and obligations. For example, the responsibility of marriages, funerals, and other important cultural ceremonies and social occasions are shared. This takes the pressure off families and individuals who on their own may not be able to cope (Ratuva, 2014).

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Communal labor, which is an aspect of cultural obligation, is a common practice in many Pacific communities, and it involves the entire village taking turns to help build a house or create a new vegetable garden for other families. This is referred to as solesolevaki in Fijian, ala ile pule ole tautua (the path to leadership is service) in Samoan (Ratuva, 2014) and wok bung (Koczberski, Curry, & Gibson, 2001) in PNG. Indigenous spirituality in most of the Pacific is double pronged. First, cultural values are closely bounded with values, kinship, and culture for Indigenous people and their connections to their lands, mountains, river systems, and totems. Second, lotu, which is related to church and Christian spirituality, has permeated Indigenous communities and has become an important part of life. It involves the totality of church practices including individual and group worship services, praying, paying church offerings, or daily recognition of Christian values (Crocombe, 1976; Havea, 2011). These factors influence members’ behaviors, attitudes, and actions within the community. Social and spiritual practices are vital parts of Indigenous Peoples’ value systems. They make up the social capital that Pacific communities draw from in order to adapt to and deal with socio-economic and cultural changes. Social capital, in this case, is the pooling of all resources, material and immaterial, by associated people and provision of cooperative assistance to affiliated members. For the island communities, the concept of social capital is cultural capital and is key to their livelihoods and existence. According to Petzold and Ratter (2015), cultural capital includes collective actions, reciprocity, relational networks, trust, and cooperation within kin. These are the same values that Ratuva (2014) identified as essential to the social protection system for Pacific communities. They are significant for building sustainable communities as social networks draw on these for support in times of need. Among other local concepts that support Pacific-Indigenous communities, solesolevaki and wanbel are key aspects of social capital in Fiji and PNG.

Solesolevaki Solesolevaki is a Indigenous Fijian concept that refers to people working together for the common good without an expectation of individual payment (Ratuva, 2014). Solesolevaki draws upon social capital that entails Indigenous values and ethos (Movono & Becken, 2018), and is linked to communal cohesiveness and collective wellbeing (Meo-Sewabu, 2015). Solesolevaki is also noted as a vehicle for development (Movono & Becken, 2018), and is a tool for community-based natural resource management in Fiji (Clark, 2008). As such, it is a form of culturally embedded agency executed to enhance social change (Meo-Sewabu & Walsh-Tapiata, 2012). Additionally, solesolevaki involves community members collectively gathering and using their resources, labor, and land for agriculture-related development and sharing the benefits (Kingi, 2006). Solesolevaki enables the accomplishment of important tasks through sharing responsibility. These tasks can meet a communal need, such as building footpaths through a village, or enhancing camaraderie as people work together on an individual’s farm. The solesolevaki work system is a form of burden-sharing that usually involves much laughter and where “the hands of many eases the workload” (Meo-Sewabu, 2015, p. 235). Moreover, solesolevaki is a significant form of social protection for Indigenous Fijian communities that merges the formal system (state, aid agencies, civil society) and the informal system (community, family, cultural systems, social networks) for building resilience and adaptability. The Indigenous Fijian business in this study employs solesolevaki to transform communities and improve “bula taucoko or sautu” (wellbeing)

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(Meo-Sewabu, 2015; Nabobo-Baba, 2006; Ratuva, 2010). Solesolevaki shares similar notions as wanbel in Indigenous PNG context for gutpela sindaun, an Indigenous PNG notion for good situation or good life (Cox, 2006), to occur.

Wanbel An example of the Papua New Guinean version of social capital is reflected in the concept of wanbel shown in Troolin’s (2018) empirical study on the Sam people of Madang Province. Wanbel is formed by two words put together. Wan is one and bel is belly, stomach, or heart. The term bel is described as “the seat of thoughts and feelings” (Street, 2010, p. 269). Thus, wanbel figuratively and metaphorically means one in mind, thought, conviction, or feeling (Troolin, 2013). Wanbel refers to reconciliation or consensus in dispute resolution. When two people are of wanbel, they share a good feeling (Cooper, 2019; Tshudi, 2013). It can also mean being of one belly or one heart, or being in unity or agreement (Lohmann, 2003; Troolin, 2018), or at peace (Kelly-Hanku, Aggleton & Shih, 2014; Matang & Owens, 2014; Street, 2014). Wanbel is an important concept in the relational PNG context. To live in peace and harmony with others, and for gutpela sindaun to result, establishing or maintaining wanbel with others is significant. When one is doing things that keeps everyone happy, at peace, or in agreement, good thoughts are maintained. For example, in situations of hevi (crisis, social burdens), one must perform activities that create wanbel. Gutpela sindaun occurs if there are situations of wanbel and thus, it supports the resiliency of Indigenous communities in PNG. Women play a key role in maintaining this significant social value, which connected the Blue Corner Farm to the community and aids in the success and sustainability of the business. The socio-cultural factors outlined previously are significant for influencing economic engagements on customary land. They remain important support mechanisms for driving successful Indigenous businesses for collective benefits. These factors influence processes, opportunities, and motivations, as well as driving resilience in the face of social, economic, and environmental challenges for small village-based businesses, making them socially and culturally embedded. Although pressure from social networks have contributed to failures of some businesses (Gibson, 2012; Yusuf, 1998), balancing cultural obligations while doing business is vital for running resilient Indigenous businesses in contemporary Pacific communities (Curry, 2005; Hailey, 1987).

Social embeddedness of Pacific-Indigenous entrepreneurship Social embeddedness refers to mixing social and economic activities (Granovetter, 2005). Generally, what makes Pacific-Indigenous entrepreneurship socially embedded is the dynamic socio-cultural values and associations that influence economic actions. For Pacific-Indigenous communities, entrepreneurship is a collective activity and the economic benefits are typically shared with family members, clan networks, and the wider community (Dana, 1995; Dana & Anderson, 2007; Finney, 1973; Hailey, 1987), unlike in individualistic societies, where business is solely for profit maximization and individual wealth creation (Kent, Sexton, & Vesper, 1982; Vesper, 1999). Financial support for family members and relatives, and maintaining social connections, are evident in many Indigenous communities, both in rural and urban areas. These values and associations not only influence how people relate to one another, but also dictate behaviors and influence economic activities. Hence, social and cultural associations underpin most Indigenous economic pursuits, making economic actions culturally embedded. 366

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A successful Pacific entrepreneur is someone who effectively manages a business and is also socially and culturally active. As Hailey (1987) pointed out, a successful Pacific entrepreneur undertakes creative management of combined resources and opportunities to generate income to support the family and community. Although it may not be the key motivation for establishing a business, the wellbeing of family or community may be a Pacific entrepreneur’s goal. In this sense, Pacific-Indigenous entrepreneurs are socially, culturally, and economically oriented. Consequently, an island entrepreneur utilizes important social and cultural capitals such as wanbel and solesolevaki for economic pursuits. The financial returns are used to fulfill cultural obligations and serve family needs. Pacific-Indigenous entrepreneurs are resilient economic actors who balance business and socio-cultural responsibilities.

Methodology Two sites were studied utilizing culturally appropriate, qualitative research methods including the Pacific Vanua and Tali magimagi research frameworks. The sites are described including the protocols that the researchers used in approaching them and how the research was implemented.

The Pacific Vanua and Tali magimagi research frameworks The Pacific Vanua research framework is widely accepted across the Pacific (Richardson, Hughes, McLennan, & Meo-Sewabu, 2019; Scheyvens et al., 2017). This framework was utilized in the two case studies to provide enhanced cultural and context-specific framing for the study topics. Vanua for Indigenous Fijians is defined as, “the universal whole inclusive of their territory including their waterways or fishing grounds, their environment, their land and spirituality, their history, their chief and related chiefs, people and their relationships, their epistemology and culture” (Nabobo-Baba, 2006, p. 155). Vanua research framing, like Kaupapa Māori Research Methodology, a research framework informed by tikanga (Māori ways of doing things) where whanaungatanga (mutual relationship) is built on trust, respect, and reciprocity – is culturally sensitive and inclusive (Smith, 2013). Its values are applicable to other Pacific settings and is rooted in the Pacific worldview represented in culture and Indigenous Knowledge Systems (Scheyvens et al., 2017). The Tali magimagi, a Fijian phrase for weaving coconut fiber, was used as a research framing by Meo-Sewabu (2015). The framework permits the researcher to “weave” Indigenous and other sources of knowledge to inform and guide the research process. Meo-Sewabu (2015, p.  55) coined the term “etmic” from the words etic (outsider) and emic (insider), which positioned her as a local academic who is culturally knowledgeable about Fijian values and protocols and is also a researcher representing an institution that is not culturally connected to the research site. Similarly, the researchers are from the research areas and understood the cultural ways of doing things in each site. They entered the research locations with an insider (emic) view, but that did not make them knowledgeable in all social relationships and cultural matters in Fiji and PNG communities. They had been absent for an extended time for work and study; hence, they had an etic (outsider) position. Immersion into the case study sites enabled them to gain the trust and respect of locals, understand, and properly explain behaviors and relationships that existed in each case study. This also helped them identify what enabled these Indigenous businesses to success. Hence, an insider-outsider or the “etmic” position described in the Tali magimagi framework (Meo-Sewabu, 2015) was relevant to both cases. Both the Pacific Vanua and Tali magimagi research frameworks represent common cultural protocols and processes in South Pacific island nations and were therefore utilized to guide the research. 367

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Research sites Nayarabale Youth Farm – Fiji The Nayarabale Youth Farm is a yavusa (clan) business operating in a rural part of Vanua Levu Island, Fiji. They have more than 150 members who collectively work and manage the farm as a business. It has operated for more than ten years, producing crops including kava, taro, pineapple, sandalwood, yams, and cassava sold at markets in a nearby town. Income from the business supports socio-cultural obligations to alleviate the social burdens on families, aids in community development projects, provides educational assistance for the community, and adds to savings. The farm was established through solesolevaki, resulting in both individual economic benefits and communal wellbeing. Solesolevaki has been revived in this community and contributes to the success of this youth enterprise. The farm identified two issues facing most villages in Fiji: unproductive youths who drop out from the formal education system, and the absence of village work structure and programs. Academically unsuccessful youth often return to villages. In many cases, the absence of work in the village level hinders grassroots development. The other issue is the mismanagement of time in rural Fijian settings. For instance, in any traditional Fijian ceremony, groups of people come to the host community as part of fulfilling their socio-cultural obligation. Afterward, elders return home while youth remain and engage in aimless merry making. This can take a few days or even a week, which can be prolonged if there are consecutive ceremonies at various locations. Solesolevaki was identified as part of the solution to these problems as explained in the findings section.

Blue Corner Farm Limited – PNG The Blue Corner Farm Limited in PNG is an umbrella name for various business activities owned by Steven Pupune. The business is largely based on agricultural production (Pupune, 2005) beginning with the sale of boiled eggs in 1979, and rapidly moving into poultry farming, piggery, tilapia fishing (Singh, 2015), a coffee plantation, and most recently added some rental properties to its investment portfolio. It is operating mainly on Steven’s family’s customary land and has 23 employees of Indigenous descent from a remote district. Through the business, Steven and family have contributed to the social and cultural needs of employees and surrounding communities. Women were noted as key to the business’s success through their social roles. Using income and other resources from the business, they helped maintain wanbel situations within the family and in community, ensuring that their business served society. Detailed in the findings section are ways that women maintain positive relationships and keep business grounded in important social-cultural values.

