Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability: Indigenous Stories from Around the Globe 1789733669, 9781789733662

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Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability

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Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability: Indigenous Stories from Around the Globe EDITED BY JAMES C. SPEE University of Redlands, USA

ADELA MCMURRAY RMIT University, Australia

MARK MCMILLAN RMIT University, Australia

United Kingdom – North America – Japan – India – Malaysia – China

Emerald Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2021 Copyright © 2021 Emerald Publishing Limited Reprints and permissions service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. Any opinions expressed in the chapters are those of the authors. Whilst Emerald makes every effort to ensure the quality and accuracy of its content, Emerald makes no representation implied or otherwise, as to the chapters’ suitability and application and disclaims any warranties, express or implied, to their use. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-78973-366-2 (Print) ISBN: 978-1-78973-365-5 (Online) ISBN: 978-1-78973-367-9 (Epub)

To Adela McMurray for inspiring and supporting the creation of this book every step of the way and to my wife Paige for her support in stressful times. –James To my parents and children, with love for all of time. –Adela

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Table of Contents

List of Tribes and Clans by Chapter About the Editors About the Contributors

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Preface

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Acknowledgements

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Chapter 1 Sustainable Relationships Are the Foundation of Tribal and Clan Perspectives James C. Spee, Adela McMurray and Mark McMillan

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Theme 1 Civilisations and Sustainability Chapter 2 Sustainable Indigenous Water Rights Deborah Wardle Chapter 3 Indigenous Ontologies in ‘Caring for Country’: Indigenous Australia’s Sustainable Customs, Practices and Laws Virginia Marshall

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Theme 2 Entrepreneurship and Innovation Chapter 4 Indigenous Entrepreneurs in Australia: Past, Present, and Future Bella L. Galperin, Meena Chavan and Salahudin Muhidin

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Table of Contents

Chapter 5 Māori Social Enterprise: A Case Study Ruth Hephzibah Orhoevwri

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Theme 3 Leadership in Tribes and Clans Chapter 6 Quechua/Aymara Perspective of Social, Economic, and Environmental Sustainability in the Bolivian Andes: Sustainability and Contradictions in Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa Heartland Tamara Stenn Chapter 7 Leadership Lessons in Sustainability from Elders and Events in Historical Clan Survival Stories Andrew Creed, Ambika Zutshi and Brian L. Connelly

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Theme 4 Politics and Policy in Tribal and Clan Organisations Chapter 8 Jirga, Its Role and Evolution in Pakistan’s Pashtun “Tribal” Society Farooq Yousaf

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Chapter 9 Effectiveness of ‘Traditional’ Conflict Resolution and Transformation Strategies Farooq Yousaf

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Chapter 10 The Resolution by the White Earth Anishinaabe Nation to Protect the Inherent Rights of Wild Rice 131 Lawrence W. Gross

Theme 5 Tribal and Clan Views on Health and Well-being Chapter 11 Therapeutic Landscapes and Indigenous Culture: Māori Health Models in Aotearoa/New Zealand 143 Jacqueline McIntosh, Bruno Marques and Rosemary Mwipiko Chapter 12 Fire, Stories and Health Deborah Wardle, Faye McMillan and Mark McMillan

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Chapter 13 Ubuntu Identity, the Economy of Bomvana Indigenous Healers, and Their Impact on Spiritual and Physical Well-being of an African Indigenous Community 169 Chioma Ohajunwa

Index

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List of Tribes and Clans by Chapter

Nation, Tribe, or Clan Name

Aboriginal people AmaBomvane people, Nguni group Anishinaabe (Chippewa, Ojibwe) Aymara Barkandji Boandik First Peoples Gunditjmara Hutu Klamath Māori Inuit Pashtun Quechua Torres Strait Islander people Waikato-Tainui Wiradjuri Yolsu Yoruba

Non-Indigenous Regional Name Papua New Guinea East Timor Australia Africa North America South America Australia Australia Australia Australia Rwanda North America New Zealand Nunavut, Canada, North America South Asia South America Australia New Zealand Australia Australia Africa

Chapter(s) 9 9 4, 12 13 10 6 3 7 12 2, 7, 12 9 7 5, 11 7 8 6 4, 12 5 12 4 7

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About the Editors

Prof. Mark McMillan, Wiradjuri man, is the Member of the Trangie Land Council, and since March 2017 has served as Deputy Pro Vice-Chancellor and Professor of Indigenous Education and Engagement at RMIT University in Melbourne. He previously served as an Associate Professor at University of Melbourne Law School. Prof. Adela McMurray is a Professor of Management at RMIT University, Melbourne. She has extensive experience researching in public and private sectors and has published over 260 refereed publications. Adela has won several teaching and leadership awards. Her research addressing workplace innovation, organisational culture and climate, cultural diversity, risk management, and sustainability is internationally recognised. Prof. James C. Spee is Professor of Strategy, Sustainable Business, and Entrepreneurship at the University of Redlands in Redlands, California, USA. His lifelong interest in design thinking led him to focus his teaching and scholarship on sustainability and from there to helping entrepreneurs found sustainable startups in his community.

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About the Contributors

Meena Chavan is a Senior Lecturer and Program Director in International Business at Macquarie University, Australia. She is a Senior Fellow of the Higher Education Academy and Fellow of the Intercultural Academy of Intercultural research. Her core research interests lie at the intersection of International Business & Entrepreneurship and Experiential learning and teaching. Professor Brian L. Connelly is Professor and Luck Eminent Scholar in the Department of Management, Harbert College of Business, Auburn University, USA. He teaches and conducts research in the area of strategic leadership and negative organizational events. He is Editor of the Journal of Management, has published in other top management journals such as Academy of Management Journal and Strategic Management Journal, and regularly featured in top media outlets, such as The New York Times and USA Today. Dr Andrew Creed is a Lecturer in the Department of Management in Deakin Business School, Deakin University, Melbourne, Australia. He teaches, researches and consults in organizational behaviour, change, learning and sustainability. He is published in quality journals, including Journal of Cleaner Production, Sustainability, Current Issues in Tourism, and European Business Review, and top imprints including, Palgrave, Emerald, Cengage and Oxford University Press. Bella L. Galperin, PhD, is Dana Professor of Management and Senior Associate Director of the TECO Energy Center for Leadership at the Sykes College of Business at the University of Tampa. Her interests relate to cross-cultural management and entrepreneurship. She is former Associate Editor of Cross Cultural Management: An International Journal. Lawrence W. Gross is the San Manuel Band of Mission Indians Endowed Chair of Native American Studies at the University of Redlands in Redlands, CA. He is the author of Anishinaabe Ways of Knowing and Being (2014). Bruno Marques is Programme Director for Landscape Architecture and Senior Lecturer. At the School of Architecture, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. His main research interests relate to the integration of indigenous methods in participatory design in landscape rehabilitation and ecosystem services.

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About the Contributors

Dr Virginia Marshall is Wiradjiri Nyemba. She is the Inaugural Indigenous Postdoctoral Fellow at the Australian National University, with the Schools of Regulation & Global Governance and Fenner Environment & Science. Virginia is the leading legal scholar on Indigenous Australian water rights and author of the award-winning seminal book Overturning Aqua Nullius (2017). Jacqueline McIntosh is Senior Lecturer at the School of Architecture, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. Her main research interests are designled culturally appropriate participatory design for improved health and wellbeing. Dr Faye McMillan is Associate Professor Charles Sturt University, Wagga Wagga, Australia. Dr McMillan is a Wiradjuri yinaa (woman) from Trangie, NSW. Faye is the 2019 NSW Aboriginal Woman of the Year and a Senior Atlantic Fellow. She is Australia’s first registered Aboriginal Pharmacist. Her research interests are in Nation Building and Indigenous women in leadership roles. Salahudin Muhidin is a Senior Lecturer in Demography at the Macquarie University in Sydney, Australia. He has been involved in both research and teaching roles, especially at Management Department for the subject of International Business and Applied Demography. Rosemary Mwipiko (Centre for Public Health Research, Massey University, New Zealand) is an Analyst working for the Environmental Health Indicators (EHI) team at the Centre for Public Health assisting with data visualisation. He is currently pursuing a Post-Graduate Diploma in Geographic Information Science at Victoria University of Wellington. Dr Chioma Ohajunwa is Lecturer at the Centre for Disability and Rehabilitation Studies, University of Stellenbosch, South Africa, and has a PhD in Health Sciences Rehabilitation focused on African indigenous spirituality and wellbeing and an MPhil in Disability Studies. He is currently involved in a transdisciplinary research on contextualization of indigenous knowledges within Medicine and Theology and disability policies within Africa. Dr Ruth Hephzibah Orhoevwri (University of Otago, New Zealand) is Nigerian and has a PhD in Maori entrepreneurship from University of Otago, and an MSc in Business Administration from Ume˚a University, in Sweden. She currently works as an Intelligence and Insights Specialist with Inland Revenue in Wellington, New Zealand. Dr Tamara Stenn (Landmark College, US) is a US Fulbright Scholar, Professor of Economics and Entrepreneurship, and a Coordinator for the HDCA Indigenous Peoples Thematic Group. Her research interests include economic wellbeing, indigenous wisdom, and sustainable development. Dr Deborah Wardle (RMIT University, Australia) is a Researcher in the Office of Indigenous Education and Engagement at RMIT. She is published in Australian

About the Contributors

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and international eco-humanities journals. Her research interests include narrative expressions of groundwater. Dr Farooq Yousaf holds a PhD in Politics from the University of Newcastle, NSW. He has previously completed his Master’s in Public Policy from the University of Erfurt in Germany. His research interests include critical theory, traditional methods of conflict resolution and postcolonialism. Associate Professor Ambika Zutshi (Deakin University, Australia) teaches and researches corporate social responsibility, business ethics, higher education and supply chain management. She has published in International Journal of Management Reviews, Journal of Cleaner Production, European Business Review, and the International Journal of Environmental and Sustainable Development. She is Australasian and Associate Editor of European Business Review, Emerald.

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Preface

Organizational stakeholders increasingly seek products and services that are produced and distributed in ways that balance the Triple Bottom Line of economic, social, and environmental sustainability. Definitions and expectations for sustainability, however, have often been dominated by non-Indigenous perspectives. This book gives voice to the ways sustainability has been enacted by cultures and communities that pre-date modern civilization by hundreds and sometimes thousands of years. The book includes hands-on case studies on sustainability from a variety of clans and tribes, industry sectors, and global regions. The chapters explore five interdisciplinary themes relating sustainability to civilizations, entrepreneurship, leadership, politics and public policy, and health and well-being. The book is a valuable resource for educators and students in business, environmental studies, race and ethnic studies, and interdisciplinary courses. It will help them see global issues through new lenses. Industry professionals will see in overlaps between tribal and clan perspectives and best practices in fields such as human resource management and entrepreneurship. For example, in their book The Startup Community Way, Feld and Hathaway (2020, p. 18) describe Startup Communities using terms such as putting startup founders first, giving before you get, having an intense love of place, recycling resources back for the next generation, and organizing through networks of trust, not hierarchies. Readers will see that the focus on relationships has always been a vital part of sustainability in tribes and clans. We thank the members of those groups for sharing their knowledge with us.

Reference Feld, B., & Hathaway, I. (2020). The startup community way: Evolving an entrepreneurial ecosystem (1st ed.). New York, NY: Wiley.

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Acknowledgements

The editors gratefully acknowledge the dedicated hard work of RMIT research assistants Chamindinka Weerakoon and Deborah Wardle for their tireless assistance in managing this manuscript, our authors and reviewers.

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Chapter 1

Sustainable Relationships Are the Foundation of Tribal and Clan Perspectives James C. Spee, Adela McMurray and Mark McMillan The importance of sustainability has grown in the twenty-first century (Neshovski, 2020). Short-term pursuits for economic gain continue to threaten ageless cultures that have proven their resilience. Tribal and clan perspectives of cultural and economic sustainability resonate strongly across the globe. In this edited book, we present research from a dozen vitally unique scenarios. The authors of this volume address the barriers to economic, social, and environmental sustainability with courage and insight. They contribute to our understanding of innovative ways to maintain cultural diversity and strength. The relationships between Indigenous knowledge systems and cultural sustainability sit alongside the complex field of sustainable development. We explore these linkages through five themes. (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Civilizations and Sustainability. Entrepreneurship and Innovation. Leadership in Tribes and Clans. Politics and Policy in Tribal and Clan Organization. Tribal and Clan Views on Health and Well-Being.

To understand the Indigenous perspectives on sustainability entails recognizing the threats to their survival. These dangers resulted from the in-migration of people who are not from the clan or tribe. The resulting loss of sovereignty as well as the need for mutual respect and recognition drove some communities to search for together. The need for mutual respect and recognition also led them to greater cooperation. In that spirit, we hope this book encourages other researchers to share the stories and wisdom of Indigenous peoples in respectful ways. We designed this book with a desire to fill a gap in the existing literature of sustainability. When we began the project in 2017, the literature was sadly lacking research that shared the perspectives of tribal and clan cultures about sustainability.

Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 1–6 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211020

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These cultures have many labels such as First peoples, First Nations, Indigenous, Indian, Aborigine, or Aboriginal. Some of the labels have roots in colonialism and evoke very negative emotions. Europeans who colonized regions where people lived for centuries often made their own labels, such as the word Chippewa for the Anishinaabe people of North America. For this reason, each contributing author uses the language suitable to the cultures they study. According to Wood (2020), researchers first used the term sustainability to define an economic steady state in the 1970s. The Brundtland Commission (United Nations, 1987 as cited in Wood) popularized the term in the larger environmental sense. The Commission defined sustainability as “the ability to meet the needs of the present generation without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their needs.” Elkington (1999) was one of the first to coin the term “Triple Bottom Line.” It is now a common phrase to describe the three elements that must be balanced in evaluating sustainability often paraphrased as “people, profit, and planet.” As wonderful as this search for balance may sound, the environmental movement in the United States has not always been appreciative of Indigenous peoples, cultures, and rights in its conversations about sustainability. In July 2020, the US environmental group, the Sierra Club, apologized for the racist views of its founder, John Muir, and many of its early members. A press release from the Club made it clear that the whiteness and privilege of the Sierra Club’s early membership fed into a very dangerous idea – that exploring, enjoying, and protecting the outdoors could be separated from human affairs. The Club’s leadership recognized that the wild places they love are also the ancestral homelands of native peoples, forced off their lands in the decades or centuries before they became national parks (Brune, 2020). For Indigenous peoples, it will not be enough for groups such as the Sierra Club to change a few policies, and they will have to change their behaviors to regain credibility. Despite centuries of challenges to their survival such as these, Indigenous peoples have found ways to rebuild their relationships with each other and with their ancestral lands that enhance their health and well-being. From the Indigenous perspective, human beings, nonhuman animals, and the natural world have a common origin, history, and future (Watene & Yap, 2015, p. 52). From the Indigenous perspective, the separation of the world into economic, social, and environmental spheres as if they were independent of each other makes no sense. A tribe’s survival is not based on financial transactions. It comes from community relationships and connections to the natural environment. The social life of tribal cultures is built on a shared understanding of where the world came from. Sustainable development from the tribal and clan perspective is about relationships. Relationships are the starting points for well-being. In turn, sustainable development encompasses shared origins, shared existence, and interdependent futures (Watene & Yap, 2015, p. 52). From a tribal and clan perspective, then, the nonIndigenous view of three competing bottom lines merges into one. Indigenous perspectives generate reciprocal obligations between people and the natural world (Watene & Yap, 2015, p. 52).

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Newhouse and Chapman (1996) note that the relationships between the individual, the family, the clan, and the nation are crucial in Canadian First Nations cultures such as the Mohawk. The non-Indigenous model of economic organizations as separate from other social relationships is not the dominant one for most tribal and clan communities. Our goal in this book is to widen the understanding of sustainability, not as defined by Western culture, but as Indigenous people in tribal and clan cultures understand it. In keeping with the best practices recommended by Indigenous researcher Shawn Wilson (2008), we take no ownership of this knowledge. It belongs to the peoples who share it with us. “Relationships don’t just shape Indigenous reality,” Wilson notes, …they are our reality. Indigenous researchers develop relationships with ideas in order to achieve enlightenment in the ceremony that is Indigenous research. Indigenous research is the ceremony of maintaining accountability to these relationships. We recognize that what the English language calls economic, social, and environmental challenges threaten tribal and clan cultures for their very survival. In 2020, Indigenous communities experienced poor access to healthcare, higher rates of communicable and noncommunicable diseases, lack of access to essential services, sanitation, and other preventive measures, such as clean water, soap, disinfectant, etc (United Nations for Indigenous Peoples, 2020). The 2020 COVID-19 pandemic has made this gap abundantly clear as infection rates in vulnerable Indigenous populations have far exceeded those of the dominant cultures that share their tribal lands. Their vulnerability makes it even more urgent to tell their stories. To encourage a diversity of perspectives, we developed the five themes for the book noted above. We asked our contributors: How are tribal and clan cultures around the world overcoming challenges to economic, social, and environmental sustainability? Chapters 2 and 3 explore our first theme, Civilizations and Sustainability. Chapter 2 “Sustainable Indigenous Water Rights” by Deborah Wardle draws upon the ongoing gaps and injustices in Western water policy and law. She analyzes how water policy in Australia has often failed to recognize Indigenous water rights. She provides two examples that illustrate the recognition of aboriginal connections to water. The examples reveal weaknesses in the Australian government’s water policies. The examples also show how First Peoples re-established their claims to ancestral water sources by establishing United Nations World Heritage Sites. Chapter 3, “Indigenous Ontologies” in “Caring for Country”: Indigenous Australia’s Sustainable Customs, Practices, and Laws, by Virginia Marshall analyzes how First People’s tribal and clan wisdom has been long ignored by the Australian government. That wisdom, she argues, could inform land management in the face of drought, fires, and floods that were occurring with increasing frequency in the first decades of the twenty-first century.

