On Kinship: Indigenous Knowledge(s) & Western Knowledge
By Pedro Reynolds-Cuéllar, Annie Te One, Jacqueline Paul, and Alvin Harvey
Volume 26, no. 2, Ways of Knowing
In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Potawatomi botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer offers a powerful metaphor for how knowledges can intertwine based on the ancient practice of the Mayan milpa.
The Three Sisters offer us a new metaphor for an emerging relationship between Indigenous knowledge and Western science, both of which are rooted in the earth. I think of the corn as traditional ecological knowledge, the physical and spiritual framework that can guide the curious bean of science, which twines like a double helix. The squash creates the ethical habitat for coexistence and mutual flourishing. I envision a time when the intellectual monoculture of science will be replaced with a polyculture of complementary knowledges. And so all may be fed.1
And while the metaphor invites hope for what knowledge can be, Professor Kimmerer also describes the challenges of Indigenous knowledge encountering western science as akin to “swimming upstream in cold, cold water.” In this article, we embrace this metaphor to speak about our experiences weaving Indigenous and western knowledges in our roles as practitioners and members of academic institutions. We are four Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars. Each of us brings personal learnings as we navigate through university education guided by our connections to, and appreciations of, Indigenous understandings of the world. We offer insights into the diversities of Indigenous knowledge creation, theory, and practice. While our experiences differ, the rivers we paddle have common themes pertaining to connection, action, and sharing the joys and challenges of partaking in Indigenous ways of knowing. Pedro, from Colombia, speaks about his struggles with how western knowledge assumes a superiority over Indigenous and ancestral knowledges. He begins by illustrating how these dynamics manifest in the context of educational reform by highlighting the contentious path following the recent appointment of Colombia’s Minister of Education.2 Minister Aurora Vergara—similarly to her fellow Afro-descendant colleague former Minister of Science, Technology, and Innovation, Mabel Restrepo—has faced backlash from the Colombian scientific community in her efforts to foster dialogue between different ways of knowing. Specifically, bridging knowledge traditionally taught in higher education with “ancestral knowledge of ethnic communities in the Colombian Pacific region.”3 A historical shift, now written into drafts for legal reform, guarantees recognition of cultural knowers is on par with those receiving “formal” training.4 While these efforts do not get to the heart of tensions between western and non-western forms of knowledge that Professor Kimmerer addresses, Pedro suggests that it does highlight that as upstream the swim and as cold the water can be, there is a way to navigate through it. Annie and Jacqueline, from Aotearoa, share how they continue to traverse the complex history behind Te Tiriti o Waitangi (Treaty of Waitangi), and ongoing acts of colonization, positioning Mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge) as inferior to western knowledge. Mātauranga Māori, however, sets examples to rectify this imbalance. For example, the development of Kaupapa Māori research methodologies that advocate for transformation by/for Māori research and promoting rangatiratanga (Māori self-determination). Alvin, from Diné Bikéyah, the Navajo Nation, reflects on his journeys to reconnect to land and ceremony through Indigenous research, sharing through Diné (Navajo) kinship: K’é. From stars to sagebrush, K’é opens paths towards constructive dialogue that challenges and grows the ways we position and carry out science. How Indigenous and ancestral knowledges are maintained and communicated, and how they intersect with layers of colonization are vital parts of understanding the politics of research. In the spirit of making more paths upstream, navigating cold waters, and bringing us closer to the milpa metaphor, the experiences offered in this article show the diversity of the rivers we have paddled and the commonalities that are woven through our journeys. Ki te taha o tōku pāpā he uri tēnei o te maunga titohea arā ko Taranaki, ko Te Āti Awa me Ngāti Mutunga ōku iwi matua. Ki te taha o tōku māmā, he whakapapa Hūrai, he whakapapa nō Airani hoki. On my father’s side I am descended from Taranaki mountain, my main tribes are Te Ātiawa and Ngāti Mutunga. On my mothers side I am Jewish and Irish. I am a lecturer at Victoria University of Wellington – Te Herenga Waka in Māori Studies. Ko Annie Te One ahau. Indigenous peoples have always been researchers. Context-specific ways of knowing, researching, and action are central to our diverse communities. It has been twenty-four years since Māori scholar Linda Tuhiwai-Smith wrote Decolonising Methodologies,5 a book that continues to inform best practice for working as Indigenous researchers, and with Indigenous peoples. Like much of Indigenous scholarship, it reinforces strong traditions of practice that have survived and thrived, despite colonization. I would like to reflect briefly on being a Māori researcher from Aotearoa who has spent time in Australia conducting research. I offer some ideas around being an Indigenous researcher carrying out research on other Indigenous peoples’ lands. Although Indigenous peoples connect through cultural philosophies and collective global struggles against colonial and capitalist structures, I