Accessing the research sites A case study is a strategy of inquiry in which the researcher explores in depth one or more individual cases (Creswell, 2009) occurring in their natural contexts (Stake, 1995). This research approach was used to study Indigenous entrepreneurship on customary land in Fijian and PNG settings. For the Fijian case study, the researcher is an Indigenous male from that area and had prior knowledge and had built relationships with the Nayarabale Youth Farm. This was instrumental in facilitating access to the business. However, he did not enter the community as any other community member would, as he was representing an outside institution. Before entering and immersing into the bula vakavanua 368

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(Fijian way of life) in the village, a i sevusevu (presentation of kava and other gifts to the village chief) was undertaken. Fulfilling this vital cultural protocol paved the way for acceptance into the community for consultation. The acceptance of the gifts allowed the researcher to be immersed into the community’s daily rhythm. Bula vakavanua guided the researcher’s interactions and involvement with the people and in their daily activities. Veiwekani (relationship) and talanoa (dialogue) were utilized (Nainoca, 2001) to understand the business operation. Access to the PNG research site was possible through a connection and positive relationship with the case study business family long before fieldwork began. A connection was made with a wantok (PNG Tok Pisin word for individuals having a common language, geographical area of origin, or social associations) at Massey University, New Zealand. She introduced the researcher to her family, who owned the Blue Corner Farm. Relationship building began through phone calls and social media chats on topics of common interest other than research-related matters. The relationship was cemented through reciprocating material and immaterial goods, including sharing meals, exchanging vital information, or participating in social gatherings with the participants. That exemplifies the relational nature of many PNG communities (Curry & Koczberski, 2012) and highlights relationship building as essential to entering and accessing Indigenous Knowledge within family spaces. During fieldwork, immersion into the Indigenous family’s way of life as an insider-outsider was significant as it enabled recognizing and adhering to appropriate cultural behaviors required of men and women in local communities. This facilitated data collection, enabled the researcher to gain insights into significant socio-cultural relationships, and confirmed knowledge and value systems that influenced business operations. The cultural values of respect, trust, compassion, and reciprocity common in Pacific societies were also important in the PNG case study community. Thus, utilization of the Pacific Vanua and Tali magimagi research frameworks and forming meaningful relationships to guide research were relevant in both cases. The researchers were not in the respective communities for a prolonged period of time, as is done in anthropological research. That is why the culturally appropriate process of bula vakavanua in the case of Fiji was utilized to improve the researcher’s transition into the community. Both researchers, prior to the visit to the respective study sites, were in contact with gatekeepers (chiefs) in Fiji and business owners in PNG, through connections made before and during preliminary fieldwork.

Talanoa and tok stori Talanoa is a concept used widely across the Pacific islands. The Tongan concept of talanoa analyzed the parts that make up the word tala (to inform, relate, or tell) and noa (meanings) (Vaioleti, 2006). The East-West Centre of Hawai‘i defined talanoa as an open dialogue whereby people speak from their hearts and a basis for building relationships to embrace other worldviews to live and work collectively (Halapua, 2000). During the talanoa process, the participants share their time, interest, information, and emotions (Otsuka, 2005). These definitions denote cultural sensitivities and attachments, and the knowledge of relationships and subjects under discussion. In the Vanua research method, the talanoa data collection method is defined in the Fijian context as veitalanoa (holistic discussion), and the sharing of information from knowledge depositories. Talanoa is directed by rules of relationship and kinship, shared ways of knowledge, and the worldviews of the participants (Nabobo-Baba, 2008). The PNG Tok Pisin word that closely resembles talanoa is tok stori (Sanga, Reynolds, Paulsen, Spratt,  & Maneipuri, 2018). Generally, it refers to conversations or dialogues through which people share their stories and experiences. Successful tok stori sessions require meaningful, trusting, and genuine relationships. 369

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As Indigenous researchers in Indigenous contexts, establishing genuine relationships enabled both researchers to engage in successful talanoa and tok stori sessions. That also aided in understanding the locality and the culture that influenced business activities. In certain circumstances, the researchers requested to record participants’ stories. When permitted, audio devices or mobile phone recorders captured explanations of experiences. Field notes were also used throughout the research to ensure that meaningful connections were noted.

Findings The research findings from the two case studies demonstrated solesolevaki and wanbel contributed to business resilience and improved community wellbeing in rural communities in Fiji and PNG.

Solesolevaki at Nayarabale Youth Farm Solesolevaki, described earlier as an Indigenous Fijian concept for working together, is a common term used and practiced throughout Fijian communities. In some places, different names or dialectal words are used, but the philosophy remains the same. Other names used include vilalawa or vilala (in groups), balebale vanua (to move from one place to another doing work collectively), cakacaka vakailawalawa (group work) or cakacakavata (work in unity), balebale (cooperative work), and veicavuki or cakacaka veicavuyaki (taking turns doing errands for others). The Nayarabale Youth Farm utilized solesolevaki to develop a resilient business enterprise that met individual needs and supported community wellbeing. The Nayarabale youth group employs solesolevaki in several ways, including as a tool for working together, as a social safety net for young people disengaged from the mainstream education system, and between Indigenous Fijian enterprises.

Solesolevaki: an Indigenous tool for working together Resources such as customary land are utilized by youths engaged in solesolevaki at the village level. Most of these youth return to their villages due to lack of opportunities for further education. Often, they are trapped in the cycle of the “laid-back village lifestyle,” whereby the absence of opportunities stifles their creativity and motivation. The Nayarabale Youth Farm enterprise involves the whole yavusa (clan) working together to develop and sustain the business, utilizing Indigenous systems and available resources to effect a change in the community. Initially, it was a small group of dedicated youth who dropped out of the formal education system and some elders who initiated clan solesolevaki to develop the farm. Negative perceptions were encountered at first due to different perspectives, including objections at the clan level as people thought solesolevaki was outdated in contemporary Fiji. However, these concerns were used by the proponents of solesolevaki as motivation to create positive livelihood options for the tribe. The small group that initiated solesolevaki held on to the vision and work collectively at the youth farm to benefit their people. The farm was established in 2008 with this vision. The first harvest was used for collecting planting materials such as stems of harvested kava plants. These were gathered and used for expanding the next farm. After three years of working together and producing planting materials, farm production increased significantly (Vunibola & Scheyvens, 2019). Solesolevaki was identified as the key contributor to the successful establishment of Nayarabale Youth Farm. 370

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Solesolevaki: a social safety net for youth Aside from being a cultural value, solesolevaki provides a social safety net for youth who experience life’s inevitable crises such as being displaced from formal, Western education systems. For the Nayarabale Youth Farm and its members, their solesolevaki becomes a pathway for school dropouts to lead a productive life. During school holidays, students in the village are included in the solesolevaki work program. It is described as karua ni vuvale (a second family), neitou koronivuli (where we get educated), and i vesu ni neimai veiwe’ani (strengthen our kinship). Solesolevaki at this level is like a school and it offers bridging courses for youth engagement through collective work. It is a place where proper behaviors like a good work ethic are encouraged for the youths to achieve yalo’matua (maturity) and become better villagers. For example, an 18-year-old youth who finished school stated: Au sa sua i naoro ni sa oti na vuli, sa tu na i teitei meu vagana na noku vuvale ei na a me volitai me rawa ina na sede. E rawa ga e na solesolevaki [I went back to the village when I dropped out of school. I already had a farm established using the solesolevaki program that enabled me to earn an income through selling crops at the market and feed my family] (Tomasi Vakameau, 2019, interview). When the Nayarabale Youth Farm implemented solesolevaki, it kept the youths engaged by providing a work structure with planned activities every week. Solesolevaki provided the system that allowed people to be connected to the group and to follow basic routines. This routine comprises weekly activities each month. Week one is solesolevaki for the youth farm, week two entails solesolevaki for individual farms, week three involves solesolevaki for community food farm and week four is designated for socio-cultural gatherings and events. The routine allowed bonding between members and helped youth avoid disruptions. This contributes to building resiliency of their farm business.

The Nayarabale youth group, solesolevaki, and other Indigenous Fijian enterprises Apart from aiding collectivity and social protection, solesolevaki practiced between Indigenous businesses and Nayarabale youth group supports other Indigenous Fijian businesses and paints a positive picture of the farm enterprise among surrounding Fijian communities. To support aspiring entrepreneurs, the youth group shares its experiences and provides advice drawing from its years of experience. For example, youth from the case study shared free materials, labor, and planting programs to neighboring islands devastated by Cyclone Winston in 2016. When planting materials were transported to the smaller islands in central Fiji, the Nayarabale youth group traveled there and helped develop farms for youth groups. Such free assistance generated interest among Indigenous landowners on the importance of using available resources and the cultural value of solesolevaki. This showed that successful economic engagements are possible in the villages, therefore making solesolevaki a key factor for developing sustainable and resilient Indigenous enterprises and communities.

Women and wanbel at Blue Corner Farm Limited Women in traditional PNG societies were responsible for subsistence production and domestic needs, including caring for children and older family members. Men did physical work and controlled religious and political spaces, including ceremonial activities such as inter-group gift-giving, funeral contributions, and compensation payments for resolving disputes (Strathern, 371

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1995). These essential roles sustained the functioning of communities. In contemporary PNG societies, although education and formal employment have transformed social fabrics, gender roles remain important. Women participate actively in social reproductions and cultural obligations, and contribute to economic development including in Indigenous businesses. Women at Blue Corner Farm endeavored to maintain wanbel situations through their social, cultural, and spiritual roles linking the business to family and community. Their contribution and involvement in the socio-cultural spaces provides wellbeing for the community and the basis for business stability. The main ways wanbel is maintained include participating in life events or being present and contributing toward relieving community hevi (social burden), caring for workers and family members, and actively participating in church and openly acknowledging God as a source of success.

Presence at life events or during times of hevi A key finding at Blue Corner Farm was women’s presence at life events and during hevi situations. Their contributions to events or special occasions that involve celebrations of life achievements, or occasions of sorrow due to loss of a community member, were particularly noted. Female family members of Blue Corner Farm present gifts or food items to congratulate workers for life events such as new births or children’s graduations. For example, during a worker’s son’s graduation, Margaret, the business owner’s wife, stopped work, prepared food, attended the graduation, returned to the family home with some workers, and presented the student with food and gifts. Similarly, when there are hevi such as funerals or bride price gathering in the community, women prepare and bring food, cash, and other items from Blue Corner Farm to show respect and support the family that is experiencing hevi. Their participation in important life events and social gatherings, and taking care of their social responsibilities, establish good thoughts within the community toward the business  – and the family. When a businessperson is not perceived as contributing, jealousies from community members can result in a bad reputation – and sometimes, violent repercussions – that may drastically affect the business. Therefore, to maintain family status, to keep wanbel and harmony within community members, women “show face” and “hands” during hevi times to express their support. Meeting social obligations help protect the business. This business model is socially resilient and responsible, as well as economically successful.

Care for workers and relations Another important way women gained support for the business and maintained wanbel situations was how they cared for the workers and their relatives. For example, Margaret was seen on several occasions providing lunches for workers, especially if the workers were engaged in strenuous and urgent work. Showing kindness in such ways, and being present at social events that affect workers and their relatives, are examples of positive actions that maintain good relationships. During one of the tok stori sessions, Margaret stated: Ol wokman em ol hatwok lain hia lo Blu Kona. Em ol humen risos blo mipla husat sapotim mipla lo kam kamap lo displa levol. Olsem na mipla save lukautim ol wantiam skul fi blo pikinini blo ol na wonem kain hevi ol gat. [The workers are behind all the hard work here at Blue Corner Farm. They are our human resource who have supported us to

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become who we are today. That is why we always provide school fees for their children and assist them with other social needs.] (Margaret, 2018, interview) These kinds of actions keep employees and their families happy. When people are happy, they have good thoughts and thus have wanbel with the business owners and family members. Women, through their good deeds, help maintain wanbel situations among workers and relatives, cultivating the loyalty of workers and community members. This loyalty not only results in workers being faithful in their work, but they also become the “eyes” (provide security, look out) for the business and the family. The role played by women in looking out for workers’ welfare benefited the workers and their families, and supported the success of the Blue Corner Farm business over four decades of operation. At the household level, women negotiate peace between family members. In situations when internal family arguments arise, women at Blue Corner Farm became peace negotiators. For example, Steven and an adult family member have serious disagreements from time to time and will not talk to one another. When that occurs, the women communicate between the men. Sometimes, during such situations, Margaret brings the male relative’s children, feeds, and takes care of them, maintaining positive relationships within the family. Creating wanbel situations during conflicts between family members and employees maintains balance and strengthens relationships and harmony within the business family. Wanbel is a resilient mechanism and a key tool that supports the success of the Blue Corner Farm.