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Chapters 4 and 5 focus on our second theme, Entrepreneurship and Innovation. Chapter 4 “Indigenous Entrepreneurs in Australia: Past, Present, and Future” by Bella L. Galperin, Meena Chavan and Salahudin Muhidin finds that while First People entrepreneurs have less access to resources and capital, they still play a key role in the development of tribal and clan communities. Chapter 5, “Māori Social Enterprise: A Case Study” by Ruth Orhoevwri, continues the theme of entrepreneurship and innovation. She examines social entrepreneurship and innovation among Māori tribes and clans in New Zealand. She finds a disconnect between government policies and Māori core values. Chapters 6 and 7 investigate our third theme, Leadership in Tribes and Clans. Chapter 6 “Quechua/Aymara Perspective of Social, Economic, and Environmental Sustainability in the Bolivian Andes” by Tamara Stenn analyzes the fate of traditional Aymara and Quechua quinoa farmers following sustainable practices for centuries who lost out to global competition based on price rather than quality but are now rebounding. Chapter 7 “Leadership Lessons in Sustainability from Elders and Events in Historical Clan Survival Stories” by Andrew Creed, Ambika Zutshi and Brian Connelly explores survival stories about the ways historical clan and tribal leaders look for lessons in sustainability. They find that these stories are powerful ways to pass on tribal wisdom and cope with current crises. Chapters 8, 9, and 10 provide different approaches to the fourth theme, Politics and Policy in Tribal and Clan Organization. Chapter 8 “‘Jirga,’ Its Role in Conflict Resolution in Pakistan’s Pashtun ‘Tribal’ Society” by Farooq Yousaf analyzes the Pushtun conflict resolution method called the jirga. The jirga, he finds, lost credibility because of colonial-era laws that undermined the role of tribal elders and because it has been weak at halting discrimination based on gender. In Chapter 9, “Effectiveness of ‘Traditional’ Conflict Resolution and Transformation Strategies,” Farooq Yousaf analyzes two aspects of conflict resolution in Indigenous communities. He examines the usefulness of a wider range of traditional conflict resolution methods. The examples in the chapter come from tribal groups in Papua New Guinea, Rwanda, and Timor-Leste. Chapter 10 “The Resolution by the White Earth Anishinaabe Nation to Protect the Inherent Rights of Wild Rice” by Lawrence Gross looks at a different aspect of the politics and policy theme. His work tells the story of how the White Earth Anishinaabeg protected the plant by acknowledging its inherent rights through tribal legislation. Tribal leaders were strongly motivated to pass the legislation for two reasons. The first reason is the core value of wild rice in White Earth Anishinaabeg culture. The second reason is the threats to the survival of wild rice due to water pollution and genetic modification. Chapters 11, 12, and 13 examine our final theme, Tribal and Clan Views on Health and Well-Being. Chapter 11, “Therapeutic Landscapes and Indigenous Culture: Māori Health Models in Aotearoa/New Zealand” by Jacqueline McIntosh, Bruno Marques and Rosemary Mwipiko, explores the relationship between Indigenous culture, the landscape through the lens of health and well-being. The analysis of three Māori health models reveals that culture, health,

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and landscape are interconnected in Māori culture. She argues that the three must be balanced to reduce Māori health inequalities. Doing so could provide a more sustainable model for health and well-being for all New Zealanders. Chapter 12 “Fire, Stories and Health” by Deborah Wardle, Faye McMillan and Mark McMillan explores Indigenous stories and practices related to fire. Their first goal is to understand fire and transformative relationships of Indigenous peoples to Country. Their second goal is to understand fire as an analogy for developments in Indigenous health. The stories of fire they share illustrate the resistance of Indigenous Australians to colonial dispossession. They show how stories engage Indigenous communities with their ancestral law and culture, leading to better health and well-being. Transformative forms of knowledge can be built upon rekindling Indigenous land and law practices through fire practices. Chapter 13 “Ubuntu Identity, the Economy of Bomvana Indigenous Healers, and their Impact on Spiritual and Physical Well-being of an African Indigenous Community” by Chioma Ohajunwa views spirituality as a foundational concept within African Indigenous communities. Her findings show how spirituality informs the sociocultural, political, environmental, and economic systems within these communities. She recommends the practice of ethnomedical spirituality that is foundational to the identity and culture of the people who come from this area. We are proud that the diverse contributors to this book hail from Australia and New Zealand, Asia, Africa, and North America. The tribes and clans they studied include Gunditjmara, Māori, Waikato-Tainui, Boandik, Klamath, Yoruba, Inuit, Torres Strait Islanders, Anishinaabe (Chippewa, Ojibwe), Aymara, Quechua, Pashtun, and AmaBomvane. We hope this book encourages other researchers to share the stories and wisdom of Indigenous peoples in respectful ways. Readers from a wide range of disciplines will find insights from the Indigenous, tribal, and clan experiences of sustainability that are represented in this book. We wanted to include a range of voices and perspectives to honor and respect the work of Indigenous peoples. The book reveals ways that Indigenous peoples have sustained their cultural practices, their health, and their well-being. In doing so, they survived against the odds as colonial forces attempted to annihilate them. We hope this book contributes to the ongoing struggle for the recognition of, reconciliation with, and respect for Indigenous peoples, their tribes, and their clans.

References Brune, M. (2020, July 22). Pulling down our monuments. Sierra Club. Retrieved from https://www.sierraclub.org/michael-brune/2020/07/john-muir-early-historysierra-club Elkington, J. (1999). Cannibals with forks: Triple bottom line of 21st century business. Oxford: Capstone Publishing Ltd. Neshovski, R. (2020). 17 goals to transform our world. United Nations Sustainable Development. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/

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Newhouse, D. R., & Chapman, I. D. (1996). Organizational transformation: A Case study of two aboriginal organizations. Human Relations, 49(7), 995–1011. doi: 10.1177/001872679604900706 United Nations for Indigenous Peoples. (2020). COVID-19 and Indigenous peoples. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/covid19.html Watene, K., & Yap, M. (2015). Culture and sustainable development: Indigenous contributions. Journal of Global Ethics, 11(1), 51–55. doi:10.1080/17449626.2015.1010099 Wilson, S. (2008). Research is ceremony: Indigenous research methods (Illustrated ed.). Black Point: Fernwood Publishing. Wood, W. W. (2020, November/December). Groundwater “durability” not “sustainability”? Groundwater, 58(6), 858–859. doi:10.1111/gwat.13032

Theme 1 Civilisations and Sustainability

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Chapter 2

Sustainable Indigenous Water Rights Deborah Wardle

Abstract This chapter draws upon the ongoing gaps and injustices in Western water policy and law, exploring its paucity in recognition of Indigenous Water rights. Exacerbated by National Water legislation and ongoing colonial racism, notions of ‘ownership’ of water resources that are licenced through the Crown represent a site where a paradigm shift is needed to dismiss the myth of aqua nullius and secure Aboriginal Water rights (Marshall, 2017). The Gunditjmara success in obtaining United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage listing of the Budj Bim eel traps and the Yarra River (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Protection Act (2017) are two examples that illustrate recognition of Aboriginal connections to water, but at the same time reveal weaknesses in Australian water policy. Sustainable Indigenous culture requires legal, social and cultural recognition and enactment of Aboriginal Water rights. Keywords: Cultural water; indigenous; Gunditjmara; water policy; water rights; Aqua Nullius; sustainable water

Introduction Sustainability of Indigenous Water rights includes cultural Water practices, languages for Water in its many forms and recognition of connections to Waters and Country. It also entails engagement with diverse cultural knowledges. Indigenous Water rights pose strong challenges to Western notions of access to resources and property ownership. This chapter explores the limited recognition of Indigenous connection to Water, referred to as ‘cultural Water’1 (Jackson, 2018; Marshall, 2017; Moggridge, 2010; Strang, 2013), in Australian water law and policy. The Budj Bim World Heritage Site is an example of how recognition of sustainable Indigenous relationships to water sites remains limited. This chapter draws upon the ongoing injustices and gaps in Western water law and policies, exploring paucity in

Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 9–22 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211003

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recognition of Indigenous rights to Water and the difficulties in maintaining sustainable, lawful relations with the waterways of this continent. ‘Ownership’ of water resources that are licenced through ‘the Crown’ represent a site where a paradigm shift is needed to secure Aboriginal Water rights (Marshall, 2017). Within the skewed histories of colonialism and acknowledging Indigenous experiences of water theft as enabled by Australian water law, this chapter recognises Australian Indigenous sovereign people’s resistance to ongoing practices of white privilege. I am unable to dismiss the ‘irreducible differences, incommensurabilities and white race privilege’ of my subject position as a white settler writer (Moreton-Robinson, 2003, p. 77). I acknowledge the ontological limits that this necessarily imposes and my responsibility to engage not only with shared knowledges but also with reconciliation (Clarke, De Costa, & Maddison, 2016). My research includes the obligation to write beyond the limits of Western, racist conceptions of ownership of water rights (Mitchell, 2018). I write as an occupier of Dja Dja Wurrung Country, living near the Loddon River, one of three northbound rivers which flow through Central Victoria from the ranges towards the Murray River. The Campaspe River and Coliban River are also important waterways in Dja Dja Wurrung Country. The Loddon River floods intermittently, and with the effects of climate change–induced deluges at unexpected times of the year, the floods are reaching higher levels, exceeding the hundred-year flood indicators more frequently. Long hot summers, lingering droughts and increased extractions from the river and surrounding groundwater by agricultural irrigators are also leaving the river parched for longer periods. Crusted remnants of once deep water holes mean diminished habitat for fish, crustaceans, water rats, platypus and a wealth of birdlife. The effects of climate change, as seen through extended droughts and increasing floods, magnify the importance of recognition of Indigenous rights to cultural Waters, where relationships with diverse water ecosystems nourish cultural identities. While constrained by my positionality and limited knowledge perspective, my research aims to enhance relationships between living and non-living occupiers of this region. Water is both life-giving and lethal. Through the global water cycle, water circles the planet in innumerate forms and channels – from clouds and fogs, to rivers, glaciers, oceans and through aquifers and groundwater. Without water, humans and non-human animals quickly die. Droughts, floods and tempestuous storms are becoming more prevalent with climate change. Water brings life, but also death in its absences and excesses. Aboriginal Australians recognise cultural Water as more than matter, more than a tradeable resource, more than the liquid we drink, more than the rivers and oceans that are sources of food (Jackson, Carmel, Kirsten, Rosalind, & Bradley, 2014, p. 147). I used to swim in the Loddon River, watching my tea-coloured limbs stroke and waver beneath silken still water. I watched for leeches on my skin, my slowly kicking legs felt for snagged branches in the depths. Below me I imagined a sludgy river bed, unreachable. Above, river red gum limbs stretched to shade the pool from steely hot skies. Cockatoos shrieked. I whipped away as a tangle of leaves brushed my legs. A fallen limb rolled slowly passed. I used to swim in river pools most summers. It is a luxury less available now as the rivers of Central Victoria

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rarely fill as sparse winter rains are collected in dams dotted in gullies and paddocks. Some rain soaks to deeper places, to aquifers that move waters slowly underground. Connections to watery places are changing. In this chapter, I focus on two particular water sites where Aboriginal concerns for the protection of waterways have been somewhat successful. First, the Gunditjmara community has been granted protection of Aboriginal stone village remnants and eel and fish trap systems through the processes of United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage listing at Budj Bim in western Victoria. Second, the Victorian State legislation for the sustainable protection of the Yarra River that flows through Melbourne, Victoria, through the Yarra River (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Protection Act (2017), exemplifies the use of collaborative legal processes to acknowledge Indigenous connection to this waterway. The impact of underlying assumptions of ‘the white possessive’ (Moreton-Robinson, 2015), as applied to water, and rights to access cultural Water sites, will be explored through an examination of protective measures for Budj Bim and the Yarra River. Both these sites raise questions about how Indigenous and Non-Indigenous people are working with principles of environmental and cultural justice. This discussion is not in any way a complete historical examination of the potentials and lost opportunities for sustainable cultural relations. Settler Australians’ relationships with water are derived from colonial beliefs and the construction of a legal system that decree that land and water resources are available for the taking (Hartwig, Jackson, & Osborne, 2018). Through the examples, this chapter tests and challenges sustainable cultural relationships to Indigenous Water rights particularly in response to the current political and ecological crises of water scarcity.

Sustainability of Indigenous Cultural Water Rights Sustainability has always been an important concept for Indigenous cultures (Behrendt, 2009). The term sustainability refers to a process or a state of something that can be maintained indefinitely (IUCN, 1997, p. 32). The Macquarie Dictionary adds in its definition of sustainable and sustainability, the inference of avoiding adverse effects on the environment and depletion of natural resources. Contemporary sustainability of Indigenous cultural practices and knowledges is complex in an Australian political context, as the eons-old cultural links to lands and waters are consistently challenged by contemporary, ongoing colonially based racism and injustice. Theft of Country and Waters, massacre of communities, loss of language, escalating incarceration rates, removal of children, poor provision of health services and housing and employment options are all part of the continuing colonialist legacy. In this milieu, the project to ‘overturn aqua nullius’ is one of many steps towards sustainable relations between Indigenous and Non-Indigenous Australians (Marshall, 2017). Water law and policy sit within domestic policy frameworks. As such they define ‘a critical site where the Australian State aims to resolve its contested

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relationship with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples’ (Strakosh, 2019, p. 118). As a domestic issue, the political stakes include considerations of ‘why such policies remain sites of complexity, unequal power and competing goals’ (Strakosh, 2019, p. 118). Temporary protections through State policies are often based on individual examples and exist in opposition to ongoing sustainability of cultural heritage and enduring rights to Water and Country through application of justice in the law. There have been few moments of ‘profound institutional transformation or substantive return of jurisdiction; although in some cases there have been land returns, these are often limited and subject to state controls’ (Strakosch, 2019, p. 114). Australia has a particular intolerance of Indigenous political orders. Legal historian, Lisa Ford, describes ‘Australia’s peculiar territorial sovereignty’ as ‘antithetical to Indigenous self-government’ and ‘uniquely oppressive to Indigenous rights’ (Ford, 2008, pp. 70–72). In this context, recognising and ensuring connections to sustainable Water rights is more important than ever. Cultural connection to water is an alien way of thinking amid the hubris of modern Western separations between nature and culture (Strang, 2013, pp. 185–6). Conceptual bifurcation of humans from the non-human world has enabled an ideology of possession and control that assumes that the world’s ‘resources’ are available for exploitation. Polarised paradigms of Western and Aboriginal conceptions of water’s meaning in property law and in terms of policies around water usage underpin the differences of perspective and the ensuing problems for Aboriginal Australians to secure rights to Water through bureaucratic licencing systems established under Western legislation (Jackson et al., 2014; Marshall, 2017). The notion of alienable property (able to be sold or transferred), as brought to this continent by Western colonisers, is foundationally contrary to First Nations’ inclusive models of territory and property custodianship. In particular, notions of cultural property include traditional knowledge and expressions of traditional culture. Cultural property, and here I include connections to cultural Water, ‘exists holistically and is not readily divisible or valued in parts’ (Burfitt & Heathcote, 2014, p. 383). On this basis, recognition of Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination includes recognition of inalienable connection to Country and Waters. The debilitating effects of Australia’s colonial history have denied rights and sovereignty to Indigenous Australians. Indigenous rights to Water have, in the main, been disregarded. Colonial powers sought to extinguish Aboriginal2 ownership of the Australian continent through mythic claims to terra nullius, arguing that the land was unoccupied. The false application of terra nullius underpinned colonist’s ‘dispossession’ of the original Aboriginal custodians from their Country (MoretonRobinson, 2015). The falsity of terra nullius has been challenged,3 yet questions of Indigenous sovereignty remain unresolved for many white historians, politicians, anthropologists, lawyers and judges. Similarly, the ‘intransient myth’ of ‘aqua nullius’, a belief that Indigenous people have no connection to the waters on the Australian continent (Marshall, 2017), has denied Aboriginal ownership and custodianship of fresh and marine waters (Marshall, 2017, p. 12). False assumptions of aqua nullius are yet to be