have, in my international experiences, felt discomfort about how to appropriately carry out research in ways that do not perpetuate harms done by non-Indigenous researchers interrogating Indigenous societies. When I began my PhD in Australia, I was confronted by several circumstances leading me on an unexpected learning path. I was one of a small number of Indigenous students. Of the roughly seven academics in our Indigenous Studies school, only two were Aboriginal Australian. Given the severe lack of Indigenous representation, I was frequently asked to be an Indigenous student representative on panels, speak on Indigenous issues, and tutor Indigenous courses. These circumstances led me to some reflections. Firstly, I acknowledge that global Indigenous connections are powerful and vital for self-determination efforts—but being Indigenous does not give us rights to speak on behalf of other Indigenous peoples on their lands. Within the university, I had to confront how easily non-Indigenous peoples amalgamated us as being all the same. Secondly, I became friends with Aboriginal Australian students who organized movements for rights and eventually realized this was where I should direct my energies: in supporting, not leading. While in Australia, my original interests were in comparative work between my iwi (tribe) and an Aboriginal community. I sometimes cringe at my naivety here, but the lesson is an important one: Global Indigenous communities are each distinctive, with their own research practices and principles. Research conducted about these groups is best done by their own people. Even though I wanted to support Aboriginal sovereignty movements, I had no strong relationship with any community that should have trusted me to undertake research for them. I quickly squashed the idea of some sort of comparison. While there is caution around non-Indigenous research in Indigenous communities, it’s also vital for Indigenous peoples to remain self-reflective when having the privilege to learn on other Indigenous lands. We must be wary of power structures at play, how any platform we are offered might silence another local voice, how we must be open to being directed and not leading, and how, just like numerous Indigenous scholars that preceded me have noted, research must be directed by communities themselves, not the researcher. Shí éí Alvin Harvey yinishyé. Tó baazhni’ázhi Nishłį́. Honágháahnii Bashishchiin. Biligana dashicheii. Kiyaa’áanii dashinalí. I am Diné, of the Two Who Came To the Water Clan and I am born for the One Walks Around Clan. My maternal grandfather is of German descent and my paternal grandfather is of the Towering House Clan. I am from the Navajo Nation, currently residing in Cambridge, MA completing my PhD in Aeronautics and Astronautics.Indigenous people have always been scientists, engineers, and philosophers. Indigenous Research Methodologies and Methods (IRM&M) have always existed, although their acknowledgment is recent within western academia. From my experiences with IRM&M, and from the paradigm of my Diné people’s knowledge system, what is centered in the work is relationality, kinship. This begins with the relationship that you have with yourself and your people’s knowledge systems. Indigenous research in academia is not just an opportunity to serve the community or guide holistic, healing research, but also a healing path for the researcher. You do not have to come with full connection or awareness of your people’s lifeways initially. It means that you, as an Indigenous researcher, are capable of coming to know your spirit self and its relationships with Indigenous peoples. It is a lifelong learning journey providing an ongoing opportunity to grow your positionality and be on your healing path. In STEM-centric institutions, the beginning steps in IRM&M are often with Māori scholar Linda Tuhiwai-Smith. She provides the “why” of how you should decolonize your research through Indigenous Methods, while offering vocabulary that can be used to articulate to western academia why it should be done. Another “why” layered within ourselves, is the desire to heal. Heal oneself and share that healing with all relations is a call to action for Indigenous researchers. The sophisticated language, ceremonies, protocol, and lifeways of your people will offer the grounding to move from why to how, and from how to living the ways of IRM&M’s. All people can share in celebrating this rebalancing of knowledges that heals the world around us. He uri tenei nō Ngā Puhi, Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Ngāti Kahungunu ki Heretaunga. My name is Jacqueline Paul and I am a descendant of Ngā Puhi, Ngāti Tūwharetoa and Ngāti Kahungunu ki Heretaunga from Aotearoa New Zealand. I am a researcher at Pūrangakura based in Tāmaki Makaurau in Aotearoa New Zealand and a Doctoral student in Urban Studies and Planning at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Working with Indigenous research methods, specifically inspired by kaupapa Māori theory and methodology, has been a transformative journey for me. As described by whaea Linda Tuhiwai-Smith, this approach is by, for, and with Māori. It’s grounded in tīkanga (customary practices), kawa (protocols), and mātauranga Māori, normalizing the process of undertaking research rooted in culture and traditions. This journey has enabled me to learn about our Indigenous ways of knowing, fostering a sense of belonging and connectedness, using research as a tool to support Māori communities. My journey began with a technical background in landscape architecture, a field that shares connections to land as well as a strong emphasis on place-based knowledge, much