Christian values and ethos for wanbel and wellbeing Allowing Christian values and ethos to influence how women view things and behave was another key finding. Values such as respect, being diligent at work and in the household, wise management of finances, honesty, and sharing business benefits comes from having a valuable relationship with others and with God. These values provide members with a sense of belonging and safety, influence positive actions and behaviors, and are believed to be an important source of protection against negative situations that might occur in the family or business. Both women and men at Blue Corner Farm regard spiritual values as important for their families, and for the success and sustainability of the business. Hence, active involvement in church activities such as lotu (worship and prayers), participating in church programs such as paying offering or tithe for the church, and constant recognition of God influence their behaviors, especially in being empathetic and sharing the benefits derived from the business. Despite encountering disharmonious situations between certain family members, women’s grounding in Christian values of loving, caring, and sharing result in positive relationships within the business family and community members crucial to the success of the business. This keeps the business grounded in values of care and makes it more connected to the community. As a result of the solid underlying values and spirituality that inform and shape its ethos and practices, the business has become more resilient and has the capacity to absorb different kinds of shocks and frictions.

Summary The Nayarabale Youth Farm showed values of solesolevaki in working together and helping others. Employing solesolevaki also provides an opportunity to educate young people about the important social and cultural values while providing social protection. Solesolevaki provided the

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solid foundation for the farm’s establishment and continues to contribute to its sustainability. For Blue Corner Farm, women played an important role in the business through their ability to keep situations of wanbel. The three main ways they did this were sharing business benefits through cash and in-kind payments when social burdens or obligations in the community arose, caring for relatives and workers, and by allowing Christian values to influence their actions and behaviors. Through these means, women contributed socially and meaningfully to the business ensuring its resilience and success.

Discussion The Fijian case study suggests that solesolevaki is a form of social and cultural capital that supports the success and resilience of Indigenous entrepreneurship. Initially, the business had insufficient capital, but solesolevaki brought together relatives to pool the resources required to establish the farming enterprise. Solesolevaki sustains the business on customary land and brings immense benefits; for instance, providing scholarships for clan members, developing a village footpath, and providing financial support for socio-cultural gatherings. Solesolevaki is often aided by kinship ties (Ratuva, 2016) and builds good partnerships and cohesion within the community. Solesolevaki has contributed to building social capital, as evidenced by the efforts of the business and its members to contribute to the common good. The family and community both support and benefit from the business (Kwon, Heflin, & Ruef, 2013). The art of working together is an important part of life in Pacific-Indigenous communities. The same values and concepts remain valid and can be utilized when people participate in the modern economy, with specific attention to enabling factors such as solesolevaki. Place-specific practices like solesolevaki are applicable in Indigenous Fijian communities. This provides the foundation for Nayarabale community and allows people to work with one vision and maintain common values that benefit the business and its members (Kingi, 2006; MeoSewabu & Walsh-Tapiata, 2012; Movono & Becken, 2018). The community has reconstructed and refashioned what works well in the village, using informal and established structures to bring about economic development that has and will ultimately improve the collective wellbeing of the villagers. Similarly, at Blue Corner Farm, women’s contributions to maintaining wanbel situations suggests that women play an important role as the “social glue” within the business. Whether wanbel is attained through reconciling disputing family members, sharing a good (positive) feeling (Tshudi, 2013; Cooper, 2019), agreeing (Lohmann, 2003; Troolin, 2018) or at peace (Street, 2014; Kelly-Hanku et al., 2014; Matang & Owens, 2014), the aim is to live in harmony and at peace with one another, especially in a relational context such as PNG. For gutpela sindaun (good situation or good life) and success to occur, situations of wanbel must be maintained. For good working relationships to be maintained, wanbel must be exist among family members, workers, and associated people. In situations of hevi (social burdens), the business or its agent must perform activities that create wanbel. At Blue Corner Farm, women strive to keep this important social element. Their efforts to maintain wanbel contributed immensely to harmony and wellbeing within their homes and community, and resulted in business stability. Keeping wanbel situations through direct or indirect means was part of the resilience factor in these case studies.

Conclusion Contrary to dominant Western development imperatives and economic challenges that beset many small island states in the South Pacific, findings from case studies in Fiji and PNG show that solesolevaki and wanbel can lay the foundation for resilient Indigenous businesses. Solesolevaki, 374

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as a form of social and Indigenous Fijian cultural capital, is particularly evident in the establishment of the Nayarabale Youth Farm and continues in some form thereafter. While solesolevaki is considered by some as a dying tradition irrelevant to business, the Fijian case study showed that appropriate utilization could result in resilient and successful businesses. Solesolevaki has many benefits and creates a web of relationships between business and society, that serve as a foundation for the development of resilient Indigenous businesses. Similarly, wanbel in PNG is a form of social capital that contributes to maintaining harmonious relationships and connects business to the community. Disruptions of wanbel, whether at the household or community level, can lead to unfavorable attitudes, jealousies, and sometimes violent repercussions that are detrimental to business. Women in PNG played a pivotal role in creating and maintaining wanbel situations. This also enables them to influence decisions in the business, at home, and in the community. Through their supportive roles, they provide social stability – a significant contribution that is often unrecognized. The utilization of vital local concepts – solesolevaki in Fiji’s Nayarabale Youth Farm and wanbel in Papua New Guinea’s Blue Corner Farm – played an integral role in socially embedding these Indigenous businesses within their respective societies. Adopting and integrating Indigenous values like solesolevaki and wanbel are vital in developing resilient businesses. In the wider Pacific and beyond, people must recognize and utilize existing Indigenous systems and local knowledge to encourage and foster entrepreneurship, wellbeing, sustainable development, and community resilience.

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25 INDY AND THE MONSTER A story of Indigenous resilience during a global pandemic Hilary N. Weaver

Introduction In spite of significant challenges resulting from colonization, Indigenous Peoples persist and utilize various traditional and contemporary ways of coping with adversity. Hearing how traditional mechanisms are used during these difficult times, I reached out through my networks and offered to serve as a repository for information that I could summarize and send back. In this way, we could have a sense of some of the breadth of how our Indigenous sisters and brothers around the world are coping with COVID-19. Rather than a systematic research endeavor, the resulting information unfolds, much like a set of instructions or a traditional story. Indeed, the information that I received and now share is a story: the tale of Indy and the Monster. In this narrative, Indy (a composite that reflects Indigenous diversity and commonalities) grapples with the Monster (COVID-19 and the underlying factors that fuel health and social disparities). As Te Rau Ora (Strengthening Māori Health and Wellbeing, 2020) noted in the introduction to their April online newsletter, “although we did not choose the current situation, there is still much we can determine for ourselves.” This story illustrates the resilience of Indigenous people as they actively determine how to negotiate the pandemic. This chapter begins by examining the role of disease in colonization, followed by a discussion of COVID-19 and Indigenous Peoples. The themes that emerged from the information I collected on Indigenous resilience during the global pandemic are described in detail. They are: 1) traditional ways of healing and fostering wellbeing; 2) we know what our communities need; 3) raising our voices to acknowledge and challenge disparities; 4) community; 5) regeneration of the world; 6) sovereignty; 7) new partnerships and beginnings; and 8) continuity and the future.

The role of disease in colonization As Thomas Hariot, a British explorer involved with early colonizing efforts of what would become the US state of Virginia, noted in 1588: Within a few days after our departure from every such town, the people began to die very fast, and many in short space, in some towns about twenty, in some forty, and 379

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in one six score, which in truth was very many in respect to their numbers. . . . The disease was also so strange, that they neither knew what it was, nor how to cure it, the like by report of the oldest men in the country never happened before, time out of mind. . . . All the space of their sickness, there was no man of ours known to die, or that was specially sick. (Hariot, 1588/1992, p. 132) Many European colonists saw depopulation by disease as divine intervention clearing the land – something just and right (Hariot, 1992). In some cases, diseases were spread deliberately, such as British Lord Jeffrey Amherst’s 1763 order to distribute smallpox-infected blankets to the Ottawas and Lenni Lenapes in North America. Other early outbreaks were not intentional, yet colonists quickly recognized how they personally benefited from Indigenous depopulation (Churchill, 1997). Familiarity with this history shapes how some people perceive current events. Current neglect of the health and wellbeing of Indigenous Peoples (e.g., lack of a robust health infrastructure despite ethical and legal responsibilities assumed by many federal governments) may be seen as providing some contemporary, insidious benefit to settler societies. In Latin America, epidemics spread by colonial expansion are both a historical and recent phenomenon. During the first 300 years of contact, the Indigenous population decreased by 95%. There are also Indigenous communities who have only recently had contact with outsiders and suffered epidemics as a result. Other Indigenous Peoples remain in isolation in Latin America but could suffer substantial devastation, if exposed to COVID-19 (de Dios, 2020). Removal of Native children to residential schools was federal policy in Canada, the United States, Australia, Russia, Norway, and in other colonial settler states. These schools were chronically underfunded and unsanitary places where contagious diseases such as tuberculosis, trachoma, measles, mumps, and smallpox spread easily. During its first six years, Haskell Institute buried 49 students (Adams, 2020). Haskell, the largest off-reservation Native boarding school in the United States at the time, subsequently became the first site of a US civilian outbreak during the influenza pandemic of 1918, the most lethal pandemic in modern history (Adams, 2020). As boarding school administrators tried to balance their dual priorities of controlling Indigenous children and keeping their institutions solvent, institutional survival came first and foremost. In order for boarding schools to exist, they needed Native students; thus, some attention to their health was necessary. In 1916, the Commissioner of Indian Affairs noted, “We cannot educate [Indian] children unless they are kept alive” (Adams, 2020, p. 3). When students became sick at Haskell, school Superintendent Hervey B. Peairs did his utmost to secure extra medical help for the school, he also made decisions that came at a cost to the physical and emotional health of his charges. To keep the school financially solvent, he overenrolled students into congested dormitories that facilitated the spread of disease. To downplay the severity of the crisis and preserve the school’s reputation, he waited until the last minute to notify parents about their children’s illness. To maintain control over his charges, he discouraged parental visits and refused students home leave. (Adams, 2020, p. 3) Although hit hard by disease throughout the history of colonization, Native people displayed resilience rather than being passive victims. Even in the face of colonial systems that undermined their autonomy and health, Indigenous people have taken steps to promote their own 380

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wellbeing. For instance, at Haskell, students petitioned for the removal of administrators who ignored or covered up the mounting crisis (Adams, 2020).