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successfully challenged in law or policy development and continue to limit the ways that Indigenous rights to Water are dealt with. The supposed neutrality and benign intent of water policy continue to ignore or problematise the existence of Aboriginal Australians, often framing Indigenous communities as in need of help, rather than as sovereign people fighting for sovereign rights and self-determination (Strakosh, 2019, pp. 116–117). The changing context and limited recognition of Indigenous sovereignty and cultural heritage in Australian water policy and management falls between the cracks of government water laws and policies. At the same time, increasing Indigenous claims to have Indigenous cultural and environment objectives integrated into Water laws and policies are slowly gaining traction (Jackson et al., 2014). Later in this chapter, I discuss examples where Indigenous connection to Water has been recognised. Ownership concepts are different across Indigenous cultures and particularly different to Western notions of ownership (Burfitt & Heathcote, 2014, p. 385). Aboriginal communal ownership of and access to Water is central to cultural identity (Marshall, 2017, p. 37). Conflict between concepts of ownership and rights to resources underpins contemporary conflict regarding Indigenous people’s access to land and water. Concepts of ownership have also been extended to ‘whiteness’ – the notion that ‘patriarchal whiteness is useable property that the law protects and values’ is the foundation of white exclusiveness to land and law (Moreton-Robinson, 2003, p. 77). The notion that land and waters are resources over which white settlers have alienable rights to exchange derive from inherent assumptions of ‘the White possessive’ (Moreton-Robinson, 2003). The disavowal of Aboriginal law that does not separate land from water, and does not separate people from land or water, has severely limited contemporary Australian lawmakers and occupiers from establishing sustainable social, political and economic practices. Both the World Health Organization (WHO) and the United Nations have recognised the importance of water for health and sustainable development. In July 2010, the United Nations General Assembly recognised the human right to water and sanitation, as part of the ‘Water for Life – International Decade for Action, 2005–2015’ (United Nations Water Organisation, 2019). Sustainable development and sustainability of Indigenous cultures rely upon water supply. Increasing populations and the impact of global warming make the right to water an increasingly important contest. Access to water for commercial or territorial interests ignites significant potential for legal battles that have in places escalated to water wars (Jarvis, 2014). Access to Water as a cultural right is a growing worldwide concern. It is difficult to generalise the meanings of cultural Waters because of the diversity of Indigenous Australians and the complexities of relationships and storytelling about water (Marshall, 2017; Strang, 2013). At the same time, Indigenous culture and identity is inherently, bodily corelated to connection to Country and Water (Marshall, 2017, p. 9; Moreton-Robinson, 2015). This complexity does not, however, excuse the disregard and abuse of Indigenous rights to Water.

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In Australia, the long history of abuse of Indigenous Water rights was continued in the Federal Government’s response to the ten-year millennial drought which lasted approximately between 2000 to 2010. The Howards government’s National Water Initiative (2004) and subsequently the revision of the national Water Act 2007 initiated wholesale reforms of water management. In particular, revision to the Water Act introduced laws and policies which meant market regulation of water trading in a funds-driven water economy (National Water Commission, 2011). Ownership of water was ‘unbundled’ from the land, and water rights could be bought and sold, separately from the land where it came from or would be used. This approach to buying and selling water rights did little to recognise or define Indigenous water rights and has further jeopardised allocations of water for Aboriginal communities (Jackson et al., 2014; Marshall, 2017, pp. 113–116). The Australian National Water Act (2007) has numerous Amendments. A 2016 Amendment recognised Indigenous people, requiring that water resource plans ‘hav[e] regard to social, spiritual and cultural matters relevant to Indigenous people… in the preparation of the water resource plan’ (Parliament of Australia). In addition, the Murray-Darling Basin Community Committee must include at least two Indigenous persons with expertise in Indigenous matters relevant to basin water resources. The legislation also requires that the Murray-Darling Basin Authority engage with Indigenous communities on the use and management of basin water resources. In 2018, the Murray-Darling Basin Authority was directed to report annually on how Indigenous values and uses are considered in environmental water use. In 2019, the Act was further amended to add an Indigenous person to the Murray-Darling Authority (Haughton & McCormick, 2019). After decades of work (Jackson et al., 2014; Marshall, 2017), Indigenous voices are incrementally being included in the Murray-Darling Basin planning processes. This is a small step in a larger national context.

Indigenous Cultural Heritage and Water Rights I next examine examples of securing protections of Indigenous cultural waters. The UNESCO World Heritage listing of the Budj Bim Cultural Landscape illustrates recourse to an ‘outside’ authority as a means to protect Indigenous cultural heritage. The Yarra River (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Protection Act illustrates State level legislation that is based on a developing relationship with Indigenous communities. World Heritage listing of the Budj Bim Cultural Landscape was confirmed at the 43rd meeting of the UNESCO World Heritage Committee in June 2019. The Budj Bim site consists of ‘one of the world’s most extensive and oldest aquaculture systems’ (UNESCO, 2019. A complex system of channels, weirs and dams developed by the Gunditjmara peoples was engineered into the Budj Bim lava flows in order to trap and store kooyang (short-finned eel – Anguilla australis). The highly productive aquaculture system provided an economic and social base for Gunditjmara society for six millennia. The Budj

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Bim Cultural Landscape is the result of a creational process narrated by the Gunditjmara as a deep time story, referring to the idea that they have always lived there. From an archaeological perspective, deep time represents a period of at least 32,000 years. The ongoing dynamic relationship of Gunditjmara and their land is nowadays carried by knowledge systems retained through oral transmission and continuity of cultural practice. (UNESCO, 2019) This was the first time the UNESCO World Heritage Committee had recognised an Australian heritage site based on Indigenous cultural values through landscape (Davey, 2019). The Gunditjmara community applied for recognition of this site as a world heritage site based on Indigenous connection to the place, and the long-held knowledge of the extensive fish and eel trapping systems that had been constructed over many centuries prior to European invasion. Aquaculture, the farming and collecting of fish and crustaceans from inland rivers, coastal estuaries and oceans, is well-documented by Bruce Pascoe (2018). Pascoe describes how the Budj Bim fish traps were used to supply fresh eels and fish, and outlines the ways that Indigenous peoples ensured sustainability of food supply by enabling breeding stock to pass though the traps to breeding waters (2018). Gunditjmara peoples excavated the extensive channel systems and built basalt block walls in the earliest known aquaculture on the planet (Wettenhall & Gingitj Mirring, 2010). White settlers have attempted to drain the area and remove the basalt blocks over the past 200 years. Water flows through this lake system are seasonally threatened by increased pumping from the surrounding groundwater bores (mostly stock and domestic bores, as well as commercial bores for irrigation and agriculture) which remove water from deep aquifers around the edges of the lake. I took a day tour of the Budj Bim lava flows and eel traps and the stone village sites on Country of the Gunditjmara people. The Tyrendarra lava flows from Budj Bim (formerly Mt Eccels) to the ocean left behind a wide swathe of rocky terrain across Gunditjmara Country. It is a difficult country to walk across as large basalt boulders and stones emerge as ankle twisters and leg breakers. The day was sunny, and the piles of grey-brown, air-pocketed stones were warm. We kept an eye out for snakes. One slithered away, disappeared between the rocks. Darlot Creek is a permanent water source, as much as anything is permanent these days. It is fed from springs that emerge high in Budj Bim Country. It links several swamps and meanders around tumuli and rock surges from the lava flow. The creek is an access route for migrating eels and galaxia fish that move between ocean and the inland swamps and lakes to breed. Now managed by Winda-Mara Aboriginal Corporation, Lake Condah (Tae Rak), Tyrendarra and Kurtonitj Indigenous Protected Areas (IPAs) total approximately 3,000 hectares. Kurtonitj means where the lava flow crosses the Darlot Creek. These three areas are places where for over 50000 years Gunditjmara people lived in stone villages and fished for eels and fish. The parcels of land have been acquired through the Indigenous Land Council and returned to Winda-Mara Corporation for management and restoration. Their aim is to return the Country to its pre-settlement state. Weed

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control and removal of feral animals, including rabbits, pigs and deer, are current priorities. Seasonal swamps around the Budj Bim lava flow provided a ‘supermarket’ of vegetables, tubers, weaving materials, as well as fish, ducks, swan, eggs and most significantly eels. Over thousands of years, the Gunditjmara engineered the vast systems of eel traps by breaking channels into basalt bedrock to link stream flows with sink holes, and by positioning large boulders and stones so as to funnel water and eels and fish into woven fish traps. Houses were built nearby the consistent food and water supply. The circular stone foundations that remain indicate the close-knit village life that prevailed. Archaeological dating processes established that the houses had been there for over 40000 years. Shot gun pellets were also found in the stone foundations. The Eumeralla wars and massacres of Gunditjmara people by white settlers from the 1830s onwards are scarred deeply into this landscape and people. Hearing shorts of Deborah Cheetham’s opera, Eumeralla: A War Requiem for Peace, sung completely in Gunditjmara language at Hamer Hall, Melbourne reminds me of the power of music to portray grief (Cheetham, 2019). As we stood on the edge of Tae Rak, our guide told us the story of how he had danced on the stage at Barku – Azerbaijan at the UNESCO meeting where the World Heritage status of the Budj Bim eel traps was conferred. His piercing green eyes shone with pride in his people, the ‘fighting Gunditjmara’. Swan calls and softer cygnet whistles carried across the lake. Above a white-bellied sea eagle glided on a thermal, circling high. White-headed stilts waded on the shoreline, elegant in black and white suits. Their red legs pointed elegantly behind as they took off in flight. There is both sadness and beauty in the water. As sovereign people, Indigenous Australians sourced and maintained water sources and used story to maintain knowledge of water’s potency. Aboriginal communities are ‘inherently connected to tangible and intangible Aboriginal values, and practices and customs that connect to Aboriginal identity, both as individuals and collectively’ (Marshall, 2017, p. 102). Indigenous cultural property includes cultural knowledge, something that exists holistically through communities and in individual identity (Burfitt & Heathcote, p. 204, p. 383). Knowledge of water sources and connections to surface waters and groundwater are an integral part of sustaining cultural stories and knowledge. In her cogent challenge to the intransient ‘myth of aqua nullius’, Marshall links holistic Aboriginal water values with Aboriginal identity, which is characteristic of ‘water kinship’ (Marshall, 2017, pp. 12–13). Knowledge of Gunditjmara peoples’ extensive Aboriginal fishtrapping systems, constructed over innumerable generations before European invasion (Wettenhall & Gingitj Mirring, 2010), provide a site of ongoing resistance to notions of aqua nullius. Budj Bim World Heritage area is an indicator of how Indigenous recognition can be given to significant Water sites. It has taken the decade long appeal to UNESCO Heritage Committee, outside Australian policy parameters, for Budj Bim’s voices to be heard by the wider Australian community and policymakers. Where state-wide and national laws fail to recognise cultural sites (for example – burial sites, birthing sites and ceremonial sites that pre-date colonial settlers’

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arrival) over and above existing western laws of property ownership, stronger, external interventions to protect First Nations’ heritage sites are required (Nicholas, Egan, Benson, & Bannister, 2015). Where Indigenous people cannot secure protections and recognition of sovereign connections to special sites, they have in this example gone outside the country to international sources such as UNESCO – World Heritage Committee for recognition and protections. Now the UNESCO Heritage Committee also has responsibility for maintenance/ sustainability of the site. Questions as to how this ‘external authority’ recognise the capacities and inherent responsibilities of Gunditjmara people’s custodial cultural practices remain. Further debate as to whether the UNESCO Heritage listing contributes to the sustainability of Indigenous cultural connections is needed. ‘Indigenous recovery in these interconnected polities has taken place in the gaps and fissures of settler sovereignties – spaces that are historically emergent, fluid and contested’ (Ford & Rowse, 2012, p. 1). Recognition of Indigenous rights to cultural Waters has been eroded through benevolent but insufficient water law and policies. To address inequities and the injustices, settler sovereignties must engage with meaningful relationships, rather than relying on organisations such as UNESCO to confer recognition on significant Indigenous cultural sites. Securing sovereign Indigenous rights to Water remains a significant project in the journey towards self-determination. The Yarra River (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Protection Bill passed through the Victorian State parliament on 26 September 2017, an example of a joint project with Indigenous people (Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung peoples) working with settler community organisations such as Environmental Justice Australia, the River Keepers Association and with State government representatives, to gain voice in the management of the Yarra River. The Yarra River (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Protection Bill (2017) is the first piece of Victorian legislation to contain Indigenous language, and for a Victorian river to be explicitly protected by a single piece of legislation. The legislation calls for the development of a planning strategy and long-term environmental framework to ensure the protection and management of the river (EJA Comms, 2017). The Department of Environment, Land, Water and Planning (DWELP) is developing a Cultural River Precinct Structure Plan DWELP (2018) in partnership with the Wurundjeri community to ensure recognition and protection of the Traditional Owners’ cultural connection to the Yarra. While the new legislation does not follow the pattern of the New Zealand legislation that gives the rights of legal personage to the Whanganui River, it has given responsibility to the Birrarung River Council, which will act in an advisory capacity to the Victorian Parliament on behalf of the interests of the Yarra River. The Birrarung Council must have at least two Traditional Owners, enhancing the recognition of Indigenous connections to the river (O’Bryan, 2017). Among the competing interests, finding balance to environmental, social, recreational and cultural principles remains the challenge of the Birrarung Council. The Council cannot make decisions about the protection of the Yarra River, nor take people or corporations who damage the river to court; however its independent advisory role is a small step forward. This is an important example in Victoria, where Indigenous responsibilities and interests in a waterway have been

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formally recognised. There is still a long way to go before Indigenous people’s rights to fully access and protect the Yarra River are recognised in law. This example exists a context where Australian Indigenous policy carries a ‘sovereign burden, which it does not acknowledge and which conditions its dysfunctions’ (Strakosh, 2019, p. 118). As domestic policy, Australian Indigenous Water rights policy is often de-politicised and expected to re-dress material disadvantage. As policy, it is changeable at the whim of government. ‘Australian Indigenous policy suffers from a cycle of crises and re-invention … and lacks consensus on core goals, and this makes the system incoherent and contested’ (Strakosh 2019, p. 118). The examples of the Budj Bim Heritage listing and the Yarra River (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Protection Act (2018) illustrate how the Indigeneous Water rights policy system of contemporary Australian governments continues to be partial, fragmentary and indeed at the whim of settler ideologies, rather than as part of consistent and sustainable Indigenous selfdetermination.

Conclusion While ever successive governments and their associated bureaucratic arms determine and enact water law and policies that continue to undermine recognition of Indigenous Australians as sovereign peoples on unceded Country with specific rights to Water, the development of ethical water rights are half-baked. The forces of racism and belief in ‘the white possessive’ continue to impact the lives of Indigenous Australians, as revealed in the disparity in standard social indicators: employment, housing, health outcomes, access to culturally relevant educational opportunities and access to inalienable rights to Country and Water. The ‘gap’is far from closing. Consideration of First Nation people’s rights to Cultural Water has the potential to enhance Australian water laws policies. Understanding sustainable Indigenous relationships to Country and Waters is an essential foundation to future lawmaking. Custodians of cultural heritage and knowledges must have a primary role in the determination of the values and sustainability processes that protect the integrity of that knowledge. Accommodating values of ‘collective rights, communal ownership and custodial obligations’ is a long way from being integrated into practice or lawmaking that recognises Indigenous Water rights (Burfitt & Heathcote, 2014, pp. 387–388). Developing national water law and policy requires finding new ways for Indigenous people to contribute significantly to the research on how limited water supplies are accessed by a range of users. Discussion between Aboriginal communities in different Australian contexts is needed. Dialogue between Aboriginal water users and the wide range of domestic and commercial water users would ideally take account of the diversity of Aboriginal values about water and give priority to recognition of Aboriginal Water rights (Marshall, 2017). Sustainable Indigenous culture requires wide-ranging legal, social and cultural recognition and enactment of water rights. The language of Indigenous cultural and economic

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Water rights is vested not only in storytelling. Oceans, lakes, waterways, springs and soaks have nourished Indigenous cultures for millennia. The Budj Bim and the Yarra River stories are among thousands of significant water sites where sustainable self-determination includes access to and custodianship of cultural Waters. That the Gunditjmara people had to go outside the weaknesses of Australian law and policy to attain protections of the eel trap systems illustrates the paucity of Australian legal and policy recognitions and valuing of such an important water site. At the same time, Indigenous participation in consultations as required through State and National water legislation needs to move beyond using Indigenous peoples as token informants. Rather participation needs to be on the basis of equal-standing researchers, who share in the benefits of the research (Burfitt & Heathcote, 2014, p. 386). As Virginia Marshall argues, ‘the exposition of Aboriginal water values and water concepts should be informed by Aboriginal communities to correctly interpret Aboriginal meaning’ (Marshall, 2017, pp. 214–215). It is imperative to reconstruct and shift Western legal theories towards an inclusive Australian water policy framework that incorporates both cultural and economic Aboriginal water rights and interests. (2017, p. 214) Intangible cultural heritage markers of First Nations people’s cultural practices, such as dance, relational lore, stories that convey kinship and relationships with Water and Country, have often been seen as inferior or irrelevant and used to justify invasive and extractive practices across the Australian continent (Mortimer, 2018). The disregard of Indigenous cultural heritage particularly in relation to the use and mining of water means that the loss of Indigenous connections to significant water sites has not been not well-documented. The use of the term ‘mining’ in relation to water use implies the notion that the removal of water from particular aquifers, swamps, springs, rivers and creeks is irremediable. Mined water will not be readily replaced. Such practices in relation to water use are antithetical to sustainable Indigenous perspectives on their connections to Water. Legal acknowledgement of Indigenous cultural heritage connections to Water and the role it plays in the lives of Australian Indigenous peoples remains a means towards building sustainable and ethical Aboriginal Water rights.