like Indigenous Māori research. Through this journey, I discovered the significance of rangahau, a common Māori term typically used for “research.” It represents Māori-led and determined research, rooted in Mātauranga Māori. It’s an understanding beyond western academic conventions. In my journey, I found pūrākau (storytelling) and wānanga (Māori knowledge transmission) to be invaluable Indigenous Māori research methods. They allowed me to connect with my culture and recognize the importance of tikanga (cultural practices) in our praxis. Centering Māori voices and valuing their perspectives asserts our identity, making these methods a departure from western research paradigms and a reaffirmation of our cultural heritage. It’s a journey of unlearning, relearning, decolonizing, reclaiming, and empowering that transformed my approach to research and redefined what research as an emerging Māori scholar means. My name is Pedro Reynolds-Cuéllar, born in Colombia from a family of farmers native to the San José de Miranda region, descendants of the Chitareros. I currently reside in Cambridge, MA completing my PhD in Media, Arts, and Sciences. Engaging with Indigenous research methods within a largely technical institution has been challenging and rewarding. Challenges began upon returning from fieldwork in collaboration with Indigenous Arhuaco communities in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Colombia. In 2018 as I spoke about directing research towards my heritage instead of towards established scientific theories, people responded with a myriad of questions about generalizability of knowledge, optimizing and standardizing issues of work done this way, and concerns about validity with no theory to run this knowledge against. I was fortunate to work with Colombian coffee growers in 2019, and while immersed in this environment, I understood these systems of knowledge were not meant to scale, generalize, standardize, or be used for optimization purposes. They are not to be validated against scientific knowledge in order to be relevant or useful. And while in the years to come, I have been able to further substantiate this realization through the work of Indigenous and decolonial scholars, I still find it hard to get these points across to colleagues in the academy. The recent rise of ancestral systems of knowledge into conversations around environmental management in the face of climate crisis provides concrete examples of how Indigenous, Afro-descendant, and farmers’ ways of knowing serve an important role in advancing our understanding of natural systems. It is my hope that a greater understanding of different ways of knowing will ease the many frictions faced by Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars when working with ancestral/Indigenous methods within academic institutions. As our initial experiences in engaging with Indigenous and ancestral ways of knowing illustrated, it is through action that this approach to research comes to life. Framing or wrapping research with Indigenous discourse is not enough. What follows are brief thoughts and concrete examples of how this transition can take place. Annie Te One and I are both involved in the kaupapa Māori research project “Generation Kāinga: Rangatahi Building a Regenerative and Resilient Aotearoa.” It’s aimed at enabling young Māorito to become agents in promoting and developing kāinga (housing, settlement) solutions. This will be done through Indigenous collective and participatory processes of reimagination, resilience, and regeneration. Māori youth participate as co-researchers, under the mentorship of tuakana (more experienced Māori scholars), along with multi-disciplinary teams across Aotearoa, Australia, and Turtle Island. For example, we have partnered with six Māori youth-led organizations including Mā Te Huruhuru charitable trust who are transforming supported kaupapa Māori youth housing in Aotearoa. As an emerging researcher, it’s empowering to lead this project alongside fellow emerging researchers under the tiaki (mentorship) of our tuakana. As Diné, I cannot speak to or on behalf of the entirety of my people or our lifeways—as it should be with our system of distributed knowledge. I began with wanting to use satellite systems to support Indigenous sovereignty, and I now sit, learning the language and ceremonies of my people, and practicing kinship through the support of the Indigenous community at my current institution. There are shared principles among all our people throughout the cosmos—kinship, or relationality, being the fire that frequently gathers us. This basis of kinship honors Indigenous sovereignty and shared responsibility beyond imposed borders. Begin with kinship in your way of being and learn what it means to be in kinship with the land you are on now. Honor the relatives there, the Indigenous people and everything from the stones to the birds. Honor and recognize the diversity of our people, while still connecting to think, plan, live, and reflect as a people with shared responsibility. This is not easy, but knowledge is not easy to gain—nor should it be. Another thought I offer is the distinction between methodology and methods in moving your Indigenous research into action. In my experience, methodology is the philosophical rationale and basis for selecting methods. My methodology is rooted in the knowledge of my people and its connection to shared principles. This methodology, rooted in relationality, guides the way in which any “data” are “analyzed” and in what methods are selected for research. From what I have learned, there is a space between methodology and methods where you consider what community