Indigenous Peoples and COVID-19 Indigenous people around the world are disproportionately affected by risk factors that increase their susceptibility to COVID-19. These include pre-existing health conditions, limited access to preventive measures such as social distancing and hand washing, and underdeveloped health infrastructures due to the failure of settler governments to fulfill their legal and moral obligations (Mataira, Morelli, & Spenser, 2020). Pre-existing medical conditions are often the result of the social determinants of health associated with colonization. Half of Aboriginal Australians and Torres Strait Islanders suffer from major chronic conditions such as cancer, cardiovascular problems, and kidney disease, while nearly 25% experience two or more chronic ailments (Godin, 2020). Likewise, Aboriginal Canadians have a lower life expectancy than the national average, and in the United States, Native Americans have mortality rates for preventable diseases such as asthma or diabetes that are 3–5 times higher than other groups (Godin, 2020). In Venezuela and Brazil, half of the Indigenous adults over age 35 have type 2 diabetes, and epidemiological diseases such as tuberculosis remain a threat. Compared to their non-Indigenous counterparts, life expectancy is 20 years less and infant mortality is 3–5 times greater (de Dios, 2020). Although there are seemingly simple preventive measures to limit the spread of COVID-19, including social distancing and washing hands, this is disproportionately unrealistic for Indigenous people because of limited access to resources and/or physical space. In Australia, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders are 16 times more likely to be living in an overcrowded house than non-Indigenous Australians (Godin, 2020). Lack of access to clean water has been a long-standing issue in many reserve communities in Canada (Chambers, 2017). In Latin America, Indigenous Peoples also experience overcrowding and lack of access to adequate sanitation facilities, thus making COVID‑19 a significant threat. Communities are deeply concerned about the potential impact of COVID-19, particularly communities that have had little previous contact with outsiders and may be the most vulnerable to this disease (de Dios, 2020). The health infrastructure is underdeveloped in many Indigenous communities throughout the world. This includes Latin America, where the Indigenous population has significantly less access to health services (de Dios, 2020). Although the Canadian and US governments assumed responsibility for providing a variety of health and social services as a part of treaty obligations, health services are chronically underfunded and typically substandard (Whitney, 2017). Access to services and supplies is difficult in remote areas, and although there are large urban Indigenous populations in both the United States and Canada, much less funding and fewer services are available for these populations (Salvador et al., 2016). In spite of significant risk factors and gaps in services, Indigenous communities around the world have risen to the occasion and taken active and proactive steps to counteract COVID19. In Australia, Aboriginal communities have been less affected by the virus than anticipated, which experts attribute to having Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander public health practitioners and researchers play a pivotal role in leading culturally sensitive response efforts (Godin, 2020). For example, Aboriginal-led health services ensured that public health messages were communicated to communities in their local languages. Aboriginal communities also protected themselves by camping out in the bush to protect elders. Like many Indigenous nations in Canada and the United States, some Australian Aboriginal communities also closed their borders before the federal government did to avoid disease transmission (Godin, 2020). 381

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Indigenous communities in Latin America have also put up barricades to isolate themselves from outsiders and limit excursions outside their community for supplies during the pandemic. In Brazil, where the federal government did not implement any measures to protect Indigenous Peoples, groups like the Indigenous Coordinating Body for the Amazon Basin, a group representing Indigenous Amazonians in nine countries, demanded restrictions on access to their territories (de Dios, 2020). These actions illustrate proactive responses to COVID-19 without waiting for federal support.

Resilience during the COVID-19 pandemic The information that I collected on the experiences of Indigenous people during the pandemic highlights their strength and resilience. This information came through personal e-mails, listservs, and webinars across a range of Indigenous contexts and includes the voices of leaders, professionals, and community members of all ages. Often, the themes emerged through dialogue among webinar participants, so unless content is clearly attributable to a primary person, the speaker is not individually identified in this chapter. The information shared had a synergy and seemed to flow together regardless of context, nationality, role, age, or gender of those who offered their words. The words shared in webinars were written down as I heard them, through my own circumstances and limitations. The themes which follow are not my own assertions. They are my analysis of the information I received. How I perceived and categorized this information reflects my own filter and lens as a Native American and a social worker. While I do not present my listening and recording as a systematic research process, the content seemed to easily sort into categories. The result is a combination of academic writing and storytelling. The themes identified were: 1) traditional ways of healing and fostering wellbeing; 2) we know what our communities need; 3) raising our voices to acknowledge and challenge disparities; 4) community; 5) regeneration of the world; 6) sovereignty; 7) new partnerships and beginnings; and 8) continuity and our responsibility for the future. This final theme seemed to be an overarching concept that cut across the other categories. Prior to putting these words in a publication, these themes were reflected back through the channels through which they came, such as e-mails, listservs, and webinars, thus providing opportunities for comments and corrections. No corrections were received, and all comments were affirmations and expressions of gratitude. Returning the compiled and synthesized information to its various sources fulfilled an ethical obligation and also served as a gift – a reminder of our collective strength and resilience. Thus, emerges the story of Indy and the Monster, an account of the resilience that Indigenous Peoples from different contexts around the world are displaying as they are confronted with and respond to COVID-19. In many ways, these themes come across as instructions and guidance for how to move through these difficult times. They are reminders of our true selves, our resilience, and how we will continue to move forward as Indigenous Peoples.

Traditional ways of healing and fostering wellbeing During the COVID-19 pandemic, many Indigenous people continued to rely on traditional ways of healing and fostering wellbeing. Some others, who had not previously relied on traditional supports, sought out practices that have sustained Indigenous Peoples throughout the ages. Although school and business closures disrupted daily lives, these pauses also presented opportunities to reallocate time and priorities. 382

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Messages shared in international online formats and by local community leaders provided support and guidance for people struggling with closures of schools and businesses, social isolation during stay-at-home orders, and fears about the impact of COVID-19 on our families and communities. We were urged to take time and space to learn our languages and plant seeds in gardens. They encouraged us to continue our songs, dances, and other traditional practices. We were reminded of our strengths and resources. As one webinar participant reminded us, there is nothing like a virtual drum group to help raise spirits. We will come together again. We were encouraged to walk and listen to the old songs. Sing ourselves a song. Sing a song for our children. If you are a dancer, dance – for yourself, for your family, for your community. The Haudenosaunee philosophy of a Good Mind (a state of peace, thoughtfulness, and restoration of balance) emanates when we dance and sing. Life is to be lived in a thankful way, always recognizing blessings. Give thanks. Say it with your children, your family. Some of the greatest healers in our communities have been through pandemics before. We are still here. We are still thriving. Many places held a Community Day of Thankfulness or a Day of Prayer that the virus would pass us by. These included impromptu gatherings inspired by our need to support each other and counteract social isolation. Spiritually uplifting messages continue to be sent through social media as individuals reach out, both to those they know and to the public. Faithkeepers, those who are recognized as playing specific roles in sustaining our Peoples and ceremonies, reach out with daily messages to those they are responsible for through various mechanisms including phone calls and texts. We are told to remember that sacred fires are burning, and pipes are being raised every day; signs that our fundamental spiritual practices continue. As members of collective societies, when some of us are feeling overwhelmed, others are there to stand up and offer strength. We come together as Indigenous Peoples and share. That makes us stronger. When the pandemic started, many people on the Six Nations Reserve in Ontario, Canada began to go out on the land. And they took their children with them. They are learning to pick medicines and gathering for elders who cannot do so themselves. There is a sense of community spirit. Even those who do not follow traditional ways often have a healthy respect for medicines. Similar examples can be found in other Indigenous communities. One outcome of the pandemic is to build faith and to elevate those within our communities who know medicines. We are encouraged to rely on our traditional medicines, in their many forms. While the following remarks come from the Haudenosaunee context, I think they resonate with many Indigenous Peoples of the world. A Haudenosaunee webinar participant noted that lacrosse is one of our traditional medicines. It is known as the Creator’s Game and gives us strength. We can play and watch this game in our communities. In areas where things are starting to bloom, we can go outside. Things are coming alive, including medicines, wild onions, and teas. Medicines are there to help us in a good way. These include the sap from the maple tree. We need to get out that door and pick wild strawberries, another medicine that is given to us to support our wellbeing. We carry forward our love for our medicines. We need to reconnect with Indigenous ways of knowing, keeping a Good Mind, connect with our elders, and check in with others to see if they need assistance. The day that we see no smoke coming from our Longhouse (the ceremonial center of the community) is the day that we should be afraid. As long as there is smoke coming from our Longhouse, you know we will be ok. You are loved, you are cared for, and you are not alone. Seeing smoke rise from the Longhouse reminds us that someone is there, even if we cannot be there personally. Although at this time we cannot gather in large numbers for our traditional ceremonies, we can see indications of continuity. 383

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We know what our communities need Indigenous organizations and agencies are gathering and sharing information. This often takes the form of webinars. Indeed, there have been many Indigenous webinars sharing information on COVID-19 offered by organizations such as the University of Toronto, Native Organizers Alliance, and the Center for Indigenous Cancer Research (CICR), some weeks having several webinars with overlapping timeframes. Much of the content offered here comes from those webinars. For example, the CICR held a webinar in which Indigenous experts discussed coping with physical distancing, precautions healthcare providers are taking, and how Western perspectives and traditional ways of prevention and care can be combined. (Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, 2020). External funding and support owed by settler governments to build and run health infrastructures are important, but it is only part of the solution. In a webinar, Shannon MacDonald, an Indigenous physician and Deputy Chief Medical Officer for First Nations Health Authority in British Columbia, emphasized that communities need to be able to respond to their own needs using their own strategies. Native people often experience systemic racism when accessing medical attention, so some are reluctant to seek external services. Indigenous health providers are often better equipped to provide culturally appropriate public health responses. Schools and universities are reaching out to support students. Tribal colleges and university programs with an Indigenous focus have offered support in holistic ways. Support ranges from assistance with physical health, mental wellbeing, social needs, and educational challenges to assistance with meeting cultural needs. Ways of delivering assistance are also diverse and include mobile apps, provision of school supplies, food delivery, remote or virtual mindfulness activities, and parent support activities. Support is available for students as they transition to online learning with thoughtful recognition that not all students have robust internet access. As an example, at the Institute of American Indian Arts, a tribal college in New Mexico, USA, students were able to get assistance with food, transportation, and rent payments. In another example, the Washington University in St. Louis (USA) Pow Wow Committee shifted their work from planning an in-person event to developing a COVID-19 resource guide that included interviews with pow wow vendors and head staff sharing their stories and knowledge. Although the in-person event did not take place, the theme they had chosen for their 30th anniversary pow wow, “Steps to Sovereignty: Decolonize, Indigenize, Revitalize,” is emphasized in the resource guide they created (Baxter et al., 2020). As Kellie Thompson, Director of the Kathryn M. Buder Center for American Indian Studies at Washington University, noted in an email sent to the Indigenous and Tribal Social Work Educators listserv: We know our communities are facing even more hardships at this time; we are also witnessing generosity, hope, and strength. I’d like to share some of these stories. . . . When we cancelled this event last month the student committee wanted to honor our commitment to our Head Staff. We did this through the ways we have been taught by our elders – by creating relationships and learning through listening. Students interviewed each Head Staff member. Our goal was for people to find solidarity in these stories, resources that would be helpful for communities and hope for our future. Indigenous-specific response plans are being developed in many places. For example, the Tangata Whenua Social Workers Association in Aotearoa/New Zealand is gathering materials and sharing them through links. These materials highlight the needs and responses of Māori people during the pandemic. See a sample of these resources at the end of this chapter. Likewise, 384

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the inaugural issue of the Talking Circle, a newsletter from the Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, focused on Indigenous resiliency, cancer, and the coronavirus (see link to newsletter in the resource section at the end of the chapter). Around the globe, many Indigenous people are asserting the belief that solutions for the current crisis will be found within our nations. We must recognize our Indigenous Knowledge and methodologies and the value they hold for addressing COVID-19 and other challenges. Our systems have existed since time immemorial. We have what we need. There are many different people playing roles that support our wellbeing in the pandemic. We all have contributions that we can make. For example, we have Native comedians helping us balance sadness and grief, musicians lifting our spirits, people sewing masks and clothes that remind us of our resilience, support groups where we can speak and listen, and chefs that help meet our nutritional needs. These are just a few examples of Indigenous people stepping forward, sharing what they can and helping us all. We can shape the message in our own way. Shelter in place can go beyond our physical dwellings to include our natural environment in recognition of our connection to and relationship with our territories. As Dr. Evan Adams, Chief Medical Officer of the First Nations Health Authority noted, people in British Columbia are encouraged to go out on the land to hunt, fish, and to tend food gardens to counteract poverty that will be exacerbated by virus. As Dr. David Mattson, Jr. noted, in Hawai‘i, social distancing is done for the benefit of our friends, colleagues, loved ones, and kūpuna (elders) (Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, 2020). We know what we need. With crisis comes opportunity. We can reconstitute cultural health systems, languages, ties to our territories, and cultural systems, including systems for child wellbeing and family wellness. We take care of ourselves and each other.