Notes 1. Throughout the chapter, Water is capitalised where it refers to Indigenous concepts of cultural Waters, as the term Country is capitalised to refer to Indigenous connection to Country. 2. In this chapter, I use terms Aboriginal, Indigenous and First Nations interchangeably, recognising that in different areas of Australia different forms are preferred.

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3. In 1992, the High Court of Australia recognised the existence of Indigenous property rights through recognition of native title in settling the Mabo and Others vs. Queensland (no.2) case, and thereby reversed the legal fiction of terra nullius (Moreton-Robinson, 2015, p. 67). Subsequently, following lobbying from white pastoralists and miners, the Native Title Act (1993) meant that by applying the ‘freehold standard’, that Indigenous people had to prove their native title and could be seen to be trespassing on their own land until native title was established (Moreton-Robinson, 2015, pp. 67–70).

References Behrendt, L. (2009). Environmental sustainability: What we can learn from aboriginal culture. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v538V6JDmrxXU. Accessed on September 16, 2019. Burfitt, B., & Heathcote, M. (2014). Valuing footsteps—towards a valuation model of indigenous knowledge and cultural expression for the sustainability of indigenous people’s culture. Journal of Intellectual Property Law & Practice, 9(5), 383–388. Web. Cheetham, D. (2019). Eumeralla in conversation. Retrieved from https://www.mso.com. au/whats-on/2019/eumeralla/. Accessed on October 7, 2019. Clark, T., De Costa, R., & Maddison, S. (2016). Non-Indigenous people and the limits of settler colonial reconciliation. Chapter 1. In S. Maddison et al. (Ed.), The limits of settler colonial reconciliation: Non-indigenous people and the responsibility to engage. Singapore: Springer. Davey, M. (2019, May 23). Budj Bim Indigenous eel trap site on verge of world heritage listing. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/environment/ 2019/may/23/budj-bim-indigenous-eel-trap-site-on-verge-of-world-heritage-listing. Accessed on May 30, 2019. DWELP. (2018). Cultural river Precinct structure. Retrieved from https://engage. vic.gov.au/cultural-river-precinct-structure-plan. Accessed on October 22, 2019. EJA Comms. (2017). A new law to protect the Yarra river. Environmental Justice Victoria. Retrieved from https://www.envirojustice.org.au/a-new-law-to-protect-theyarra-river/. Accessed on October 1, 2019. Ford, L. (2008). Indigenous policy and its historical occlusions: The North American and global contexts of Australian settlement. Australian Indigenous Law Review, 12(1), 70–75. Ford, L., & Rowse, T. (Eds.). (2012). Between indigenous and settler governance. Milton Park: Routledge. Hartwig, L. D., Jackson, S., & Osborne, N. (2018). Recognition of Barkandji water rights in Australian settler-colonial water regimes. Resources, 7(16), 1–26. Publisher: MDPI. Haughton, J., & McCormick, B. (2019). Water amendment (indigenous authority member) Bill 2019. Australian Government. Retrieved from https://www.aph.gov. au/About_Parliament/Parliamentary_Departments/Parliamentary_Library/FlagPost/2019/April/Water_Amendment_Indigenous_Authority_Member_Bill_2019. Accessed on October 14, 2019.

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IUCN. (1997). Indigenous peoples and sustainability: Cases and actions. IUCN intercommission task force on indigenous peoples. Utrecht: International Books. Jackson, S. (2018). Indigenous peoples and water justice in globalizing world. In K. Conca & E. Weinthal. Oxford handbook on water politics and policy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jackson, S., Carmel, P., Kirsten, M., Rosalind, B., & Bradley, M. (2014). Meeting indigenous peoples’ objectives in environmental flow assessments: Case studies from an Australian multi-jurisdictional water sharing initiative. Journal of Hydrology, 522, 141–151. Jarvis, W. T. (2014). Contesting hidden waters: Conflict resolution for groundwater and aquifers. London: Routledge. Marshall, V. (2017). Overturing aqua nullius: Securing aboriginal water rights. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Mitchell, A. (2018). Revitalizing laws, (re)-making treaties, dismantling violence: Indigenous resurgence against ‘the sixth mass extinction’. Social & Cultural Geography. Retrieved from https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/14649365.2018. 1528628 Moggridge, B. (2010). Aboriginal knowledge and cultural values of water. Canberra: CSIRO. Mortimer, A. (2018). Recognising intangible cultural heritage on world heritage day. Sydney Environment Institute. Retrieved from http://sydney.edu.au/environmentinstitute/blog/recognising-intangible-cultural-heritage-world-heritage-day/. Accessed on September 17, 19. Moreton-Robinson, A. (2003). Tiddas talking up to the white woman: When Huggin took on Bell. In G. Michele (Ed.), Blacklines: Contemporary critical writing by indigenous Australians (pp. 66–77). Carlton, VIC: Melbourne University Press. Moreton-Robinson, A. (2015). The white possessive: Property power and indigenous sovereignty. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. National Water Commission. (2011). The national water initiative: Securing Australia’s water future. Australian Government. Nicholas, G., Egan, B., Benson, E., & Bannister, K. (2015). Intervention as a strategy in protecting indigenous cultural heritage. The SAA Archaeological Record. September 2015. pp. 41–47. O’Bryan, K. (2017). New law finally gives voice to the Yarra River’s traditional Owners. The Conversation. September 25, 2017. Retrieved from http://theconversation.com/ new-law-finally-gives-voice-to-the-yarra-rivers-traditional-owners-83307. Accessed on September 30, 2019. Parliament of Australia. New safeguard for indigenous water rights. Retrieved from https://parlinfo.aph.gov.au/parlInfo/search/display/display.w3p;query5Id%3A% 22media%2Fpressrel%2F6053580%22. Accessed on February 5, 2020. Parliament of Victoria. (2017). Yarra River protection (Wilip-gin Birrarung murron) Act 2017, No. 49 of 2017. Pascoe, B. (2018). Dark emu: Aboriginal Australia and the birth of agriculture. (New ed.). Broome: Magabala Aboriginal Corporation. Strakosch, E. (2019). The technical is political: Settler colonialism and the Australian indigenous policy system. Australian Journal of Political Science, 54(1), 114–130.

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Strang, V. (2013). Conceptual relations: Water ideologies and theoretical subversions. In C. Chen, J. MacLeod, & A. Neimanis (Eds.), Thinking with water. Montreal, QC: McGill-Queens University Press. UNESCO. (2019). Budj Bim cultural landscapes 43rd meeting of UNESCO world heritage committee. Retrieved from https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1577/. Accessed on October 8, 2019. United Nations Water Organisation. (2019). Water can help win the race to limit climate change. September 25, 2019. Retrieved from https://www.unwater.org/water-canhelp-win-the-race-to-limit-climate-change/https://www.unwater.org/water-facts/. Accessed October 7, 2019. Wettenhall, G., & Gungitj Mirring Traditional Owners Aboriginal Corporation. (2010). The people of Budj Bim: Engineers of aquaculture, builders of stone house settlements and warriors defending country. Heywood: Em for the Gungitj Mirring Traditional Owners Corporation. World Health Organisation (WHO). Water. Retrieved from https://www.who.int/ topics/water/en/. Accessed October 7, 2019.

Chapter 3

Indigenous Ontologies in ‘Caring for Country’: Indigenous Australia’s Sustainable Customs, Practices and Laws Virginia Marshall

Abstract Indigenous Australians are often referred to as ‘the First Peoples’ of Australia, and the inclusion of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flags in being recognised as official national flags in 1995 by the Keating Federal Government, alongside the Australian flag, embues First Peoples with national recognition. The national discussion and consultation to reform Australia’s Constitution has failed to progress a proposal to enshrine Australia’s First Peoples recognition in the preamble of the constitution. The Australian Federal Government also dismissed the Uluru Statement from the Heart, which calls for a national Indigenous voice to parliament and the concept of a Makarrata, to facilitate the truth-telling about Australia’s violent history. This great southern continent experiences long periods of drought, intense fires and periodic intense flooding across Australia. However, Australian society has barely engaged with First Peoples and their unique knowledge of this land, whether traditional or revitalised, including their exemplary sustainable management through ‘Caring for Country’. This chapter examines the benefits of Indigenous people’s knowledge exercised through their laws, customs, practices and polity, and analyses the significant impact resulting from generations of settler Australians ignoring Indigenous ontology and knowledge. Keywords: Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander peoples; Caring for Country; water; native title; traditional knowledge; Murray-Darling Basin; UNDRIP

Introduction In contrast to Anglo-Australian and European non-Indigenous knowledge systems, Indigenous sustainability evaluates the human and cultural relationships of Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 23–32 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211004

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land and water ontology. For example, how to maintain water access and water quality links to the transfer of knowledge but also to one’s identity; to identify the parameters of water use during cyclical conditions of seasonal crises connects to ways of knowing and being. In addition to this, to instruct the significance of Aboriginal water and land creation stories to interpret Australia’s ecological environment and environmental indicators inform Indigenous values that embed Indigenous ontologies. Australian water legislation does not formally recognise the inherent nature of Indigenous water requirements and rights as platforms for cultural and economic development. Borne out in the national blueprint for water resources in Australia, the National Water Initiative, which fails to incorporate legal certainty for sustainable water reform for Australia’s First Peoples. The Australian Government incorporated articles from the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination in the Racial Discrimination Act 1975 (Cth) to entrench human rights and prohibit racial discrimination (Davis & McGlade, 2005, p. 21). In the absence of human rights principles for Indigenous peoples in the national water reform process, such as the omission of the domestic incorporation of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) into Australian law, there remains a legal impediment for Indigenous peoples to access and use water and to assert ownership of water resources. To deliver legal certainty for Aboriginal interests in water on Aboriginal owned lands, for example, where non-exclusive rights exist. The right of Indigenous peoples to self-determination is affirmed under the United Nations Charter and other treaties, where many jurists consider it to be a customary norm, if not jus cogens (Steiner & Alston, 2000, p. 77). While many may disagree about what the term ‘peoples’ and ‘self-determination’ mean, there is an international consensus that Indigenous claims should be recognised according to the principles of self-determination (Anon, 2003). However without a formalised Australian federal treaty or legal agreement with Indigenous peoples, either individually or, as an amalgamation of representative Indigenous groups, then the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples remains an aspirational measure to inform relevant parties and governments of Indigenous peoples expectations in delivering civil and political engagement in Australia. The inertia of the federal government in failing to incorporate the UNDRIP into domestic legislation delegitimises Indigenous polity and the Indigenous rule of law (Marshall, 2017a, 2017b, p. 261 & 226). The leadership of British Columbia’s legislature in Canada’s province moved to codify the UNDRIP in BC Bill 41 2019 Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act, which was unanimously passed and establishes a legal framework to progress reconciliation and secures a mandate for the provincial government to ensure their policies and laws are consistent with the aims and objectives of the UNDRIP (Townshend, 2020). However, Bill 41 does not give the UNDRIP full force and effect in Canadian law (British Colombia Canada (Fraser), 2019, p. 1). I would argue that securing any future for sustainable land and water management in Australia and beyond, requires both governments and stakeholders to recognise the legal and cultural legitimacy of Indigenous peoples and ensuring that Australian laws are consistent with the UNDRIP. This would play a pivotal role

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for Indigenous communities to maintain the intergenerational sustainability of ecosystems; for example, as established by BC in legislating Bill 41/2019. The Harper Federal Government in Canada deemed the UNDRIP as ‘incompatible with the Canadian Constitution’ and only sought to endorse the UNDRIP as an ‘aspirational document’. Historically the purpose of the UNDRIP is to address unfair distributions of sovereign power sanctioned by international law and grounded in the particular circumstances of Indigenous peoples (Macklem CANZUS, 2020). In September 2007, Australia was one of four countries that voted against the adoption of the UNDRIP; however, on 3 April 2009, a new Australian Rudd federal government adopted the UNDRIP. Indigenous peoples have successfully pushed human rights law to recognise their fundamental human rights in the access, control and management of natural resources (Gilbert, 2018, p. 182). The UNDRIP is the benchmark to ground natural resource management such as water and land (Watson et al., 2011, p. 29).

Conflicting Western Concepts about the Indigenous Environment Legal Scholar Craig Arnold argues that ‘…environmental law scholars narrowly focus research on environmental protection and not on the interconnection of the uniqueness of the objects of property and “things”, which primarily engages distinct values of human beings with the natural environment’ within the paradigm of property concepts (Arnold, 2002, p. 283). Aboriginal water values and Aboriginal environmental concepts are perceived and interpreted by Anglo-Australian and non-Indigenous knowledge systems as static cultural beliefs and practices. That is, from an Australian legal position, Aboriginal values are not on par with western legal property rights and Australian property concepts. The concept of a common law native title right is sui generis and a creature of the common law – held in Mabo v Queensland (No 2) (1992), where a native title right must submit to other property rights – held in Wik Peoples v Queensland (1996). The definition of sui generis has limited opportunities for Indigenous economic use because it is a right to take only (Marshall, 2017a, 2017b, p. 158). For example, where the Federal Court or the High Court of Australia determines that an Indigenous claimant group has proven their claim to exclusive rights to their Country, under native title law an Indigenous claimant group is not allowed to use the land and water for economic, subsistence or commercial purposes. However, the status-based reciprocal relationships and obligations of Indigenous peoples to trade and barter in relation to native title, as a commercial activity in aggregate, has extended the right to access and take resources in the sea – held in Akiba v Commonwealth (2013). According to Arnold, a ‘web of relationships’

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exists within ‘all aspects of property’ (Arnold, 2002, p. 282 & 296). The characterisation or interpretation of property concepts are also vulnerable to reframing by the plurality of the Court – which has swept aside Indigenous peoples economic rights under the native title future act regime – long held native title statutory rights that now have been rendered unenforceable (TJIWARL and TJIWARL #2). Arnold describes how environmental academic positions differ on the concept of property rights and how they develop academic discourse on redefining human relationships as a ‘web of interests’ (Arnold, 2002, p. 282) to understand other concepts of property. As Katie Glaskin stated, ‘in Western societies the concept of property is constrained by assumptions about economic value and governed by commodity logic that assumes the detachability of persons and things’ (Glaskin, 2003, p. 67). The majority of judges in the High Court in Western Australia v Ward (2002) applied a metaphor to characterise the separate rights of Aboriginal ownership, referred to as the ‘bundle of rights’. This enabled them to deal with the issue of partial extinguishment, rather than addressing the Aboriginal perspective. By particularising the ‘web of interests’ and interpreting relationships with land as single threads or strands – to be isolated from one another, is antithetical to Indigenous ontological concepts of property (Marshall, 2017a, 2017b, p. 107) This western interpretation ‘neatly comparmentalises Indigenous cultural or legal rights as unconnected separate strands’ (Marshall, 2017a, 2017b). Thomas Grey in ‘The Disintegration of Property’ (1980) asserted the notion that ‘property as a distinct and coherent concept was redundant’. Grey argued that property is a ‘bundle of rights equally malleable, divisible, disaggregable and functional rights among people’ (Marshall, 2017a, 2017b, p. 93). However, in Western Australia v Ward [2002], the Court held that ‘native title was not a possessory title’ and ‘raised issues on whether native title was an interest in land or characterised as a bundle of rights’. On its face, Grey’s position contrasts with the conceptualisation of Aboriginal culture and laws because the ‘bundle of rights’ approach as described is not ‘divisible or malleable’ within Indigenous water and land values. Such values are exercised in accordance with Indigenous laws and on the basis of these law relationships. Indigenous relationships with County are over 80000 years old, and Indigenous Peoples of Australia are the oldest, living and surviving Indigenous groups in the world. Penner also states that ‘conceptualising property as a “bundle of rights is not a useful concept” and does not assist the judiciary in determining property rights’ (Penner, 1997, p. 1). The misconception and misinterpretation of Indigenous laws, customs and practices often has flawed outcomes for Indigenous claimants in native title. For example, in the High Court decision of Western Australia v Ward [2002], a narrow definition of conceptualising traditional is applied to water such as those traditional purposes of hunting, fishing, communal and non-commercial activities or methods of water usage. What impact does reframing, reimagining and reconceptualising Indigenous long held Indigenous rule of laws, complex kinship relationships and values within the Indigenous environment such as reframing sustainable practices on Country?