you are speaking to. A mixed methods approach, weaving western and Indigenous tools or methods, while keeping a centered Indigenous methodology can help bridge the connection of philosophies and grow the paralleling and centering of Indigenous ways of knowing. While action can be seen as the heart of doing work inspired by ancestral or Indigenous ways of knowing, communicating what is done can be as critical as the work itself, particularly at a time where the conversation around Indigenous ways of knowing continues to gain traction. One challenge I found in my research journey was how inaccessible information was to young people. Traditional academic practice involves journal publishing, and while conferences hold presentations and discussions, broader accessibility often falls short. I struggle with these practices and still feel quite resistant to them. Therefore, I have focused on diverse ways of sharing and communicating this knowledge to audiences, while engaging in Indigenous research methods such as pūrākau. As a team, we are committed to reaching our Māori community. Creating a podcast emerged as a powerful way to achieve this goal, and we were determined to ensure the entire production was by, for, and with young Māori. “He Whare Mō Wai?”6 is a podcast and video series created by/for young Māori, hosted by emerging Māori researchers. The title of the podcast reflects the research goal of supporting young people in finding housing. “He Whare Mō Wai?” provides a platform for young Māori to share their pūrākau, offer advice, and express their aspirations regarding housing throughout Aotearoa New Zealand, while discussing topics such as home ownership, renting, finance, mortgages, homelessness, and more. This approach has garnered interest from academic and non-academic spaces, allowing us to subvert established knowledge dissemination norms. One of the hardest things I have found in communicating Indigenous research is getting people to slow down and feel. There is always a place for the abrupt and quick. But more often than not, when we bring people together in a place of communication, that requires an intentionality and a different pace set by trust and relationality. Asking academics to sit in place, listen, and share in a place of ceremony is challenging. The academic schedule tortures the heart with speed and perceived productivity. It’s certainly my Diné heart that calls for me to take my time with intention and thoughtfulness, and my engineering mind that makes me hunger for alacrity. It’s when we take our time during the communication of Indigenous research that allows us to feel our other senses. We listen not just with our ears. And, when we listen, with intention and slowly, we come to understand the shared challenges we face and the medicines that can be offered by all people. As the weaving of knowledges continues, there is more to be said about the long, healing, and winding journey through the practice of Indigenous and ancestral knowledges. Our storytelling is just a brush of experiences of how we engage, practice, and speak Indigenous and ancestral knowledges in our research voyages; as well as a snippet of the mistakes and successes as we go along. It is also an example of how we come together through kinship, an invitation to look at knowledge through the lens of relationships. Opaskwayak Cree scholar Shawn Wilson evokes the profoundness of this connection in the context of his specific Indigenous research paradigm: “the shared aspect of an Indigenous ontology and epistemology is relationality (relationships do not merely shape reality, they are reality)”[emphasis added].7 As you depart on your own journey, know that regardless of how cold the water can be, or how upstream you have to swim, you are part of a tapestry greater than yourself, and so we all may swim together. Pedro Reynolds-Cuéllar: I am an activist, organizer and designer from Colombia. I am currently a Doctoral Candidate at the Media, Arts, and Sciences, and the Art, Culture, and Technology programs at MIT. I study ancestral technologies in Colombia and their connections to sustainable and just tech design practices. Annie Te One (Ph.D): Annie (Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Mutunga) is a lecturer at Victoria University of Wellington, Te Herenga Waka in the Māori Studies Department. She is a Fulbright scholar and currently a researcher on a project titled ‘Generation Kāinga’ focussed on Māori housing. Her other research interests include Māori politics, mana wāhine, and Indigenous climate justice. Jacqueline Paul: Jacqueline Paul (Ngā Puhi, Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Ngāti Kahungunu ki Heretaunga) is a doctoral student in urban studies and planning. Jacqueline is currently a researcher for Pūrangakura Māori Research Centre in Aotearoa New Zealand, and is involved with the National Science Challenge – building better home towns and cities Māori housing research. Alvin Donel Harvey: I am Diné from the Navajo Nation and currently reside in Cambridge, MA while completing my PhD in Aeronautics and Astronautics. My research and development as a Diné man centers on relationality as a core structure of developing partnerships, systems, and good ways of being.Awakening (To) Ways of Knowing
Ways of Knowing, Ways of Action
Ways of Sharing
Walking the Path of Many Knowledges
Meet the contributors:
Twitter: @pecuellar https://twitter.com/pecuellar
Website: https://pr-c.me/
Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/jacqueline-paul-282082102/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jaackiepaulNotes
Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2013), 139.