Raising our voices to acknowledge and challenge disparities The strength and resilience in how Indigenous people are responding to the global pandemic should not be mistaken for a sense of false hope or belief that everything is all right. Along with resilience, there is clear recognition of dangers and vulnerabilities. There is also a sense that disparities and risks may intensify, prompting numerous calls to action and activism. Two areas were highlighted in the information collected: risks from oil pipelines and the digital divide. Oil pipelines bring risks to people and the environment in many different ways. Leakage and contamination can threaten water supplies when access to clean water is already a longstanding issue in many Indigenous communities. Additionally, large temporary settlements of men who build pipelines and work in resource extraction (known as man camps) are associated with exploitation, violence, and the disappearance of Indigenous women and girls (Knott, 2018). During the pandemic, even as many other large gatherings such as sporting events and concerts were cancelled and social distancing was emphasized as crucial to preventing the spread of COVID-19, new man camps and sections of pipeline were being built near Native communities. Indeed, the Native American Rights Fund referred to pipelines as a new incarnation of the smallpox-infested blankets that had been “given” to Native people (Native American Rights Fund, 2020). Indigenous people and organizations in Canada and the United States continue to call for activism against pipelines to prevent the importation of large numbers of workers into Indigenous territories. The calls to stop construction of pipelines are not only an effort to address ongoing threats to the natural environment and to Native women, but also to address the heightened risk of spreading COVID-19 that accompanies the camps. Another ongoing problem that has taken on additional urgency during the pandemic is the digital divide, specifically limited internet access in many Native communities. The 2018 385

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Strategic Arizona Statewide Broadband Strategic Plan noted that 95% of people living on tribal land in the United States have either unserved or underserved telecommunication infrastructure needs (American Indian Policy Institute, 2020). Public places such as libraries and schools, where internet is available, often offer the only opportunities for Native Americans to connect to the internet. When these public spaces closed during the pandemic, many Native people were left with no consistent internet access. As many educational institutions shut down in-person education and moved to remote instruction, students were expected to learn online. A difficult transition under the best of circumstances, students without home internet or computers and communities without the infrastructure to support large numbers of people using the internet became significant barriers for many people. Indigenous activists turned their attention to these issues and support was offered for educators and families. For example, the American Indian Policy Institute issued policy briefs as education shifted to virtual spaces including Tribal Digital Divide: Policy Brief and Recommendations (American Indian Policy Institute, 2020) and COVID-19: The Impact of Limited Internet Access and Issues with Social Distancing for Native Students (Howard & Sundust, 2020). They make recommendations for educators and educational institutions such as increasing internet access through provision of mobile hotspots, scaling courses based on awareness of internet bandwidth limitations, and offering students opportunities to withdraw from courses without penalty. They also make recommendations for policies that would increase broadband access.

Community Indigenous identity is traditionally derived from being part of a group. The importance of community remains – and in some ways, intensifies – within a context whereby social distancing is a primary mechanism for reducing the spread of COVID-19. As many social connections moved online, often using the Zoom platform, the Māori adapted the word hui (gatherings) and noted that we now meet in zui (Zoom hui). In this way, a traditional value was incorporated into an online adaptation made in response to the pandemic. Connection and community are central aspects of Indigenous identity. The centrality of community remains and finds new expressions during the pandemic. As Dr. Evan Adams emphasizes, to be a public health official means having a relationship with the public (Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, 2020). Connecting with the public is essential during this time of heightened social isolation. During this pandemic, most of what we are feeling is mental strain, not the disease itself. Community connections are vital to our wellbeing. Social distancing does not require emotional distancing. Indigenous people have developed mechanisms to maintain community, counteract social isolation, and highlight the importance of ongoing social connections. Elders and Knowledge Holders have always been prioritized in Indigenous communities. During the pandemic, community members made sure to check on neighbors and deliver food and essential items, especially to those who were most vulnerable. As noted previously, community was also maintained by coming together to share music and dancing online. Music is medicine and has the power to heal. In these ways, we lift our spirits. The Social Distance Pow Wow open Facebook group (see link in resource section at end of the chapter) provides a venue to share love, support, cultural teachings, and related messages. The Social Distance Pow Wow connects people across the world, garnering a membership of 200,000 in a little over a month. Theirs is a mission to provide medicine to the people and keep them strong during the pandemic. This opportunity for community in a virtual space

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allows us to help each other get through these difficult times. Co-founder Whitney Rencountre noted that the Social Distance Pow Wow is grounded in prayer, fulfilling a key need of the participants. He notes that it is a privilege to be a part of what is helping the people through these times. In this way people are dancing in their living rooms, sharing songs or stories with other participants, and announcing major life events like graduations or birthdays. The Social Distance Pow Wow is interactive and those who view content respond and support those who have posted (University of Toronto, 2020). Maintaining connection and community happens in various ways. We stay connected through the tools that are available to us. In places with little infrastructure, like the hard-hit Navajo Nation, most people have radios. A public service announcement recorded by a nurse in their language provides critical information about why people need to follow public health precautions. While 11 minutes is considered excessively long for a public service announcement in other contexts, this communication is appropriate and well received on the Navajo Nation (Native Organizers Alliance, 2020).

Regeneration of the world The Earth is taking a breath right now. Many of us have stories and prophecies about this. Western science also documents cleaner air as many people shelter in place (Zambrano-Monserrate, Ruano, & Sanchez-Alcalde, 2020). Although the pandemic is not something we wanted, we recognize natural rhythms that are greater than human beings and natural responses to humancaused environmental damage. As the Earth takes an opportunity to breathe, we are reminded that it is important for us to do the same. Like many places in the world, Aotearoa went into lockdown with COVID-19. In te ao Māori (Māori language), we are experiencing a rahui. This means that the land and people are given space to replenish during a time of crisis. Many Indigenous teachings speak of balance. The pandemic necessitates a break from our normal routing, offering a space for regeneration and growth. The balance of the world is reflected in both good and evil, both order and chaos, and both advances and setbacks. This duality is natural and necessary. The pandemic raged as spring and summer came to the Northern Hemisphere. At this same time, blackberries emerged in the natural environment. We know that along with medicines, there are also thorns. Positives and negatives can be different parts of the same thing. During the pandemic, we are reminded that we always have a choice. There is always a positive side and resilience. We can embrace this as a time of regeneration. This is a time to be less human-centered. Life is not just about meeting human needs. The natural world has needs, too. This pandemic, and other significant health threats, are considered by many researchers and scholars to be directly related to the way that colonial powers have treated the Earth. Environmental damage, reduced habitat, and trafficking in protected species and wildlife have led to closer contact between people and animals that carry pathogens. In turn, pathogens may be transferred from those species to humans, thus generating ever greater risks of pandemics (de Dios, 2020). Conversely, caring for the natural world protects us all and mitigates the dangers of pandemics. We are reminded that we have the ability to act in ways that support the natural world and thereby reduce our own risks and vulnerabilities. What we as Indigenous people know about the importance of protecting the natural world is finally recognized by some scientists, yet materialistic colonial mentality continues to push the Earth’s resilience to the brink. At this time, the Earth is pushing back via the pandemic, forcing people to have less impact on the environment.

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Sovereignty Indigenous Peoples existed prior to colonization, and we retain our own systems of governance. During these challenging times, Tribal Nations have asserted their ability to determine what is essential, suspended nonessential services, and continued operations virtually. Our right to selfdetermination and our inherent sovereignty is often discussed but is clearly illustrated in Tribal governments’ responses to the global pandemic. Closing Indigenous territorial borders to visitors and tourists is an example of selfdetermination and a clear illustration of sovereignty. Although sometimes contested by settler societies, border closings were often deemed an ethical imperative and one for which people would put their own physical wellbeing and their lives on the line. Our elders, first language speakers, and Knowledge Holders are our most precious resources. We assert our sovereign rights and abilities to protect them at all costs and do what we can to limit the spread of the virus. The pandemic is a critical time of change, but also a time of opportunity for us to be stronger as nations. Asserting our sovereignty goes beyond issuing border restrictions and declaring emergencies. It includes acting as empowered nations and sharing ideas, knowledge, and success stories across borders. Sovereignty is not about isolation, but rather is a recognition of our inherent strengths and right to self-determination. As sovereign nations with the ability and mandate to develop our own systems and protect our own people, we must act. To act effectively on behalf of our people, we need to analyze our own data in our own communities to understand our needs. This is a call for action for our Indigenous academics, scholars, and researchers to help lead this vision. We know that we will not be able to get accurate statistics on the impact of COVID-19 in our communities unless we do it ourselves. Indigenous Nations need to step up and think forward. We will create a roadmap for the future. We are rising to the challenges that COVID-19 currently presents, and we must maintain this momentum for nationhood moving forward.

New partnerships and beginnings Sovereign nations do not exist in a vacuum but travel along parallel paths with others. We can check on neighboring tribes and be supportive. Some have less infrastructure than others. Those of us who have more, whether it be infrastructure, knowledge, or something else, have a responsibility to share and support others. Most Indigenous Peoples do not live in isolation but, rather, within a shared world. We all have different resources to share. We can help each other. We will not forget about our tribal neighbors and our non-Indigenous neighbors. This is a time to come together. People stand with us, and we stand with others. Collaboration and coordination across jurisdictions are important parts of emergency preparedness which must be developed within the context of tribal sovereignty. We recognize that it is beneficial to collaborate and formalize arrangements with neighboring jurisdictions and state governments so that we can all be better prepared to respond to disasters and emergencies (Hershey, 2019). The United Nations is highlighting Indigenous values of unity, solidarity, and reciprocity as models that all people can follow during this global crisis. In their Sentinel newsletter of April 4, 2020, they note: With the right actions, the COVID-19 pandemic can mark the rebirthing of society as we know it today to one where we protect present and future generations. It is the greatest test that we have faced since the formation of the United Nations, one that requires all actors – governments, academia, businesses, employers and workers’ 388

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organizations, civil society organizations, communities and individuals – to act in solidarity in new, creative, and deliberate ways for the common good and based on the core United Nations values that we uphold for humanity. (Curry, 2020) Indigenous leaders see an opportunity to change our relationships with settler societies and mainstream health systems in ways that are grounded in cultural safety and justice. We can build a chain of unity among all Indigenous Peoples and an inclusive health strategy, incorporating knowledge from Indigenous academics and helping professionals to insure no one gets left behind. We’re all in this together. When we unify, we are stronger and everyone benefits, making us better prepared to handle the second, third, and fourth waves of the pandemic. This pandemic provides an opportunity to recognize deficits and ask why some of the most basic human needs, like clean water, go unfulfilled in Indigenous communities. Long-standing disparities have become highlighted, and their implications made glaringly apparent. Redressing inequities is essential. Global economic upheaval could be an opportunity for new statutory relationships and realizing equality. We have an opportunity to create systems and policies that are built on the sovereignty of our nations, enacted in a spirit of equity and caring for one another. Coming together for the common good and sharing is much like the model depicted in the Hiawatha Wampum Belt that documents how previously warring nations buried their weapons under the Great Tree of Peace and founded the Haudenosaunee Confederacy (Wallace, 1994). As Dr. Rodney Haring noted, this traditional model is relevant during today’s crisis. Indeed, in addition to reaching out to support other Tribal Nations with fewer resources, we must reach out to our non-Indigenous neighbors and form mutually beneficial arrangements that may ultimately lead to improved health infrastructures guided by principles of sovereignty and social justice (Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, 2020).