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Indigenous Ontology and the Meaning of Country Firstly, the communal nature of Indigenous land and water rights as a property right is not a contested concept among Indigenous communities in Australia (Marshall, 2017a, 2017b, p. 226). For example, the permission or denial of entering Country is underpinned by Indigenous laws and has clear consequences far more severe than breaching the law of trespass in Australia (ibid). NonIndigenous language often misinterprets the Indigenous meaning and depth of understanding which resonates with Indigenous values, laws, customs and practices. Senior Nyikina Lawman, John Watson made it abundantly clear that the words ‘land rights’ fell short of how Indigenous Peoples understood belonging to their Country. Mr Watson said, I must say that ‘land rights’ is not a very good word; it’s a word that politicians made dirty. Ten years ago the Federal Government decided that land rights should be granted to Aboriginal people. It was a word that we could play with, but it’s a whiteman’s concept and a whiteman’s phrase … In my opinion, governments shouldn’t presume to grant those lands to those people, because in Aboriginal law they already own it and belong to it (Marshall, 2011, p. 211). The use of inappropriate language and words does impact Indigenous peoples because it can reconstruct colonial discourse about Indigenous epistemologies and Indigenous ontology which are factually wrong. The imperative is for Indigenous peoples to reframe the misconceptions of Indigenous identity, ‘taking much greater control over the ways Indigenous issues and the parameters’ (Smith, 2006, pp. 153–154) are determined – misconceptions which are used to reimagine indigeneity. Tyson Yunkaporta, Apelech Clan from Western Cape York, recalled that he had attended conferences and discussions on Indigenous knowledge and sustainability and what he heard was: ‘First Peoples lived here for x-thousand of years, they live in balance and we should learn from them to find solutions to sustainability issues’ (Yunkaporta, 2019, pp. 18–19). The western concept of sustainability is diminished if non-Indigenous peoples fail to deeply understand and value the obligations in ‘Caring for Country’ – and then partner with Indigenous Peoples to engage in problem solving. The act of ‘Caring for Country’ is illustrated by Senior Walmajarri Lawman Joe Brown: If the jila [water found in soaks] is dry we know the proper way to dig them out. And when we take the sand and clay out we know the right story to sing as we dig and how to do it properly. This has saved a lot of people’s lives. It was our knowledge of jila that allowed guddeyus [white people] to live in this country. Water is the basis for our songs and our culture. We have been looking after our waterholes and rivers for thousands of years. We have respect

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Virginia Marshall because we know that if you don’t treat it right many things can happen. This is the lesson that we need to make other people learn. People see water just as a thing that can be drunk or used. They don’t see it as part of everything. They think they can own it. We know better. Many things fail because peoples don’t understand this (KALACC, 2007, pp. 16, 38–39).

Bret Walker SC, the Commissioner for the Royal Commission into the Murray-Darling Basin South Australia, stated in the final report that …contemporary Australian society has a considerable way to go in understanding Aboriginal culture and our laws do not clearly recognise or provide for Aboriginal values and interests in water resources (MDBRC South Australia, 2019, p. 470). Commissioner Walker recognised the ‘valuable ontological perspective of Indigenous peoples, and the insights which help build an understanding to bridge the gap between non-Aboriginal and Aboriginal participation in the Basin’ (MDBRC South Australia, 2019). Understanding Indigenous ontology was identified in the report as integral to ecology: Aboriginal communities relate to and contemplate value in the environment as integral to Aboriginal identity in a way that articulates both communal and individual belonging to Country. The land, the waters and the creation stories are the essence of Aboriginal identity, where ‘sacredness’ particularises an inherent relationship to the environment unique to Aboriginal peoples (MDBRC South Australia, 2019). The role of Indigenous ontology is critical in implementing the western concept of sustainability because the knowledge of how to care for the environment and as eternal custodians is held by Indigenous Peoples, since the beginning. Gawirin of the Dhalwanu on Yolnu Country put it simply, ‘For there lies stories and songs, feelings. These are our feelings. We can feel the water as it goes out and as it comes in. That is why we love the saltwater and the sea country …’ (Buku-Larrngay Mulka Centre, 2014, p. 13).

Indigenous Knowledge: A Case Study The complexity of Aboriginal knowledge systems is far reaching on Country: for example, the familial obligation to care for water holes, rivers or other water resources encapsulates a unique cultural Aboriginal paradigm (Marshall, 2014, p. 151). Water resources are not effectively described through a non-Indigenous value system of rights and discourse – in fact, non-Indigenous and Indigenous concepts of water are distinct and antithetical to each other (Marshall, 2014). Water

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is inseparable to land, from an Indigenous perspective. Since the ever-increasing length of drought in Australia, there have been a series of environmental disasters such as the death of native fish in the lower Darling region of the Murray-Darling Basin in New South Wales. The findings by the independent pane (Australian Government, 2019, pp. 4–5) into the 2018 and 2019 fish deaths (estimated as over 1 million fish) raised a number of issues for the Barkandji, the Traditional Owners and other Indigenous groups of the lower Darling and Menindee Lakes. The Barkandji Peoples complained that government was not consulting and engaging with them in relation to planning and operational decisions for Menindee Lakes and the lower Darling River (Australian Government, 2019, p. 30). From the final report’s 27 Recommendations the independents panel gave, only a brief mention, within Recommendation 23, in relation to Indigenous peoples and the Native Fish Strategy, stating, ‘Our stakeholder consultation revealed that community and Indigenous groups seek a greater voice in river and fisheries management in the Basin’ (the Murray-Darling Basin) (Australian Government, 2019, p. 81). The lack of representation of Indigenous Traditional Owners and Indigenous groups on the critical environmental status of the land and water is unacceptable. Interestingly, the Murray-Darling Environmental Resources Study in 1987 already identified the significant changes to the Basin’s river systems: Development of the river systems has involved extensive modification of the rivers through the construction of dams and weirs, river ‘improvement’ operations, levees, and water allocation and management practices designed essentially to supply water for domestic and industrial consumption, irrigation and livestock … the changed flow from river regulation and the physical barriers of dams are two significant factors affecting the aquatic resources … (MDBMC, 1987, p. 145). The Traditional Country of the Barkandji Peoples extends from the Murray River in the south to southern Queensland in the north and includes western NSW (Australian Government, 2019, p. 29). In living memory of the Barkandji, the lower Darling River always had flowing water and its water quality was constant, however, the management by non-Indigenous stakeholders and government has locked Indigenous Peoples out of Country (Australian Government, 2019, pp. 29–30). Before the onset of settler hoardes, Barkandji Country was teaming with animals, foods and medicines, surrounding a healthy Murray River and water flowed along the Darling River and the Anabranches, with a chain of ponds, lakes, ephemeral creeks and claypan storages (Hardy, 1976, pp. 7–9). In spite of the contemporary legal recognition of the Barkandji People’s rights under the Native Title Act, 1992 (Cth) (Barkandji Traditional Owners #8), they have limited access for the purposes of take and use water for domestic, social and cultural activities under s 223 of the Native Title Act, 1992 (Cth). The NSW Government ignores identifying the legal native title rights of the Barkandji Peoples, where in fact native title holders should receive a water allocation under the State Water Sharing Plans (NSW Water Sharing Plans) – Plans which are legislated under s 55

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of the NSW Water Management Act 2000. Caring for Country is integral for the health of Indigenous peoples. Well-being and health of the Murray-Darling Basin, through an Indigenous lens and ontological purview requires an understanding of First Peoples inherent relationships with the land and water – regulated by Indigenous laws, customs and practices (Grafton et al., 2020). The establishment of the Murray-Darling Basin project and subsequent iterations to expand irrigation by surface and groundwater rendered Indigenous communities politically invisible (Grafton et al., 2020). The consequence of ignoring Indigenous knowledge of Country has dire outcomes, for the well-being and health of the land and waterscapes, human beings and in the inherent role for Indigenous Peoples to exercise their customs, laws and practices – to sustain their families with food and freshwater, and to teach the next generation.

Pathways Forward The Indigenous practice of Caring for Country leads the way in terms of best practice in environmental health and well-being of human beings. The exercise of Caring for Country nurtures the relationships we have with all living things – as there are no inanimate beings on Indigenous Country. For tens of thousands of years, Indigenous Peoples have developed keen observations about the environmental indicators and the interpretation of seasonal change, and adapting to changing circumstances. The western practice of sustainability is not ancient and is often disconnected from the Indigenous worldview, where only Indigenous laws, customs and practices interprets the world and the universe. In a post-truth world, where ‘objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief’ (Oxford English Dictionary, 2016) facts are rarely important. Indigenous values, customary rights and interests were the dominant culture in Australia over 80,000 years and the dominant features of this Indigenous land and waterscape are underpinned by Indigenous epistemologies and Indigenous ontologies. Through a posttruth lens the main issue is how society responds to domestic and global challenges. There is a disconnect between the message and the messenger, that is the of embracing Indigenous knowledge and the engagement of Indigenous Peoples on Country – Indigenous knowledge which is partially heard among the throng of environmental issues and crises. Governments and non-Indigenous stakeholders have the opportunity to once again reset relationships and partnerships with Indigenous Peoples, and I would argue that any concessions made will inevitably lead to improved environmental outcomes.

References Anon. (2003). International law as an interpretive force in Federal Indian Law. Harvard Law Review, 116, 1751. Arnold, C. A. T. (2002). The reconstruction of property: Property as a web of interests. Harvard Environmental Law Review, 26, 283. Australian Government. (29 March 2019). Independent assessment of the 2018-2019 fish deaths in the lower Darling. Final Report (pp. 4–5).

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Barkandji traditional Owners #8 (Part A) v Attorney-general of New South Wales. Retrieved from http://www.nntt.gov.au/searchRegApps/NativeTitleClaims/Pages/ Determination_details.aspx?NNTT_Fileno5NCD2015/001 Barkandji traditional Owners #8 (Part B) v Attorney-general of New South Wales. Retrieved from http://www.nntt.gov.au/SearchRegApps/NativeTitleClaims/Pages/ Determination_details.aspx?NNTT_Fileno5NCD2017/001 British Colombia Canada (Fraser). (2019, 19 November). Parliamentary debates. 1 (the Hon. Scott Fraser). Legislative Assembly. Buku-Larrngay Mulka Centre (with Jennifer Isaacs & Associates). (2014). Saltwater paintings of sea country: The recognition of indigenous sea rights (2nd ed., p. 13). Nhulunbuy, NT: Buku-Larrngay Mulka Centre. Davis, M., & McGlade, H. (March 2005). International human rights law and the recognition of aboriginal customary law. ‘Background Paper’ No 10, Law Reform Commission of Western Australia (p. 21). Declaration on the rights of indigenous peoples act. British Columbia Reg No 41/ 2019. Retrieved from https://www.leg.bc.ca/parliamentary-business/legislationdebates-proceedings/41st-parliament/4th-session/bills/first-reading/gov41-1 Gilbert, J. (2018). Natural resources and human rights: An appraisal (p. 182). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Glaskin, K. (2003). Native title and the bundle of rights model: Implications for the recognition of aboriginal relations to county. Anthropological Forum, 13(1), 67. Grafton, R. Q., Colloff, M., Marshall, V., & Williams, J. (2020). Confronting a ‘posttruth water world: Facts versus fiction in the Murray-Darling Basin, Australia. Water Alternatives. Retrieved from http://www.water-alternatives.org/index.php/ alldoc/articles/vol13/v13issue1/561-a13-1-1/file Grey, T. (1980). The disintegration OF property. Nomos, 22, 69–85. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/24219422. Accessed on August 2020. Hardy, B. (1976). Lament for the Barkandji: The vanished tribes of the Darling River region (pp. 7–9). Adelaide: Rigby. Kimberley Aboriginal Law, & Culture Centre (2007). New legend: A story of law and culture and the fight for self-determination in the Kimberley (p. 16). Fitzroy Crossing, WA: KALACC. Macklem, P. (2020, March 10). Centre for International Governance Innovation. UNDRIP implementation: Comparative approaches, indigenous voices from CANZUS. Retrieved from https://www.cigionline.org/sites/default/files/documents/ UNDRIPIII_web_mar27.pdf Marshall, P. (2011). Raparapa: Stories from the Fitzroy River drovers (p. 211). Broome: Magabala. Marshall, V. (2014). A web of Aboriginal water rights: Examining the competing Aboriginal claim for water property rights and interests in Australia. (PhD), Macquarie University (p. 151). Marshall, V. (2017a). Overturning Aqua Nullius: Securing aboriginal water rights (p. 105). Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Marshall, V. (2017b). Overturning aqua Nullius: Pathways to national reform. In R. Levy, M. Brien, S. Rice, P. Ridge, & M. Thorton. (Eds.), New directions for law in Australia: Essays in contemporary law reform (pp. 221–226). Canberra: ANU Press.

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Murray-Darling Basin Ministerial Council. (1987, July). Murray-Darling Basin environmental resources Study. (‘Research Report’, Murray-Darling Basin Ministerial Council (p. 145). Native title act 1992 (Cth). Retrieved from https://www.legislation.gov.au/Series/ C2004A04665 NSW government, NSW water sharing plans. Retrieved from https://www.industry. nsw.gov.au/water/plans-programs/water-sharing-plans/how-water-sharing-planswork Oxford English Dictionary. (2016). Word of the Year 2016. Retrieved from https:// en.oxforddictionaries.com/word-of-the-year/word-of-the-year-2016 Penner, J. E. (1997). The idea of property in law (p. 1). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Smith, L. T. (2006). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples (pp. 153–154). London: Zed. South Australia. (2019). Murray-Darling Basin Royal Commission. Report (p. 470). Steiner, H. J., & Alston, P. (2000). International human rights in context: Law, politics, morals (2nd ed., pp. 77). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Townshend, O K, Canada. (2020). Retrieved from https://www.oktlaw.com/bc-bill-41-apromising-start-to-implementing-undrip/ Water management act 2000 (NSW). Retrieved from https://www.legislation.nsw.gov.au/ #/view/act/2000/92 Watson, J., Watson, A., Poelina, A., Poelina, N., Watson, W., & Camilleri, Jo, & on behalf of the Nyikina and Mangala Custodians. (2011, December). Nyikina and Mangala Mardoowarra Wila Burroo: Natural and cultural heritage plan. Report, WWF Australia (p. 29). Yunkaporta, T. (2019). Sand talk: How indigenous thinking can save the world (pp. 18–19). HarperOne: Yunkaporta.

Australian Case Law Akiba v Commonwealth. (2013). 300 ALR 1. BHP Billiton Nickel West Pty Ltd v KN (deceased) (TJIWARL and TJIWARL #2). (2018). FCAFC 8. Mabo v Queensland (No 2). (1992). 175 CLR 1, 51. Western Australia v Ward. (2002). 213 CLR 1. Wik peoples v Queensland. (1996). 187 CLR, 250.

Theme 2 Entrepreneurship and Innovation

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Chapter 4

Indigenous Entrepreneurs in Australia: Past, Present, and Future Bella L. Galperin, Meena Chavan and Salahudin Muhidin

Abstract In the last decade, Indigenous enterprises and entrepreneurs have played an increasingly important role in Australia. This has not always been the case. Historically, Indigenous Australians have been excluded from the broader economy. However, more recently, the number of Indigenous businesses has significantly increased despite the limited access to capital and lower level of education. This chapter provides a historical perspective of Indigenous entrepreneurs in Australia and argues that entrepreneurial leadership development can play a critical role in developing Indigenous entrepreneurship. The historical context of Indigenous Australians is first discussed, and the current status of Indigenous entrepreneurs in Australia is then examined. In particular, we focus on entrepreneurship among the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. Finally, the importance of entrepreneurial leadership development in the future landscape of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia is highlighted. Keywords: Indigenous; entrepreneurship; Australia; Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people; future landscape; historical perspective

Introduction More recently, there has been a growing interest in the area of Indigenous entrepreneurship. Indigenous entrepreneurship can lead to many positive outcomes such as economic independence, self-determination, and cultural preservation within Indigenous societies (Butler & Hinch, 1996). Despite these benefits, critics argue the negative impacts of Indigenous entrepreneurship including increased cost of living for local residents, exploitation of human and cultural resources, and risk and desecration of sacred sites and natural resources (Mapunda, 2007).