Continuity and the future As Indigenous Peoples grapple with COVID-19 and Indy confronts the Monster, we recognize that this global pandemic is not only a time for action, but is also a time to be attentive. We can shape the direction of our story. This is the time when we ask ourselves: what are our gifts and our responsibilities? We may know how to grow food, how to help people of different viewpoints reach consensus, how to communicate clearly, how to teach, or have abilities to deliver supplies. We are each able to act to support our families, our communities, and our nations. Many people see the pandemic as a reminder of what we should be doing to be our best. While it does not diminish the pain of sickness and death, we know that we can, and will, rise to this occasion and come out the other side of this pandemic, as we have with pandemics in the past. We are resilient. When George Washington ordered the scorched Earth campaign to eradicate all Indigenous people in New York state, little remained of the Haudenosaunee food supply, yet the corn fields still contained some stalks. Now, roasted corn soup is a staple at Haudenosaunee social gatherings, reminding us of survival and resilience. This example illustrates Indigenous continuity through adversity. As we move toward the future, we carry examples from the past that remind us of perseverance and transformation. In the United States, 2020 became known as the year of two pandemics, COVID-19 and racism. Indigenous Peoples are confronted by and confront both these monsters. Warriors have always risen to protect the people. After the death of George Floyd, an unarmed African American man murdered by a white police officer, led to protests and riots in Minneapolis that 389

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included burning the Native youth center, members of the American Indian Movement began patrolling the streets, serving and protecting in a way that the police had failed to do. Because some members of our societies rise up to protect us in times of danger, we have been able to remain as Peoples – and we will continue to do so into the future. Elders have always been there to watch over, comfort, and guide us. Faith Spotted Eagle of the Braveheart Society shares teachings and strategies for action through webinars on COVID19 (www.braveheartsociety.org/media), much as the women of the Braveheart Society historically gathered bodies of the fallen from the battlefield, took care of the things that were necessary, and helped us all to move forward. Indigenous people take on different roles in our society, meeting our needs in various ways such as protection, guidance, and comfort. These traditional roles continue. As the webinars frequently cited in this chapter demonstrate, we have found new ways to meet our needs when we are unable to gather in person. As new challenges arise in the future, we will continue to rise to the occasion. I have heard Indigenous relatives from different traditions say they have stories and prophecies that speak to this time. Not only is the Earth taking a breath and societies taking a pause, we must reflect, learn, and act during this time. Our current actions will shape the future of generations yet unborn. We are responsible for their wellbeing. Our Original Instructions and Traditional Teachings remain relevant as new monsters arise. They will continue to guide us into the future as we go through times of challenge and regeneration, always planning and preparing for generations yet unborn. COVID-19 exists in context; it is part of a whole. The past, present, and future coexist. Our current circumstances are shaped by our past experiences, and our current actions will shape the future. Simultaneously, we experience multiple challenges (such as disease and violence) and strengths (such as a reinvigoration of sovereignty in many communities and a sense that we can co-create more just health systems in partnership with our non-Indigenous neighbors). Birds and people are singing, while at the same time, many of us hear the sounds of sirens and helicopters responding to riots and vandalism. We live in a shared world, Indigenous and nonIndigenous, human and non-human. COVID-19 reminds us that the actions of one can affect all others. Across the globe, Indigenous Peoples  – both on our territories and in other areas  – are using traditional ways of healing and fostering wellbeing, asserting our own knowledge about what our communities need, raising voices about disparities, prioritizing community, watching regeneration of the natural world, asserting sovereignty, and looking toward the future. While this work is extensive and ongoing, this chapter provides a few examples of resilience and resourcefulness that I have seen. The resilience that exists among Indigenous Peoples is well known. This is not the first or last time we have experienced challenges. As Indigenous Peoples, we have been confronted by many monsters. Our ancestors not only survived these confrontations, but left a legacy that insured we would be here today as distinct, ongoing Peoples. Our descendants will look back to see what we did to ensure continuity. How we walk and what we do together is important. We honor the gifts left by our ancestors, make thoughtful decisions grounded in who we are as Indigenous Peoples, and we build a future for generations yet unborn.

Additional resources The Talking Circle, a newsletter from the Center for Indigenous Cancer Research, focused on Indigenous resiliency, cancer and the coronavirus.

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Indy and the Monster The Social Distance Pow Wow open Facebook group: www.facebook.com/groups/832568190487520/ Tangata Whenua Social Workers Association in Aotearoa. Resource links: www.auckland.ac.nz/en/ news/2020/03/20/equity-maori-prioritised-covid-19-response.html www.uruta.maori.nz/ www.health.govt.nz/publication/initial-covid-19-maori-response-action-plan www.rnz.co.nz/news/temanu-korihi/414667/government-s-maori-covid-19-response-all-words-no-action-response-group

References Adams, M. M. (2020). “A very serious and perplexing epidemic of grippe”: The influenza of 1918 at the Haskell institute. American Indian Quarterly, 44(1), 1–35. American Indian Policy Institute. (2020). Tribal digital divide: Policy brief and recommendations. Retrieved August 4, 2020, from https://aipi.asu.edu/sites/default/files/tribal_digital_divide_stimulus_bill_advocacy.pdf Baxter, R., Begay, S., Brown, A., Bryer, C., Clifford, S., Connell, J., . . . Sindelar, H. (2020). The 2020 Washington University in St. Louis pow wow committee COVID-19 report and resource guide. Retrieved from https://sites.wustl.edu/budercenter/30th-annual-washington-university-pow-wow/ Center for Indigenous Cancer Research. (2020, March 4). Cancer and COVID: Indigenous virtual fireside chat. Retrieved from www.roswellpark.org/CICRfiresidechat Chambers, L. (2017). Boil-water advisories and federal (in)action: The politics of potable water in Pikangikum first nation. Journal of Canadian Studies, 51(2), 289–310. Churchill, W. (1997). A little matter of genocide: Holocaust and denial in the Americas 1492 to the present. San Francisco, CA: City Lights Books. Curry, D. (2020). Shared responsibility, global solidarity: Responding to the socioeconomic impacts of COVID-19 Sentinel (Vol. 311). GE2P2 Global Foundation. Retrieved April 5, 2020, from https://myemail.con stantcontact.com/The-Sentinel – period-ending-4-April-2020.html?soid=1112755942601&aid=wX E6Te5oMvkhttps://myemail.constantcontact.com/The-Sentinel – period-ending-4-April-2020.html ?soid=1112755942601&aid=wXE6Te5oMvk de Dios, M. (2020, May 14). The situation of Latin America’s indigenous population and the impact of COVID-10. UNDP in Latin America and the Caribbean. Retrieved July 31, 2020, from www.latinamerica.undp. org/content/rblac/en/home/blog/2020/impacto-y-situacion-de-la-poblacion-indigena-latinoameri cana-ant.html Godin, M. (2020, May 5). “We know what is best for us.” Indigenous groups around the world are taking COVID-19 responses into their own hands. Time, p. 1. Hariot, T. (1588/1992). God strikes them down. Reprinted in T. Christensen & C. Christensen (Eds.), The discovery of America and other myths: A  new world reader (pp.  131–132). San Francisco: Chronical Books. Hershey, T.B. (2019). Collaborating with sovereign tribal nations to legally prepare for public health emergencies. Journal of Law, Medicine and Ethics, 47(S2), 55–58. Howard, B., & Sundust, M. (2020). COVID-19: The impact of limited internet access and issues with social distancing for native students. American Indian Policy Institute, Arizona State University. Retrieved April 8, 2020, from https://aipi.asu.edu/sites/default/files/indigenous_digital_divide_policy_brief.pdf Knott, H. (2018). Violence and extraction: Stories from the oilfields. In K. Anderson, M. Campbell, & C. Belcourt (Eds.), Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered indigenous sisters. Edmonton: University of Alberta Press. Mataira, P., Morelli, P.,  & Spenser, M. (2020). Indigenous communities and COVID-19: Impact and implications. Journal of Indigenous Social Development, 9(3), 1–3. Native American Rights Fund. (2020). KXL pipeline man camps: The new smallpox infected blanket. Retrieved July 31, 2020, from www.narf.org/kxl-covid-19/ Native Organizers Alliance. (2020). Native people and corona virus: Maintaining community while social distancing. Webinar offered April 29, 2020. Salvador, J., Goodkind, J., & Ewing, S.F. (2016). Perceptions and use of community- and school-based behavioral health services among urban American Indian/Alaska native youth and families. American Indian and Alaska Native Mental Health Research: The Journal of the National Center, 23(3), 221–247. Te Rau Ora. Retrieved from https://terauora.com/.

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CONCLUSION Hilary N. Weaver

Common themes arise repeatedly as the authors of this volume describe expressions of Indigenous resilience. They highlight the importance of relationships, reciprocity, and connectivity. These values are central to Indigenous cultures and are crucial in filling gaps in support from settler states who fail to fulfill their legal and moral obligations. The authors reflect on the importance of Indigenous homelands and the challenges and strengths of those living in diaspora. The authors remind us that we are part of and not separate from the natural world. As we fulfill our responsibilities to our relatives, both human and non-human, we receive the support we need for our own continuity. We are both caring and cared for. We continue to be guided by those who came before us, and we carry responsibilities for those who come after us. Our stories serve as coordinates that plot ancestral pathways. Indeed, family stories and genealogy are shared repeatedly in this book to anchor and illustrate the content. The authors speak of challenges, hope, and moving forward. We are reminded that we must tend to our wellbeing as a regular task, like mending fishing nets. We are told that our very survival and continued existence represents a seed of hope from our ancestral lands. Our myriad challenges are balanced with hope. As a Latin American proverb notes, they tried to bury us, but they did not know that we are seeds.

Remaining faithful Colonization and its multifaceted legacy continue to shape Indigenous existence. Colonization is the act of appropriating a place and establishing a system of control over territories and their original inhabitants. It is sanctioned by beliefs that some Peoples are superior to others, and thus entitled to this appropriation. Empires extend their territories and dominance, claiming legitimacy based on assumptions of superiority built on pillars of race, gender, economics, and spiritual/cultural suppression. The authors in this volume provide examples of how colonization has manifested across the globe. Colonization is, by definition, hierarchical and based on dominance. It is justified by assertions that the colonizing forces have moral and spiritual mandates to assert their dominance and “save” or eradicate those deemed inferior or subhuman. Evidence for inferiority is presumed when others have different traditions, beliefs, and norms that do not conform to those of the

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DOI: 10.4324/9781003048428-32

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colonizers. Likewise, non-hierarchical, non-exploitive relationships with the natural world and recognition of non-human relatives are depicted as primitive and immoral. We continue to live in challenging times, and we must be constantly attentive to maintain our balance. We have responsibilities to attend to issues in our families, communities, nations, and the planet. This book has been shaped by many hands and carries the perspectives of many people. Only when we move beyond securing our immediate survival do we have the privilege of choice; that includes the flexibility to share our thoughts in books like this. I am deeply grateful for the authors who shared their words in this book, despite their other responsibilities, and I acknowledge those whose responsibilities prevented them from participating in this endeavor. We are all affected by colonization, both past actions and ongoing realities. Listening to the truth of what happened and continues to happen is painful for all. We continue to reflect on our circumstances and responsibilities. While the author of Chapter 6 framed her reflections within the context of language continuity, these thoughts carry broad applicability. She noted, “as we become the realization of our ancestors’ wildest dreams, thriving in the enemy’s world, we must internally wrestle with a nagging question in our hearts: how can I be faithful to my language and my people when my language is no longer central to my daily life?” The contributors to this book answer that question in many ways. They tell us we remain faithful when we reclaim our ceremonies and Indigenous Knowledge. We also remain faithful when we apply our values in entrepreneurial endeavors, in educational systems, and in our families. Although changed by colonization, the authors remind us that we maintain, reclaim, and express Indigenous integrity in myriad ways.