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A recent report on Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia by KPMG (2018) indicates there has been a 23% increase in the number of Indigenous business owners between 2011 and 2016, which is four times the rate of non-Indigenous business owners. According to Supply Nation (2015), Indigenous businesses employ 30 times more Indigenous people than other businesses, reinvest revenues in their communities, and build upon their Indigenous employees’ connection to culture. Laura Berry, CEO of Supply Nation, states that there is no better time for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to be in business (Pearson, 2018). Australia’s Indigenous people make up 2.4% of the total Australian population (about 460,000 out of 22 million people), according to the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) Population Clock, a site that produces population estimates for the Australian Government and people (Australian Government, 2019). Indigenous Australians can be divided into two distinct cultural groups: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. In the early 1980s, the Australian Government’s Commonwealth Department of Aboriginal Affairs proposed a three-part definition of an Indigenous Australian, which is widely used today: An Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander is a person of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent who identifies as an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander and is accepted as such by the community in which he [or she] lives (Australian Government- Australian Law Reform Commission, 2018). Within these two broadly described groups, there is great diversity in the culture with over 250 different languages being spoken in the nation (Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, 2018). These language-named groups, sometimes referred to by Europeans as “tribes,” share cultural features and interact more with each other compared to members of other groups. The individual and group identity of different “tribes” are largely based on more locally oriented affiliations and membership rather than national identity. Nevertheless, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people’s worldview tend to be inclusive since society is perceived as a community of common understandings beyond their local group (Britannica, 2018). This chapter provides a historical perspective of Indigenous entrepreneurs in Australia. First, a historical overview of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people is provided. Despite the low participation rates of Australian Indigenous entrepreneurs in the past (Hindle, 2002), Indigenous communities in Australia possessed powerful entrepreneurial traditions. In the next section, we argue that these rich traditions have contributed to the current status of Indigenous entrepreneurs in Australia. Finally, the future landscape of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia is discussed. Implications for leadership development in the growth of Indigenous entrepreneurs in Australia are emphasized.

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An Historical Perspective Australia, the Island Continent, located south of the equator, is surrounded by the Indian Ocean to the west and Pacific Ocean in the east. Australia was inhabited by the Indigenous peoples – Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders, sometimes referred to as the First Australians. Aboriginal people inhabited the whole of Australia and Torres Strait Islanders lived on the islands between Australia and Papua New Guinea, which is now called the Torres Strait (Australian Government, 2019). Research shows that Aboriginal Australians have lived on the continent for over 50,000 years (Blakemore, 2019). According to a genetic study of genomes of 111 Aboriginal Australians, today’s Aboriginal Australian’s are all related to a common ancestor who was a member of a distinct population that came from the mainland about 50,000 years ago (Tobler et al., 2017). There were over 500 different clan groups or “nations” around the continent, many with distinctive cultures, beliefs, and languages. In 1788, British settlers began colonizing Australia, and it was estimated that over 750,000 Aboriginal people inhabited the island continent. However, the European colonists believed that the land was terra nullius (“no one’s land”) when the British colony in Sydney Cove started. On behalf of the British government, the new settlers assumed ownership of the continent since there were no visible signs of civilization. The British administrative systems were imposed on the country, and the continent was separated into several colonies until the birth of the Australian nation on January 1, 1901 (Schaper, 2007). For thousands of years prior to the arrival of the Europeans, northern Sydney was occupied by different Aboriginal clans. The Aboriginals fished, hunted, and harvested food from the bush; hence, clans were self-sufficient. They were not required to travel far since there were plenty of resources and trade among tribal groups was customary. The Aboriginals developed rich complex ritual lifeencompassing customs, spirituality which connected them to the land (Aboriginal Heritage Office, 2019). Indigenous communities in Australia also had entrepreneurial traditions in harmony rather than war (Hindle, 2007). As outlined by Trudgen (2000), the Yolngu people, a group of Indigenous Australian people inhabiting north-eastern Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory of Australia, were well experienced with thousands of years of trading history. The early Europeans did not understand that the Aboriginal lifestyle was dependent on the natural environment. The Aboriginal people actions, such as killing animals or food, were based on achieving balance with their environment. As a result, food shortages followed due to the fish depletion, unsustainable hunting, and polluted water with the arrival of the European settlements. The Aboriginal people throughout the Sydney Basin were close to starvation, and disease further had a devastating impact (Aboriginal Heritage Office, 2019). Additionally, the Aboriginal Australians never received any recognition of their prior ownership and rights of the land, or defined legal status as citizens (Schaper, 2007). It is of no surprise that the following 60 years (period between 1910 and 1970) were known as the “Stolen Generations,” when government policies of assimilation

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resulted in 10–33% of Aboriginal Australian children being removed from their homes (Blakemore, 2019). It was only until the constitutional referendum in 1967 that Aboriginal Australians were included in the national census and federal authorities were provided with the capacity to legislate in the area (Schaper, 2007). During this time, Commonwealth Governments also introduced legislation outlining discrimination based on race; the establishment of Aboriginal affairs departments and development; and limited land rights and funding to improve the economic, educational, and social opportunities of Indigenous people. Generally, the participation of Indigenous Australians’ in the mainstream economy has been largely restricted (Jacobs, 2017). Keen (2010) explains that Aboriginal people have largely been excluded from the market economy by government policies and societal attitudes towards Aboriginal people and been restricted to provision of labor in the pastoral industry. In the late nineteenth century until the early 1970s, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people’s wages were managed by Australian governments under the auspices of “protection” (Kidd, 2006). It was only in the last 10 years that the public and private sectors have made an effort to integrate Indigenous Australians into the mainstream economy. Business and entrepreneurship were viewed as a form of wealth creation, independence, and opportunity as a means to overcome Indigenous disadvantage (Jacobs, 2017). In 1990, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commercial Development Corporation (now Indigenous Business Australia – IBA) was founded to assist and enhance the economic development opportunities of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people across Australia (Indigenous Business Australia, 2019). The Commonwealth Procurement Rules Indigenous Exemption or Indigenous Business Exemption (IBE) was introduced in 2011 to encourage the use of Aboriginal suppliers in federal procurement and promote the development of the Indigenous business sector (Jacobs, 2017). In order to further provide more guidelines, the Indigenous Procurement Policy (IPP), a mandatory procurement-connected policy under the legislative instrument of the Commonwealth Procurement Rules, was launched on July 1, 2015. The purpose of the IPP is to increase demand for Indigenous goods and services, stimulate Indigenous economic development, and grow the Indigenous business sector. Since July 1, 2015, the IPP has resulted in over 11,933 contracts awarded to 1,473 Indigenous businesses amounting to $1.832 billion in goods and services (Australian Government-Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2019a). Today, Indigenous affairs remain a national priority for the Australian Government. The Indigenous Affairs Group within the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet is committed to improving the lives of all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people (Australian Government - Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2019b). In particular, the Indigenous Business Sector strategy is responsible for increasing the Indigenous businesses and entrepreneurs’ access to business and financial support (Australian Government- Department of Industry Innovation and Science, 2019). In the section below, Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia is discussed.

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Indigenous Entrepreneurship in Australia More recently, Indigenous entrepreneurship has been of interest to many scholars. According to Hindle and Lansdowne (2007, p. 9), Indigenous entrepreneurship is defined as: “the creation, management, and development of new ventures by Indigenous people for the benefit of Indigenous people.” Researchers suggest that Indigenous entrepreneurship inherently places entrepreneurial focus on social and noneconomic goals (Anderson, Dana, & Dana, 2006; Dana, 2015). Contrary to mainstream entrepreneurs who focus on the maximization of profits through cutting costs such as salaries and wages, Indigenous entrepreneurs consider salaries as an imperative social outcome in order to help facilitate community-based economic activities (Anderson et al., 2006; Giovannini, 2012). Specifically, Foley (2000, p. 25) defines Indigenous entrepreneurship as: The Indigenous Australian entrepreneur alters traditional patterns of behavior, by utilizing their resources in the pursuit of selfdetermination and economic sustainability via their entry into selfemployment, forcing social change and the pursuit of opportunity beyond the cultural norms of their initial economic resources. Hindle and Moroz (2010) note that Foley’s (2000) definition is opportunityfocused and places a strong emphasis on overcoming disadvantage through creative and novel economic activity. Additionally, Foley’s (2000) definition is also in line with the literature which stresses that Indigenous entrepreneurship enables Indigenous people to work together toward improving their social and economic achievements, sustain and preserve their cultural values and beliefs, as well as reinforce and improve Indigenous people’s self-determination (Dana & Light, 2011; Ratten & Dana, 2015). Indigenous cultural values, such as the emphasis on kinship ties, are viewed as important. Nevertheless, due to economic necessity, profit-making can also play a role in responding to market needs in the Indigenous entrepreneurial context (Hindle & Lansdowne, 2007). In general, Indigenous entrepreneurial enterprises operate within small to large scales with the aim of generating economic profit for themselves and their communities. In Australia, Indigenous entrepreneurship operates in various forms such as: partnership between Indigenous corporations or communities and Australian corporations; community-owned enterprises and social and co-operatives enterprises (Collins, Morrison, Basu, & Krivokapic-Skoko, 2017). Research suggests that Indigenous entrepreneurs have been marginalized and disadvantaged compared to non-Indigenous entrepreneurs (Frederick, 2008). In general, the educational system, government rules and regulations, expensive production and transportation cost, and limited market can hinder development and expansion of Indigenous entrepreneurship (Sejersen, 2007). In a qualitative study of Indigenous Australian entrepreneurs, Collins et al. (2017) demonstrates that Indigenous entrepreneurship is a complex issue on various dimensions – socially, culturally, and economically. This complexity has three possible roots in the diversity among the Indigenous community, Indigenous and non-Indigenous

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partnership, and racial discrimination and socio-economic disadvantage in Australia (Collins et al., 2017). Given the historical context of the colonization of Australia, one can see how the past can impact the experiences of current Indigenous entrepreneurs. This perspective is also shared by Hindle (2007), who argues that Indigenous and non-Indigenous people can foster a renaissance of Indigenous entrepreneurship by becoming more culturally sensitive and developing community-supported education programs that are championed by Indigenous and mainstream communities. Studies corroborate that there has been a revival of Indigenous Australian entrepreneurship. Despite the barriers and challenges faced by Indigenous entrepreneurs, a 2018 study by the Center for Independent Studies (CIS) found that the number of Aboriginal businesses has increased at least 35% since 2011 and by over 1,000% since 2001. In the report, it was noted that a critical factor responsible for the growth was the introduction of the IPP in 2015 by the Australian national government. Results indicate that the Commonwealth procurement of goods and services from Indigenous enterprises increased by 8,200% (Jacobs, 2017). Similarly, the KPMG (2018) report indicates that Indigenous business is growing at an average rate of around 600 net new businesses every year. According to the report, progress has been made in the establishment of Indigenous business by the Indigenous community. Nevertheless, it is also possible that the growth in Indigenous business may be due to the trend that more Australians are identifying themselves as Indigenous. According to the most recent Census data collected in 2016, the final estimate of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander population of Australia as at June 30, 2016 was 798,400 people, or 3.3% of the total Australian population (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2016). This was a 19% increase in the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people from June 2011. More specifically, 91% of the Indigenous population in 2016 identified themselves as being Aboriginal only; 5% were of Torres Strait Islander origin only, and 4% were of both Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander origin. While the largest proportion of the people who identified themselves as Aboriginal only came from New South Wales, the largest proportion of people who identified themselves as Torres Strait Islander came from Queensland (Table 4.1) According to the 2016 Census data, there was a total of approximately 12,000 Indigenous business owners, as at June 30, 2016 (KPMG, 2018). A greater look into the demographics show that at different times of the life cycle, Indigenous women are more likely to own and manage a business compared to men. In particular, the trends peak at age 47 when 4% of the Indigenous female workforce owns and manages a business. On the other hand, 3% of the Indigenous male workforce owns and manage a business at ages 46 and 48 (KPMG, 2018). In addition, the majority of the Indigenous entrepreneurs own businesses in the service industry (KPMG, 2018). The top 10 industries recording an Indigenous owner manager include: building and other industrial cleaning services (e.g. a mine site), hairdressing and beauty services, carpentry services, gardening services, creative artists, musicians, writers and performers, road freight transport,

Indigenous Status (2016 Census) Aboriginal (A)

Torres Strait Islander (TSI)

Both (A and TSI)

Total Indigenous

NonIndigenous

Percentage of Indigenous Population in State/Territory

254,842 54,044 176,910 40,393 96,497 26,152 71,288 7,113

5,888 2,350 24,873 1,115 1,882 1,322 1,020 196

4,955 1,373 19,493 757 2,133 1,063 2,238 204

265,685 57,767 221,276 42,265 100,512 28,537 74,546 7,513

7,467,173 6,115,405 4,623,876 1,670,578 2,455,466 488,977 171,132 395,591

3.4% 0.9% 4.6% 2.5% 3.9% 5.5% 30.3% 1.9%

246 727,485

14 38,660

4 32,220

264 798,365

4,344 23,392,542

5.7% 3.3%

State/Territory

1. New South Wales 2. Victoria 3. Queensland 4. South Australia 5. Western Australia 6. Tasmania 7. Northern Territory 8. Australian Capital Territory Other Territory Australia (Total)

Source: Adapted from Australian Bureau of Statistics June 2016.

Indigenous Entrepreneurs in Australia: Past, Present, and Future

Table 4.1. Estimated Resident Population, Indigenous Status, June 30, 2016.

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house construction, plumbing services, personal services necessities, and management advice and related consulting services (Table 4.2). While it depends on the nature of the industry, Indigenous businesses are more likely to be found in regional Australia compared to capital cities. For example, around 61% of building and industrial cleaning services are found in regional Australia; while 69% of management and consulting services are found in capital cities. Data from the Office of the Registrar of Indigenous Corporations show that 90% of Indigenous businesses are found in the following areas: Northern Territories (33%), Western Australia (25.4%), Queensland (19%), and New South Wales (13.2%) (Table 4.3) (Australian Government- Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2015). All in all, Australia has shown support and has made significant progress towards encouraging and facilitating Indigenous entrepreneurship in the last two decades. It is likely that this trend will continue in the future with the implementation of new Indigenous procurement policies and the opening of Barayamal Centre of Entrepreneurship’s (BEC), Australia’s first Indigenous entrepreneurship center, in June 2018. BEC’s mission is to “help Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to build and manage wealth in their communities through business and property ventures” (Zuchetti, 2018, p. 1). In addition, as early as July 1, 2019,

Table 4.2. First People Entrepreneurs: Top 10 Industries Recording Indigenous Owner Manager, 2016 Census. Rank

1

Row Labels

Building and Other Industrial Cleaning Services 2 Hairdressing and Beauty Services 3 Carpentry Services 4 Gardening Services 5 Creative Artists, Musicians, Writers, and Performers 6 Road Freight Transport 7 House Construction 8 Plumbing Services 9 Other Personal Services 10 Management Advice and Related Consulting Services Australia (Total)

Capital Cities

Regional and Remote

Total

168

268

436

153

217

370

144 138 133

156 167 109

300 305 242

128 125 117 117 99

134 122 114 84 44

262 247 231 201 143

1,322

1,415

2,737

Source: “Accelerating Indigenous Entrepreneurship”, “Census Insights Series”, March 2018, KPMG.

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Table 4.3. Geographic Spread of the Top 500 Corporations in 2014–2015. State/Territory

Northern Territory Western Australia Queensland New South Wales South Australia Victoria Tasmania Australian Capital Territory Australia (Total)

Businesses

Percentage

165 127 95 66 23 18 4 2 500

33.0% 25.4% 19.0% 13.2% 4.6% 3.6% 0.8% 0.4% 100%

Source: Adapted from “The Indigenous Business Factsheet”, “Geographic spread of the Top 500 Corporations in 2014–2015, count, %”.

modifications will be made to the IPP to further guarantee that Indigenous businesses win greater value contracts at a level closer to those of non-Indigenous businesses. The new policy will introduce a target based on the value of contracts awarded. The target will be set at 1% in 2019–2020 and will be increased by 0.25% each year until it reaches 3% in 2027. Additionally, Indigenous participation targets will be mandatory in high value contracts across more specified industries, starting from July 1, 2020 (Australian Government-Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2019a).