Moving forward Throughout this book, authors provide examples of not only perseverance and survival, but finding new ways to renew our communities and build a sustainable future for generations to come. Renewal involves change, not a return to the recent past. In fact, many Indigenous leaders call for a better future rather than a return to past circumstances. They note that under colonization, normal was never just nor was it ever fair. Pre-COVID-19 life edified individuality, globalism, resource depletion, social disconnection, rage, and hate. Trauma is not new to us. We are the manifestations of the stories we are born into and those we create. (Mataira, Morelli, & Spenser, 2020, p. 3) We remember who we are and where we come from as we move forward. As an example, during the early stages of the COVID-19 pandemic, Native Americans burdened by disproportionate risks reached out to the US government for personal protective equipment such as masks and gloves. Instead, in a much publicized and macabre instance, the Seattle Indian Health Board received body bags. Shocked but ultimately undaunted, Pawnee staff member Abigail Echo-Hawk transformed a body bag into a ribbon dress to celebrate healing (Nowell, 2021). Further, when vaccines became available, the Seattle Indian Health Board vaccinated teachers when Washington state did not. Likewise, Tribal Nations in Oklahoma took the lead in vaccinating people in their state, filling gaps left by settler governments (Kaur, 2021). As Indigenous leaders continue to say: we are good neighbors, we know we are all related, and we act based on this value system. Today, there are many examples of truth and reconciliation efforts around the world examining the atrocities of colonization and settler governments’ accountability to Indigenous Peoples 394

Conclusion

(Indigenous Truth and Reconciliation Commissions, 2021). These include commissions in Guatemala, Chile, Canada, Finland, and Norway. Indigenous Peoples are also establishing our own truth and reconciliation commissions (Gonzalez, n.d.). As an example, Indigenous Peoples in Alaska are developing a truth, racial healing, and transformation tribunal. Their effort is not government sanctioned, but comes from the people. They work with Native healers across the state to create a space for the truth to be told in a way that will not re-harm people. They include “accountability partners” such as representatives of governments and churches who act as deep listeners as they examine and reckon with their colonial legacies. Together, Indigenous people and accountability partners co-design a new legacy, creating multiple solutions. The process centers Indigenous people and wisdom, holding them up above all others, to create a space for healing. Similar endeavors are being done in 14 other places across the United States, centering each community’s priorities. Likewise, a national effort is underway to establish a Truth, Racial Healing, and Transformation Commission in the United States (Indigenous Truth and Reconciliation Commissions, 2021). The authors provide many examples of Indigenous resilience, drawing on personal experiences, research, and Indigenous teachings. The content of this book is organized into general areas that describe continuity that extends from the past to the future, the pillars of Indigeneity, the power we draw from aspects of Indigenous identity, our relationship with the natural world, and how we reframe the narrative as we build opportunities for the future. Although separated into sections, these narratives intersect and create synergies across examples from various parts of the world. The authors remind us that our ancestors gave us the strength to endure. They also call attention to the many ways Indigenous Peoples have shaped settler societies and point to additional opportunities for Indigenous Knowledge and perspectives to inform how humanity moves forward to address challenges on our shared planet. Contrary to many mainstream perspectives, Indigenous Peoples are not isolated, dysfunctional remnants of ancient societies stuck in the past. Our cultures and protocols have never remained static. In fact, Māori Tikanga and leaders were very forward-thinking from the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic. With the hindsight of more than a year, community responsiveness and proactiveness was remarkable. They demonstrated flexibility during ever-evolving situations. Within the chapters of this book are numerous examples of Indigenous Peoples protecting the environment, offering guidance for shaping educational systems, providing input for disaster preparedness plans, and shaping policies and human services in ways that can benefit all people. The authors of this volume call our attention to the responsibilities we carry as human beings who inhabit this shared world. No one person can be all things to all people – but neither can we move forward assuming that we do not have obligations to others and to our planet. We are called to awareness and thoughtful recognition of our responsibilities and how our gifts can help others. As truth and reconciliation endeavors move forward around the world, each of us must provide support and safety for people telling their truths. We begin by listening. Only after listening can we move toward informed and thoughtful action. As each of us reflects on the skills and talents we carry, we can develop a plan to implement positive change within our sphere of influence. The authors of these chapters have highlighted many possibilities as they describe various movements and challenges. In the introduction to this book, I invited readers to listen to and learn from Indigenous narratives. I now call on readers to act based on these new understandings. As I come to the end of this book, I am forever grateful to all those who contributed their words, all those who made this project possible, and all those who have shaped my thinking and writing in this project and in life. As in the Ganonyok, the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving 395

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Address, I greet and give thanks to all elements of the natural world. If anything was left out or forgotten, that was not my intention. I leave it to each reader to build on what is presented here, expand their knowledge, and address the ever-evolving challenges in our shared world.

References Gonzalez, E. (no date). The interaction between transitional justice and indigenous truth and reconciliation processes. Mary Hoch Center for Reconciliation. Retrieved from https://drive.google.com/file/d/ 1GTuLhEP2DC0a7D0_IClEInsMG9Gu84fx/view Indigenous Truth and Reconciliation Commissions: Learning from Experience. (2021, April  14). United Nations permanent forum on indigenous issues. Retrieved from www.youtube.com/watch?v=7va NvT1BYKU Kaur, H. (2021, March 16). Anyone in Oklahoma can now get the COVID-19 vaccine, thanks to several native tribes. CNN. Retrieved March  18, 2021, from www.cnn.com/2021/03/16/us/oklahomatribes-offers-vaccine-to-all-trnd/index.html Mataira, P., Morelli, P.,  & Spenser, M. (2020). Indigenous communities and COVID-19: Impact and implications. Journal of Indigenous Social Development, 9(3), 1–3. Nowell, C. (2021, February 4). They asked for PPE and got body bags instead- she turned them into a healing dress. Vogue. Retrieved June 10, 2021, from www.vogue.com/article/body-bag-native-ribbon-dress

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INDEX

collectivism 1 – 2, 19, 92, 161 – 162; Afrocentric health enablement 201 – 205; in Fiji and Papua New Guinea 363 – 367, 370 – 371; among Pacific Peoples 109, 111 – 113, 117 – 119; pashtunwali and collective responsibilities among the Pashtun 123, 125 – 126; and reindeer herding 261 – 265; responding to climate crises 318 – 321; the Small Farmers Platform (Taiwan) 279 – 280; Ubuntu 195; see also mutual aid and reciprocity colonization 5–8, 17–18, 77–78, 254, 317, 393–394; banning cultural and spiritual practices 38, 136, 350; British on the Indian subcontinent 122–123; disease 379–381; dominant society narratives of misrepresentation and erasure 1, 106, 151–152; internalized colonization 7, 74, 115–116; of Ireland 24–27; in Northern California (US) 223–225; resistance to 140–141, 302; and social welfare and health systems 35–37, 40–42, 280–282; undermining women’s power 243; see also assimilation; trauma communication 265 – 266, 324 – 326, 351, 384 – 387 community: community engagement 212, 371 – 373; maintaining connections during COVID-19 386 – 387; strengths 384 – 385 cosmologies 12, 77, 82, 239 – 241; Afroindigenous riverine communities in Colombia 52 – 54; Celtic 21; Hawaiian 247 – 248; Māori 83 – 85, 90, 134 – 135 COVID-19 pandemic 12 – 14, 66 – 68, 205, 315, 349; Indigenous responses and resilience 91 – 92, 379, 381 – 390

activism 71 – 72, 130, 149, 385 – 386; the Cattleguard Eight and protection of Maunakea 307 – 311; communities of refuge 302 – 304; see also advocacy; Protectors (land and water) advocacy 30, 42 – 43; family members as advocates 187 – 190, 332 – 333 Afrocentric care and support 201 – 205 Afroindigenous riverine communities 51 – 52, 61 agriculture: Atayal (Taiwan) 274, 279 – 282; Blue Corner Farm (Papua New Guinea) 368, 371 – 375; Natural Farming Program (Taiwan) 276 – 279; Nayarabale Youth Farm (Fiji) 368, 370 – 371, 373 – 375 Alaska Natives 210 Aloha ‘āina 245 – 246, 253, 304 – 307, 311 ancestors 9, 66 – 69, 75, 82, 238 – 239, 245 – 246; see also Seven Generations assimilation 28 – 29, 37, 39 – 42, 258 – 259, 302; see also colonization boarding schools see residential schools Canadian Indigenous Peoples 336 Celtic communism 22, 28 – 29, 31 – 33 Celtic Ireland 21 – 24 child removals 41, 155 – 157; see also Indian Child Welfare Act (US) Christchurch Mosque attack 90 Christianity 5–6; in Ireland 23–24; views on Indigenous sexuality and gender roles 113–116; wanbel (Papua New Guinea) 373–374 citizenship 4 – 5 class struggle 28 – 29 climate change 266 – 267, 287, 314 – 321 397

Index cultural identity: in Fiji and Papua New Guinea 364 – 366; among the Pashtun 128 – 129; preservation of Sami language and culture 262 – 263; reinforced through connecting with the land 277 – 279; symbolized in moko (Aotearoa) 135 – 136, 139 – 144; Tamang (Nepal) 290 – 291, 294 – 295; transcendent identities 18 – 19; see also indigeneity cultural protocols 85, 90–91, 238–239, 242–245, 367–370; as guidance for activism 307–311 cultural revitalization 11–13, 44–45; Celtic 31–33; during the COVID-19 pandemic 382–383; Māori 137–140; Native American 148–149 culture: as a buffer for transcending adversity 162, 233 – 234, 271 – 272; continuity and change 10, 216 – 217, 268 – 269; cultural activities and ceremonies 242 – 243; erasure 18, 72 – 74; implications for national policies and global development 196, 205 – 206, 267 – 268, 297; integration into interventions and research 44, 322 – 324; see also spirituality

Hedge schools 27 – 28; Indigenous and Tribal 39; and language 99 – 101, 105; about trauma 354, 357 – 358; see also residential schools elders: as activists 310 – 311, 319; humor and laughter 212 – 219; Jirga (Pashtun Council of Elders) 123, 127 – 128; as Knowledge Holders 189, 342, 344 – 346, 354 – 355, 357 – 358, 390; place in society 99, 210, 218 – 219; successful aging 210 – 212; Tamang 294 – 295 environmental contamination and degradation 287, 316, 319 – 320; see also climate change family structures 161, 165 – 166, 228 – 230; Native Americans of the Southeastern US 172 – 178; in Pacific Indigenous cultures 113; Sami kinship collectives (siida) 261 – 265; and trauma 230 – 233 Fijian Indigenous Peoples 362 – 364 gender roles 5; and assimilation 39; masculine wisdom in the Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma 356; in Pacific cultures 112 – 113; in Papua New Guinea 371 – 373; among Sami 264 – 265 genocide and mass killings 25, 29, 97, 104, 152, 224 – 225 Good Mind 11, 13, 383 governments: Native American 37, 40 – 41; responsibilities of settler states 36 – 38; see also settler state government failures

dance 38, 70 – 71, 90, 114, 225 – 226, 383 decolonization 7–8, 13, 32, 111, 332–333; disability 341–342; education 341–342; integrating Pacific epistemologies of collectivism 117–119; moving away from dependence on social welfare systems 280–282 development: collective entrepreneurship (Fiji and Papua New Guinea) 366–368, 370–375; economic 196; land use 61, 362; on Maunakea 302–304; in Nepal 287; TIDDA Small Farmers Platform (Taiwan) 276, 279–282 digital divide 385 – 386 disabilities: applying the 4Rs framework in education settings 342 – 344; definitions and labeling 338 – 341; Indigenous perceptions 340 – 341; pathologizing difference 335 displacement and relocation 3; by the Gorka earthquake 288, 290 – 296; poverty and creation of diaspora 123 – 124; by violence 54 – 57, 104, 124 duality and balance 8 – 9, 157 – 158, 387; independence and interdependence 262 – 265; privilege and shame 106; strength and struggle 66 – 69

Hawaiian history 301 – 302 healing and healers 36, 183 – 184, 187, 203 – 204, 350 – 354; see also Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma health: and aging 210–212; barriers to health care 184, 352; disease and colonization 379–381; family support 186–192; humor and laughter 213–214; infusing traditional practices 201–206; public health campaigns 91–92, 381; services 36–37, 42–43; sterilization 41–42; structural inequities and disparities 13, 180–181, 197–198, 204–205, 349, 381; testimonial: relationships foster resilience 228–230; see also COVID-19 pandemic; healing and healers; Indian Health Service (US); Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma humanitarian zones 56 – 57, 61 – 62 humor: jokes and mockery among the Pashtun 129; laughter and healing 212 – 214; teasing and connections among Alaskan Natives 217 – 218

ecological sustainability 278 – 280 education: achievement 66 – 70, 101; and assimilation 28, 37, 100; Canadian systems 338 – 339; children with learning disabilities 344 – 346; collaborative engagement 343 – 344; 398

Index Indian Child Welfare Act (US) 41 – 43 Indian Health Service (US) 41 – 42, 352, 354 indigeneity 58 – 62, 72 – 73; definitions of Tribal Peoples 50 – 51; and race 57 – 58 Indigenous influences on settlers and settler societies 18, 87 – 92 Indigenous Knowledge and Traditional Teachings 8, 10–13, 36, 233–234, 341–342, 390; and disaster preparedness and response 294–297; and environmental justice 325–326; flocking and social support 196–197, 205–206; integrating in education 344–346; integrating with Western mental health models 352–354; and research 367; source of strength for leadership 245–246 Indigenous Peoples: definitions and demographics 2; diversity and commonalities 4 – 5; identity and culture 3 – 5; marginalization and vulnerability 2, 7; see also Tribal Peoples infrastructure gaps 204 – 205, 325 – 326, 381 Internally Displaced Persons camps 293 – 296 intersectional identities 71, 74, 108 – 110, 118

Maunakea 300 – 301; see also Protectors (land and water) Maya: homeland 96; language 97 – 98 medicine wheel 8 mental health: Canton (Hiawatha) Asylum for Insane Indians 40; and climate change 314 – 318; crisis intervention models 317 – 318; emotional wellbeing 211 – 212; holistic collective approaches 321 – 322, 325 – 327; the LINCC WEB Model 322 – 325 migration 102 – 105, 274 – 275 Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women 230 – 233 moko: contemporary 137 – 144; European perceptions 135 – 137; history 134 – 135, 137 mutual aid and reciprocity 86 – 87, 161 – 162, 181, 364 – 365; within communities and tribal groups 125 – 126, 184 – 186, 198 – 199, 201 – 204; within families 169 – 172, 186 – 190; with outsiders 265 Native Americans 147 – 149 natural disasters 285 – 286; 921 earthquake 275 – 276, 282; Christchurch earthquakes 88 – 89; displacements and government response 291–297; Gorka earthquake 287–288; Indigenous perspectives 289–290; Whakaari (White Island) volcanic eruption 90–91 natural world 3 – 4, 21; regeneration of 387; as a source of resilience 235, 321 – 322; see also climate change Nepal Indigenous Peoples 285 – 287 non-state actors 6, 128

kinship ties: and collective work 264 – 265, 364 – 365, 374; among the Pashtun 125 – 126 labeling 2 – 3; disability 335, 338 – 341; sexuality 114 – 115 land: alienation from 27, 38 – 39, 302; allotment policy (US) 39 – 40; collective ownership 362 – 364; exploitation of natural resources 6, 17, 54, 316, 385; land claims 60; reconnecting with during the COVID-19 pandemic 383; relationship with and spiritual connection to 55 – 56, 60 – 62, 82, 300 – 301, 304 – 307; responsibilities to 67 – 69, 249, 254 – 255; women and power 239 – 241, 248 – 249; see also displacement and relocation language: and cultural identity 43 – 44, 97 – 98, 103 – 106; learning colonial languages 102 – 103; linguistic barriers 104 – 105 laughter: and connections 217 – 218; functions of 208 – 209, 212 – 215, 218 – 219; and humility 215 – 216; and stress 216 – 217 law enforcement 225, 303 – 304, 310 – 311 leadership 12 – 13, 37 – 38, 68 – 69, 305, 345 – 346; core qualities 244 – 249; matriarchy and connections to the natural world 238 – 241

oil pipelines 385 – 386 Original Instructions 10 – 13, 234 – 236, 383, 390; see also Indigenous Knowledge and Traditional Teachings Pacific Peoples 109 – 110 Papua New Guinea Indigenous Peoples 362 – 364 Pashtun: contemporary 123 – 125; history and origins 121 – 123 persistence through adversity 162, 331 – 332, 389–390, 393–395; in Nepal 290–296; among the Sami 260–262; social support and chronic adversity 199; and traditional healing 350–351 poetry, proverbs, and songs: Falling in Love with the Malu of the Mauna 309 – 310; For the Beauty of Maunakea 300; Igniting the Warrior Spirit 356; Pashtu literature and proverbs 129 – 131

mana 84, 86, 90 – 91, 247 – 249, 305, 310 – 311 Māori: contemporary 86 – 87; cosmology and spirituality 83 – 85, 90 – 91, 134 – 135; moko kauae history and revival 137 – 140 399

Index policies: allotment (US) 39 – 40; British colonial policies and the Pashtun people 122 – 123; failure of disaster management policies (Nepal) 291 – 297; removal (US) 38 – 39; reorganization and self-governance (US) 40 – 41; restructuring (Norway) 258 – 261, 268; termination (US) 41 – 42, 72; tribal self-determination (US) 42 – 45; urban relocation (US) 41 – 42 Protectors (land and water) 67 – 68, 254 – 255, 321, 327; Ceibo Alliance of the Ecuadorian Amazon 320 – 321, 323; Maunakea 302 – 304, 307 – 311, 319 – 320; Water Protectors at Standing Rock 319, 323 – 324; Water Walkers of the Great Lakes region 319

solesolevaki 111 – 112, 365 – 366, 368, 370 – 371, 373 – 375 solidarity 67 – 68, 90, 388 – 389 sovereignty 29, 36 – 37, 41, 72, 332, 388; opportunities for new partnerships and new beginnings 388 – 389; visual sovereignty 152 spirituality 81–82, 162–163, 236; Atayal 273–274, 277–279; Celtic 22, 27; colonization and spiritual suppression 5–6, 25, 38; and community healing 88–89; during the COVID-19 pandemic 382–383; Māori 83–85, 87; prayer and ceremony as components of leadership 244–245; seasonal ceremonies 274, 314–315; support for community members in need 202–203; Tamang 292, 294–295; testimonial: spiritual elements nurture resilience 225–228; and trauma healing 350–351 stereotypes 127, 262, 320 – 321 stories and testimonials: contemporary uses of Native American stories 152 – 157; disabilities and education systems 337 – 338; dispossession and resilience 241 – 243; honesty and selflove promote resilience 230 – 233; Iyah the campeater 153 – 155; lessons from cultural activities stimulate resilience 233 – 234; listening and observing: Mom 246; mo’olelo of the kānāwai māmalahoe (the splintered paddle) 307 – 308; nurturing my own vā 17; relationships foster resilience 228 – 230; spiritual elements nurture resilience 225 – 228 storytelling 71; for decolonization and truthtelling 152 – 153, 155 – 158; dominant society narratives 151 – 152; for healing 152 – 155; and Indigenous pedagogies and epistemologies 150 – 151; testimonials and testimonial justice 225; traditional functions and parameters 149 – 151; Word Warriors 324 structural inequities 7, 13, 181, 195 – 196, 204 subsistence lifeways 61 – 62

reindeer husbandry: connections to animals 267; historical perspectives 257 – 258; through kinship collectives 264 – 265 relationships 65 – 66; across borders 71 – 73; building relationships for research 368 – 369; human-animal connections 260, 267; interconnectedness of all beings 19, 66, 82, 84, 86 – 87, 161 – 162; intergenerational 98 – 100, 165 – 166, 169; with the natural world 4, 90 – 91, 242 – 249, 253, 273, 294 – 295; nurturing and reclaiming connections 117, 235, 277 – 279; talanoa and tok stori 369 – 370; testimonial: relationships foster resilience 228 – 230; see also family structures; mutual aid and reciprocity; Protectors (land and water) residential schools 38 – 39, 155 – 157, 166, 213, 241 – 242, 338 – 339; disease 380 resilience definitions 62, 181, 222 – 223, 271, 350 resistance 27 – 31, 36 – 39, 54 – 57, 61 – 62, 78 – 79, 331 – 332; see also activism Sami 257 – 259 self-sufficiency 263 – 264, 280 – 282 settler state government failures 331; disaster preparedness and relief (Nepal) 291 – 297; environmental degradation 316; infrastructure and COVID-19 381; protecting Maunakea (US) 303 – 304, 308 Seven Generations 9, 11 – 12, 17 sexuality 5, 37; among Pacific Peoples 112 – 113, 117 – 118 slavery 51 – 53 social movements 129 – 130 social support see mutual aid and reciprocity societal structures: Celtic 22 – 24; Fijian 363 – 364; Papua New Guinea 364; Pashtun 125

Taiwanese Indigenous Peoples 272 – 274; Atayal people and culture 273 – 274 talanoa and tok stori 369 – 370 theoretical and research frameworks: the 4Rs Framework 342 – 344; Asta Ja (Eight Ja Framework) 289, 291 – 296; Indigenous Theory 111; Pacific Vanua and Tali Magimagi 367; Queer Theory 110 – 111 time: interconnections of past, present, and future 9 – 10, 58 – 59; patience 265 – 266 Traditional Knowledge see Indigenous Knowledge and Traditional Teachings 400

Index Traditional medicine see healing and healers trauma 317–318, 350; Adverse Childhood Events (ACEs) 351–352; contemporary 148, 230–233; coping with trauma through humor and laughter 213–214, 216–217; historical trauma 9, 74, 148; intergenerational 153–157; land loss and environmental degradation 315–316; and traditional healing 350–351; Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma 353–359 tribal organizations and institutions: Jirga (Pashtun Council of Elders) 123, 127 – 128; Laskhar (Pashtun Tribal militia) 123, 127 – 128; Taiwan Indigenous Dmavun Development Association (TIDDA) 275 – 276 Tribal Peoples 50 – 51, 55 truth telling and challenging dominant narratives 155 – 157, 394 – 395

wanbel 366, 371 – 375 war and foreign invasions 122 – 123; Colombian agrarian armed conflict 54 – 56; Guatemalan civil war 97, 104; Soviet-Afghan war 124, 128; war on terror 124, 128; World War II and the Sami 258 – 259, 264 Warrior Spirit Movement to Heal Historical Trauma: foundations 354 – 356; implementation 357 – 359 women 37 – 38, 98 – 103, 106; and activism 71 – 72, 307 – 311; health 180; Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women 230 – 233; the power of women and land 239 – 241, 248 – 249; pregnancy and childbirth 188 – 189, 203 – 204, 246 – 247; roles and expectations 368, 371 – 375; sterilization 41 – 42; undermining women’s power 243

Ubuntu 195 urbanization 41–42, 147–148, 197–198, 274, 352

youth 40 – 41, 152, 166, 170; activism 130; Solesolevaki at Nayarabale Youth Farm 368, 370 – 371; see also youth testimonials youth testimonials: honesty and self-love promote resilience 230 – 233; lessons from cultural activities stimulate resilience 233 – 234; relationships foster resilience 228 – 230; spiritual elements nurture resilience 225 – 228401

violence 6, 224 – 225; culturally imbedded 127; extremist groups, paramilitaries, and drug mafia 57, 124, 128; interpersonal violence 154 – 155, 166; Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women 230 – 233; sectarian violence in Ireland 30; and stereotypes 18, 127; see also war and foreign invasions

401