The Future Landscape of Indigenous Entrepreneurship in Australia A report by Deloitte Access Economics (2014) predicts that Indigenous entrepreneurship and business can have a large impact on national income well into the future. The study estimates that by 2031, the Australian economy could be worth as much as $24 billion. This would be 1.15% gain and would also exceed the expectations of a previous report of $10 billion by 2029. Jacobs (2017) notes that these figures should be treated with caution since it will be challenging to close the gap in Indigenous employment outcomes in such a short time frame. In order for Indigenous businesses in Australia to further thrive, it is necessary to overcome the factors that have inhibited the successful development of Indigenous business culture in the past. Schaper (2007) outlines that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander are faced with the following challenges: the historical perspective of European-Indigenous tensioned relations; most Aboriginal communities are found in rural and regional Australia; lack of successful Indigenous entrepreneurs role models; limited human capital (e.g. lower levels of education

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skill development, and training); land title and access to finance; and differences in cultural values in the context of entrepreneurship. To be precise, European cultures have typically focused on individual capital acquisition and self-achievement. On the other hand, the Indigenous people of Australia have placed more emphasis on community orientation, consensus decision-making, sharing of resources, and cooperation instead of competition. To ensure the continued growth of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia in the future, entrepreneurial leadership development of Indigenous entrepreneurs in Australia is essential. Entrepreneurial leadership development can assist in overcoming the above challenges that Indigenous entrepreneurs face and also promotes the benefits of entrepreneurship, such as independence, self-determination, and cultural preservation (Butler & Hinch, 1996). When implementing entrepreneurial leadership development, it is necessary to develop a holistic approach to entrepreneurship, which takes into account the Indigenous culture rather than only focusing on the Western economic perspective (Mapunda, 2007). This perspective is in line with the Empowered Communities: Empowered People’s Design 2015 Report, which outlines a new approach to Indigenous policy development. The report argues the adoption of a new perspective that provides more planning and decision-making control to Indigenous leaders and communities rather than top-down decision-making from government. In other words, Indigenous communities and governments need to work more effectively together (KPMG, 2018). In line with the Empowered Community Approach, new initiatives such as the Jawun Corporate Partnership have already been implemented. Jawun, is an innovative not-for-profit organization that partners Australia’s top companies and government agencies to Indigenous organizations. The mentors share their experience and support Indigenous leaders to achieve their developmental goals. While this approach is beneficial, the future landscape of Indigenous entrepreneurship will require more formalized entrepreneurial programs to accelerate Indigenous entrepreneurship into the next decade. Government and Indigenous communities need to further develop the necessary leadership and technical skills and competencies so that Indigenous businesses are able to participate in the new digital economy. Since 60% of the Indigenous population are aged under 35 years, the next generation will be in a good position to develop the new competencies for start-ups in upcoming digital services industries such as agtech, mining-tech, and clean-tech, and artificial intelligence (KPMG, 2018). In conclusion, there has been a rise of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia. Despite the historical challenges, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people have created new opportunities for wealth creation and used their resources to pursue self-determination and economic sustainability by entering in selfemployment. With the implementation of new Indigenous procurement policies and the opening of Australia’s first Indigenous entrepreneurship center, the Indigenous community will be in a better position to strengthen their local communities and play an increasingly important role in Australian society. To ensure the growth of future Indigenous entrepreneurs and the development of the Indigenous entrepreneurial spirit, entrepreneurial leadership development and skill

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development for the new digital economy are needed to support the collaborative governmental policies that empower Indigenous communities. Future researchers in the field of Indigenous entrepreneurship can contribute to better understanding the needs and wants of Indigenous entrepreneurs and in assisting policymakers to implement more effective and beneficial programs for Indigenous communities.

Acknowledgments This research was partially supported by grants from Macquarie University and The University of Tampa David Delo Research Professor Grant. The authors would like to thank Larissa Pavan Santos for her feedback on an earlier version of this paper.

References Aboriginal Heritage Office. (2019). A brief Aboriginal history. Retrieved from https:// www.aboriginalheritage.org/history/history/ Anderson, R. B., Dana, L. P., & Dana, T. (2006). Indigenous land rights, entrepreneurship, and economic development in Canada: ‘Opting in’ to the global economy. Journal of World Business, 41(1), 45–55. Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2016, June). Estimates of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians. Report Number 3238.0.55.001. Retrieved from http://www.abs. gov.au/ausstats/[email protected]/mf/3238.0.55.001 Australian Government. (2019). Our people. Retrieved from https://www.australia. gov.au/about-australia/our-country/our-people. Australian Government- Australian Law Reform Commission. (2018). Kinship and identity: Legal definitions of Aboriginality. Retrieved from https://www.alrc.gov.au/ publications/36-kinship-and-identity/legal-definitions-aboriginality Australian Government- Department of Industry Innovation and Science. (2019). Indigenous business and entrepreneurs. Retrieved from https://www.industry.gov.au/ strategies-for-the-future/northern-australia-agenda/indigenous-businesses-andentrepreneurs Australian Government- Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet. (2015). The indigenous business fact sheet. Retrieved from https://www.pmc.gov.au/sites/default/ files/publications/indigenous-business-factsheet_0.pdf. Australian Government-Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. (2019a). Indigenous-procurement policy. Retreived from https://www.pmc.gov.au/indigenousaffairs/economic-development/indigenous-procurement-policy-ipp. Australian Government - Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. (2019b). Indigenous affairs. Retrieved from https://www.pmc.gov.au/indigenous-affairs Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. (2018). Indigenous Australians: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. Retrieved from https://aiatsis.gov.au/explore/articles/indigenous-australians-aboriginal-andtorres-strait-islander-people Blakemore, E. (2019). Aboriginal Australians. Retrieved from https://www.nationalgeographic.com/culture/people/reference/aboriginal-australians/ Britannica. (2018). Australian Aboriginal. Retrieved from https://www.britannica.com/topic/Australian-Aboriginal

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Butler, R., & Hinch, T. (1996). Tourism and indigenous peoples. London: International Thomson Business Press. Collins, J., Morrison, M., Basu, P. K., & Krivokapic-Skoko, B. (2017). Indigenous culture and entrepreneurship in small businesses in Australia. Small Enterprise Research, 24(1), 36–48. Dana, L. (2015). Indigenous entrepreneurship: An emerging field of research. International Journal of Business and Globalisation, 14(2), 158–169. Dana, L. P., & Light, I. (2011). Two forms of community entrepreneurship in Finland: Are there differences between Finnish and Sami reindeer husbandry entrepreneurs?. Entrepreneurship & Regional Development, 23(5/6), 331–352. Deloitte Access Economics. (2014). Economic benefits of closing the gap in Indigenous employment outcomes. Sydney: Deloitte Access Economics. Retrieved from https:// www2.deloitte.com/content/dam/Deloitte/au/Documents/finance/deloitte-au-fas-economic-benefits-closing-gap-10-feb-2014-240914.pdf Foley, D. (2000). Successful indigenous Australian entrepreneurs: A case study analysis. In S. Ulm, I. Lilley, & M. Williams (Eds.), Aboriginal and Torres Islander Studies Unit research report series. Brisbane: Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander Studies Unit, University of Queensland. Frederick, H. (2008). Introduction to special issue on indigenous entrepreneurs. Journal of Enterprising Communities: People and Places in the Global Economy, 2(3), 185–191. Giovannini, M. (2012). Social enterprises for development as buen vivir. Journal of Enterprising Communities: People and Places in the Global Economy, 6(3), 284–299. Hindle, K. (2002). The SensisTM GEM Australia, 2002 focus report: Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia. Retrieved from http://www.swin.edu.au/agse/publications/hindle/GEM_focusreport.pdf. Accessed on February 15, 2004. Hindle, K. (2007). The renaissance of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Australia. In L. P. Dana & R. B. Anderson (Eds.), International handbook of research on indigenous entrepreneurship (pp. 485–493). Northamptom, MA: Edward Elgar. Hindle, K., & Lansdowne, M. (2007). Brave spirits on new paths: Toward a globally relevant paradigm of indigenous entrepreneurship research. In L. Dana & R. Anderson (Eds.), International handbook of research on Indigenous entrepreneurship (pp. 8–19). Northamptom, MA: Edward Elgar. Hindle, K., & Moroz, P. (2010). Indigenous entrepreneurship as a research field: Developing a definitional framework from the emerging canon. The International Entrepreneurship and Management Journal, 6, 357–385. Indigenous Business Australia. (2019). Our history. Retrieved from https://www.iba. gov.au/about-us/our-history/ Jacobs, C. (2017). Risky business: The problems of indigenous business policy. Sydney: The Centre for Independent Studies Limited. Retrieved from https://www.cis.org.au/ app/uploads/2017/11/rr35-e.pdf Keen, I. (2010). Indigenous participation in Australian economies: Historical and Anthropological perspectives. Canberra, NSW: Australian National University. Kidd, R. (2006). Trustees on trial: Recovering the stolen. Canberra, NSW: Aboriginal Studies Press. KPMG. (2018). Accelerating indigenous entrepreneurship. Retrieved from https:// assets.kpmg.com/content/dam/kpmg/au/pdf/2018/census-insights-accelerating-indigenous-entrepreneurship.pdf

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Mapunda, G. (2007). Entrepreneurial leadership and indigenous enterprise development. Journal of Asia Entrepreneurship and Sustainability, 3(3), 1–29. Pearson, L. (2018). No better time for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to be in business. Retrieved from https://indigenousx.com.au/no-better-time-for-aboriginaland-torres-strait-islander-people-to-be-in-business/#.W31kws5KjIV Ratten, V., & Dana, L. P. (2015). Indigenous food entrepreneurship in Australia: Mark olive ‘Australia’s Jamie Oliver’ and Indigiearth. International Journal of Small Business, 26(3), 265–279. Schaper, M. (2007). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander entrepreneurship in Australia: Looking forward, looking back. In L. P. Dana & R. B. Anderson (Eds.), International handbook of research on indigenous entrepreneurship (pp. 526–535). Northamptom, MA: Edward Elgar. Sejersen, F. (2007). Entrepreneurs in Greenland. In L. P. Dana & R. B. Anderson (Eds.), International handbook of research on indigenous entrepreneurship (pp. 201–210). Northamptom, MA: Edward Elgar. Supply Nation. (2015). The sleeping giant: A social return on investment report on supply nation certified suppliers. Tobler, R., Rohrlach, A., Soubrier, J., Bover, P., Llamas, B., Tuke, J., & Cooper, A. (2017). Aboriginal mitogenomes reveal 50,000 years of regionalism in Australia. Nature, 544, 180–184. Retrieved from https://www.nature.com/articles/nature21416 Trudgen, R. I. (2000). Why warriors lie down and die: Towards an understanding of why the Aboriginal people of Arnhem Land face the greatest crisis in health and education since European contact. Darwin: Aboriginal Resource & Development Services Inc. Zuchetti, A. (2018, June 15). First Indigenous entrepreneurship centre unveiled. My Business (p. 1). Retreived from https://www.mybusiness.com.au/management/4504first-indigenous-entrepreneurship-centre-unveiled

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Chapter 5

Māori Social Enterprise: A Case Study Ruth Hephzibah Orhoevwri

Abstract This chapter focuses on exploring social innovation among Māori entrepreneurs. The notion that social entrepreneurship (SE) has always been a core part of Indigenous entrepreneurship is supported by existing literature. However, the role of Indigenous worldviews and the entrepreneurial ecosystem within which the Indigenous entrepreneur operates has been overlooked. A Case Study method was used, Case 1 was a whānau (kinship)based social enterprise and Case 2 was a trust-based social enterprise. Both cases showed similarities in terms of cultural integration of Māoritanga into their values and how they created social innovation. Case 1 models a social engineer by designing architectural works that integrated Māori designs, but with a contemporary style that changed how the community designed projects. Case 2 also exemplified similar characteristics, but with more focus on creating economic development through community-based enterprise with a social goal using very innovative means such as community volunteering and youth engagement. Case 3 stood for a more shared-economy approach to social innovation. The entrepreneurial ecosystem is perceived by the cases quite similarly because they felt government policies were irrelevant because they did not integrate the core values of Māori. The implications of these findings are mainly policy-based because the Crown needs to re-evaulate how it engages with Māori social entrepreneurs. Keywords: Social innovation; Māori; indigenous; social value; ecosystem; social entrepreneurship

Introduction Indigenous people have social goals that form an integral part of their history and current realities in the light of post-colonial economy and Indigenous culture (Barr, Reid, Varona, & Castka, 2014; Peredo & McLean, 2013; Sengupta, Vieta, & McMurtry, 2015). Entrepreneurship will determine an integral part of Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 49–61 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211007

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Indigenous economic development because there is a need to focus on reclaiming Indigenous rights and ensuring sustainability and economic activities among Indigenous people (Bargh, 2012; Hernandez, 2013; Hudson, 2016). However, these studies do not adequately explain how the entrepreneurial ecosystem and Indigenous worldview influence social enterprise creation, development and sustainability in an Indigenous context. Indigenous worldview refers to the various ways that the metaphysical realms (myths, stories, histories, folklore, cultural values) of Indigenous groups or communities are anchored (Carjuzaa & Ruff, 2010; Gill, 2002; Walker, 2003). Mrabure, Ruwhiu, and Gray (2018) suggest that the Indigenous worldview and entrepreneurial ecosystem will influence enterprise activities among Indigenous people by altering how they perceive, enact and show innovation, risk-taking, proactiveness, autonomy and competition. This chapter uses case study approach to explore how worldview and the entrepreneurial ecosystem influence social entrepreneurship (SE). Firstly, how worldview is used to create social goals that align with social aspirations that creates social value for Indigenous people. Secondly, how the entrepreneurial ecosystem may encourage or discourage SE among Indigenous people. Thirdly, how Indigenous social entrepreneurs enact practices that help them overcome the problem of other and identity as an Indigenous SE. This chapter presents SE and in the context of Māori, methodology, findings and conclusion.

Social Entrepreneurship as Three Layers Zahra, Gedajlovic, Neubaum, and Shulman (2009) noted that social entrepreneurs can either be social bricoleurs, constructionists or engineers. The basis for this typology is motives, types of ventures created and the strategies used in enhancing social wealth. SE …encompasses the activities and processes undertaken to discover, define and exploit opportunities in order to enhance social wealth by creating new ventures or managing existing organisation in an innovative manner. (Zahra et al., 2009, p. 522). Social bricoleur: Social bricoleurs target local and small-scale needs, without whom some social needs would go unnoticed. Their scope consist of series of separate events and are prevalent in resource-constrained environments (Di Domenico, Haugh, & Tracey, 2010; Zahra et al., 2009). This means using bricolage to assuage resource needs if other means of getting the required resources proves abortive. The social bricoleur may also make radical or incremental changes by reconfiguring available resources in creative and innovative ways to address a social problem. Social constructionist: The social constructionist builds, launches and operates business ventures that address social needs that have not been adequately addressed by existing institutions, businesses, Non-Governmental Organisations

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(NGOs) and governmental bodies (Zahra et al., 2009). This type of social entrepreneur focuses on addressing more large-scale societal problems. A social constructionist has the opportunity to create social wealth by reconfiguring processes. A popular example is the Acumen Fund, a US-based non-profit organisation that works with entrepreneurs and organisations that deliver critical, but affordable water, healthcare and housing to the poor (Zahra et al., 2009). Social engineer: The social engineer is an innovator and change agent. The social engineer introduces innovative and dramatic changes because existing solutions from existing institutions are inadequate in tackling the social needs (Zahra et al., 2009). Unlike the social bricoleur and constructionist, the social engineer focuses on systemic issues and structures, bringing about a disruptive change with the goal of replacing these systems with socially efficient ones.

Māori Social Entrepreneurship Social enterprise is in its early stages of development in New Zealand (Te Puni Kōkiri, 2017). Within Māori economy, there are several entities that engage in SE. These organisations include iwi organisations, Māori health, education and social service organisations, marae trusts, Māori land trusts and whānau businesses. Table 5.1 summarises the main characteristics of these SE within Māori economy.

Table 5.1. Types of Māori Social Entrepreneurs (Te Puni Kōkiri, 2017). Organisation

Iwi Organisations

Māori health, education and social service organisations

Whānau businesses

SE Characteristics

Iwi have social change mission reflected in the aspirations of the community, and they engage in commercial activities that provide sustainable financing for the social value they aim to provide. These social entrepreneurs (SE) Māori organisations are primarily focused on social change and work based on government contract which is a permissible source of funding in line with some definition of SE. These types of SE create employment opportunities for whanau members. The area of operation can be diverse.

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Iwi organisations: With more treaty settlements, the Māori economy has continued to grow with more iwi organisations involved in different economic activities (Tripp, 2017). The size of the Māori economy as at 2017 was estimated to be $50b, mostly concentrated in primary industries (Tripp, 2017). One of the biggest iwi is Ngāi Tahu Holdings.1 Ngāi Tahu has been able to use their settlement to create thriving businesses in the several ventures. Ngāi Tahu commercialism is used as a means to support their goals such as intergenerational tribal wealth transfer and the social well-being of its members (Ngāi Tahu, 2019). Tainui Group Holdings (TGH) is another iwi organisation with more than 76,000 members (Tainui Group Holdings, 2019). ‘Moo teenei raa haaere ake nei’ (for this generation and the next) summarises the focus of TGH as they use profits, jobs and land for the benefit of the people of Waikato-Tainui (Tainui Group Holdings, 2019). TGH has investment in equity, the primary sector, direct investments and property. TGH upholds that their focus is on the financial wellbeing of the tribe and that this is not separate from their social and cultural goals because their investment creates new jobs and supports work that contributes to the well-being of its members, te reo and the environment. Māori health, education and social service organisations: Although Māori health, education and social service organisations play different roles in pursuit of Māori well-being, being funded by Government does not preclude these different agencies from being classified as SEs. Whānau Ora is one organisation that has played a formidable role in ensuring the health and well-being of whānau using Māori values and innovative ways of championing better healthcare services (Boulton & Gifford, 2014). Whānau ora is led by Te Puni Kōkiri (TPK) and the Ministry of Social Development (MSD) and this enables them to connect social issues with the health and well-being of Māori whānau. Whānau businesses: The last type of SE is whānau businesses that have social purpose. According to Te Puni Kōkiri (2017), whānau social enterprises create employment for whānau and can have diverse types of economic activities. Hanita, Rihia, and Te Kanawa (2016) note that these groups of Māori entrepreneurs have been overlooked, and more focus has been placed on larger organisations like iwi. This segment of Māori social enterprise is very important because of the role they play in ensuring whānau well-being, Māori worldview and the entrepreneurial ecosystem of Māori entrepreneurs. Māori worldview explicates the interconnectivity between the natural, social and spiritual world (Walker, 2003). Māori worldview is a woven lens through which Māori perceive these different realms as holistic and as a continuous circle as all parts interact with each other. The Māori mythology about Rangi (Sky Father) and Papatuanuku (Earth Mother) whakapapa (genealogy) based on the Lo tradition gives credence to the different links that can be seen in the pa harekeke (Hiroa, 1966; King, 2001; Orbell, 1995). This interwoven nature of the Māori worldview creates a very complex and rich story line of how Māori frames the world. Tikanga (way) Māori represents the practice and protocols that often govern Māori entities. The most common tikanga Māori values are: Kaitiakitanga is connected to Māori mythology and encourages the need to use natural resources as guardians and stewards.2 The Kaitiaki is ‘a guardian, keeper,

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preserver, conservator, foster parent, protector’ of the earth (Marsden, 2003, p. 67). The essence is to guard Māori (taonga) land and the natural resources that tupuna treasured and passed down through the whakapapa. Whānaungatanga conceptualises the sense of belonging.3 Whānaungatanga comes from sharing experiences and working among whānau. It is considered the ‘glue’ that holds the whānau together and enables each whānau to reach out and support one another (Haar & Delaney, 2009; McNatty & Roa, 2002). Manaakitanga is to care, show hospitality and aroha (love) as a core part of what is extended to people.4 Manaakitanga exemplifies attitudes that are proven in several ways such as reciprocating acts of kindness, humility, respect and caring for others and the environment (Walker, 2003). Tino rangatiratanga emphasises the aspirations of Māori and the desire to be in control of their future, sovereignty and resources.5 In line with the Treaty of Waitangi, tino rangatiratanga grants Māori the right to possession of their lands and estates (Belgrave, 2014; Toki, 2017). Auahatanga has been described as entrepreneurial, creative, learning, problemsolving and adaptability.6 Auahatanga is linked to Maui and the entrepreneurial spirit he proved according to Māori mythology. Elements of auahatanga were clear in the way Māori traded with European settlers (Kuntz, N¨aswall, Beckingsale, & Macfarlane, 2014).

The Entrepreneurial Ecosystem for Māori Social Enterprise The three parts of the entrepreneurial ecosystem considered here are government policy, culture and finance. These three parts often influence Māori enterprise of all kinds (Mataira & Mataira, 2000; Reihana, Sisley, & Modlik, 2007; Zapalska, Dabb, & Perry, 2003). Government policy: The historical events that shape Māori experiences today are the direct result of exchanges between Māori and European settlers (Waitangi Tribunal, 2016). However, the Crown has been responsive to creating avenues for Māori people to pursue tino rangatiratanga (self-determination) in ways that further Māori aspirations. One of those core aspirations is economic well-being for Māori. Policies have been put in place over time to cater for Māori economic aspirations. Te Puni Kōkiri is a government department responsible for advising the Crown on issues and policies that affect Māori. Contemporary Māori have continued to advocate for more policies that will advance Māoridom (Bargh, 2011; Henry, 2007, 2017; Katschner, 2005; Morgan & Guthrie, 2014). The goal is to have a policy framework that recognises Mātauranga, Māoritanga and tino rangatiratanga. However, there are still tensions that need to be addressed, such as the level of disparity in health care, poverty, and well-being between Māori and Pākehā. For the ardent Māori social entrepreneur, these unmet needs and/or the disparity between Māori and Pākehā creates an opportunity to advance the economic well-being of Māori people. Culture: Culture as a component of the entrepreneurial ecosystem comprises success stories and societal norms (Isenberg, 2011). The success stories encapsulate

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wealth generation for founders and gaining an international reputation. Iwi organisations such as Ngāi Tahu, Tainui and many others are examples of success stories. Societal norms, on the other hand, look at innovation, creativity, experimentation, ambition and tolerance for risk by the entrepreneur. In the case of Māori entrepreneurs, culture covers more of who they are and the ‘how’ of their culture. Although Isenberg (2011) mirrors a typical entrepreneurial ecosystem, the reality is that Māori worldview conceptualises culture as more than success stories and societal norms. Roundy (2017) proposes that in a culture that is altruistic social enterprises are more likely to be successful than an ecosystem dominated by exploitation. Finance: For SE to thrive, they require diverse sources of investment from the start-up phase, but social enterprises must also strive to match their returns with a diverse pool of investors and satisfy the expected returns from investors (Roundy, 2017). The implication of having diverse sources of funding for SE is the varied measure of return expected by the investor. The expectation of a philanthropic organisation that funds a non-profit social enterprise will be different to that of a conventional investor. Roundy (2017) suggests that having a diverse pool of investment sources will increase the creation of SE because investors have different tolerances for risk, return, motivation and investment emphases.

Methodology Case studies are beneficial when exploring in-depth questions about the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of a contemporary phenomenon, or ‘case’, in its real-world context, where there are multiple sources of evidence and many variables (Yin, 2014). Based on this updated definition of case study research, this chapter focuses on three Māori social entrepreneurs in New Zealand. The cases were selected based on organisation purpose and connection to Māori culture. All three cases are from North Island in Aotearoa, New Zealand. Interviews lasted betweeen 50 minutes and 1.5 hours. In two cases, single individuals were interviewed, and in one case, two individuals were interviewed. The variables mentioned in the previous section (worldview and entrepreneurial ecosystem) will be viewed from the participants’ experiences and stories, and other sources of evidence to explore social innovation and value creation among Māori entrepreneurs. Case 1: Ākau Ākau is a design and collaborative organisation that started in 2014 in Kaikohe, New Zealand. Ākau prides itself as a design and architectural organisation founded by a group of Māori with the core purpose of reaching and empowering taitamariki through design and architecture.7 One hundred percent of the profits made goes towards funding opportunities for taitamariki. Ākau can be considered a Whānau-based social enterprise because of its formation. Case 2: He Iwi Kotahi Tatou Trust The trust started in the 1980s at a time when there was increasing unemployment, drug and alcohol problems in the community. The initial focus of the trust was to

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train members of the community for jobs, but there were no jobs available. At this point, the trust changed its approach to local development, and through these initiatives, they have been able to create several community-owned enterprises: a caf´e, craft shops, a surf shop, a hairdresser, hairdressing salon and a body massage shop. Creating space for youth to find and be who they were born to be is seen as a way of engaging and championing a culture of finding potential. The interview was held with two key people in the trust.

Case 3: Stay Native Stay Native was established in 2017 by a Māori family. Stay Native creates opportunity for Māori whānau to open their homes and share their experiences with tourists. She saw the possibilities of other whānau becoming hosts and earning extra income for their household. The marketing and communications manager mentioned that studying Māori development and her awareness of the poverty rate of her people was a key driver.

Findings and Discussion Definition of Social Enterprise by Māori Social Entrepreneurs Ākau: The motivation for starting Ākau was two-fold: connecting with the community and culture, and creating connections. This view also changed over time. The desire for young people who were not fulfilling their potential, knowing that design and creativity can have a positive effect for people and community, has greatly impacted the definition of SE for Ākau. SE is reciprocal – giving to the community and connecting to Māori culture. The baseline was design and architecture because the founders have the skill. They had an idea at the start of what Ākau could look like, but now it has become more community oriented. In terms of the three typologies, Ākau considers the organisation as a change agent because they seek to change systems (social engineer) that have been in place for a long time. Their goal is to have tangible outcomes, not hypothetical changes. He Iwi Kotahi Tatou Trust: The trust is all about creating opportunities for whānau. The initial reaction was spurred by the needs in the community. This was only an aspect and not the key issue. Moving into social enterprise was a natural gravitation for the trust to make sustainable changes in the community, rather than reacting. For he iwi kotahi tatou trust, SE is not business as usual, it is community growth. Stay Native: Stay Native asserted that any business truly based on Māori core values is a social enterprise. The interviewee at Stay Native, affirmed in her response that the founder of Stay Native, always wanted to be involved in SE. Being able to connect with other whānau in the community by using a shared economy as a business model led to that achievement. Connection is a core part of Māori values and that is a core value for Stay Native.

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Māori in SE Ākau: For the interviewee, she did not know much about her culture. Moving up to Northland to start Ākau gave her the opportunity to connect with her culture more intently. The key has been connecting the tamariki and rangatahi with their culture, whakapapa, and tupuna because that creativity is there inherently, but may have been disconnected. The interviewee talks from her experience of te ao Māori not as a kaumatua, but Ākau have tapped into the kaumatua in the community because the traditional education is not designed for Māori. Having the different generations opens the children up to learn more about Māori culture. Being in Northland and situating Ākau in the community brings proximity, and this naturally flows into how Ākau operates. The more they have progressed in the community, the more Māori culture has become part of how Ākau operates and the way they work with the young. The model of practice is based on Māori values and content, and the programme design is based around Māori seasons not school terms. Ākau holds design and architecture workshops with young people so they are part of the process that is part of their worldview. These workshops include everyone, and there is discussion around the creative process. They have been working on iwi projects because they see the benefit and it resonates with the iwi. Ākau has been able to bring back Māori traditions using modern technology in design. They have reinvented the Indigenous ways of designing while incorporating technology from the contemporary world. He Iwi Kotahi Tatou Trust: Collectivism is a core part of how community-led enterprise is managed for the good of its members and it is mostly aligned with Māori worldview. According to the interviewee, the development of collective enterprise not owned by an individual, rather it mirrors the cultural value of whakawhanungatanga. Relationship is key because it is the process of people coming together for a common good and both sides showing care. Aroha ki atua (love for the creator), aroha ki tangata (love for the people) and aroha ki whenua (love for the land) are some of the tikanga mentioned as a core part of the thinking process when considering community initiatives. Stay Native: In line with their ideology of what defines an SE from a Māori perspective, Stay Native is underpinned by core Māori values such as whānaungatanga, kaitiakitanga and tino rangatiratanga. The initiative behind Stay Native is to give people who are non-Māori an opportunity to be hosted by a Māori person, experience nature and connect with Māori history and stories. Whānaungatanga creates that connection, but connection to the land is made possible through their awareness of their whenua and being able to connect others to the land. For Stay Native, that changes tourism.

The Entrepreneurial Ecosystem for Māori SE Ākau: It has been hard for Ākau to get the right business model, so they have done things their own way, and there were a lot of factors that made it hard for them to do what they do. They have had some government support from the Ministry for Youth Development, but have relied on philanthropic funding. At some point, they believe that they might approach the government for further

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funding. In the early stages, Ākau talked to various agencies about funding, but at that stage there was little recognition of the SE model. It was very hard to get any funding support if the organisation was not a charitable trust. Ākau is starting to see a shift in this, but more work is required. Ākau have found social networks very helpful and have been deliberate in choosing their social networks. These networks include schools and building relationship with people and organisations in the community, the creative industry, NZ Institute of Architecture, as well as having an awesome group of advisors that they keep updated with their mahi. He Iwi Kotahi Tatou Trust: The various government initiatives are laudable, but such initiatives are perceived as an outside-in approach. The scripting of what the community should be doing without understanding the context is perceived as problematic, and it casts a shadow on how SE should look like for the community in question. Participants opined that there is no value seen in what Māori se brings to the table because historically Māori have been overlooked. Ākina is not seen as visible enough to encourage Māori SE, and the business models are perceived to be highly Western. The trust maintains an indifference to policy, but this drives them to look for culturally and economically viable ways of creating social enterprise that furthers Māori aspirations. In terms of encouraging social enterprise among Māori, participants believe that Māori social enterprise is not visible to the mainstream, and this makes policies irrelevant. The trust relies on government funding, volunteer hours, and diversifying sources of funds, and contracts. Stay Native: As with the first two cases, Stay Native tried to make connections with the government, but they never got a response. Their experience so far shows that there is a lack of willingness to connect with their initiative by the relevant government authorities that were contacted. However, this has not deterred the business from pushing a Māori-based tourism market that is SE in nature. In terms of culture as part of the entrepreneurial ecosystem, Stay Native demonstrates that they are very connected to societal norms that govern Māori customs. One way they have done this is allowing host Māori whānau to decide how much they charge for each experience. The success stories come from seeing these whānau being able to earn more income and support their families. Stay Native is also very connected to its iwi and marae.8 These social networks have helped them increase the number of experiences that tourists can book. Unlike the previous cases, Stay Native has not required huge financial funding because the family of five oversees the business currently. However, the role of finance in encouraging or discouraging SE activities does not appear to be an issue at this stage.

Social Innovation Ākau: Ākau have found it hard to measure their impact as many things are happening in the ecosystem, and they have had to change how they operate. They have now cemented what their goals are with a more streamlined team and have the right expertise. Social innovation for Ākau is being able to bring Māori values, culture and ways of being into designing their space.

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He Iwi Kotahi Tatou Trust: The key driver of this trust is social good. Taking all the values listed – aroha ki atua, aroha ki tangata and aroha ki whenua – means social innovation is pursued in a new way. One issue being considered is the tamariki courts and how to come up with ways that are therapeutic and restorative rather than punitive. The trust is a place where space is created for people to shine and be who they were born to be. This is seen as radically different from the current system and perceived as socially innovative way of engaging with members of their community. Stay Native: According to the interviewee, their business model for tourism is disruptive because it changes the landscape of tourism in New Zealand. The model for tourism in New Zealand currently focuses on companies who create tourism experiences for tourists, but engaging whānau and giving them autonomy is not evident. Stay Native is changing the face of tourism in New Zealand by engineering new processes and concepts. In the interviewee’s words, ‘we are social engineers’.

Conclusion The three cases used in this study show that Indigenous worldview plays an integral part in the formation of social enterprises. The values that each organisation, whether whānau-based or trust-based, brings into the business goes back to aligning with Māori aspirations. How each organisation defines social innovation is also connected to their aspirations and desires to empower their whānau. The experiences of the cases presented show that Māori history is still a core part of how the entrepreneurial ecosystem is perceived by Māori SE in this study. The participants felt that current policies were irrelevant to Māori social enterprise because current policies are highly Westernised, do not take their specific context into account, and most of these policies are developed by non-Māori. Their reactions to this imbalance have been to create their own business models that allow them integrate Māori values that propel and advance all things Māori, taking their context into account. The cases also showed strong connections to Māori culture and values, and overcoming any issue of identity did not prove problematic. Case 1 has built in a strong identity of who they are by locating the organisation within the community and drawing from the kaumatua and using that shape who they are and what they do. Case 2 is very engrained in their community and identify with their culture, and this forms a basis for their activities within the community. Case 3 is driven by cultural values that underpin how they share Māori experiences with tourists. These cases show that social innovation within an Indigenous context needs more focus. The current ecosystem has not been reflective of this group. Te Ao Māori and tikanga Māori continues to propel their activities and how they innovate. However, as a social engineer focused on changing the system, the cases in this study show that self-determining Indigenous groups (either as whānau, kinbased or group-led) are a viable way of creating systemic changes that creates social innovation.

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

Tribe in Māori. Guardianship. Relationship. Hospitality. Sovereignty. Entrepreneurial spirit. Children. Meeting house in a Māori sense.

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Hiroa, T. R. (1966). The coming of the Maori (2nd ed.). Wellington: Whitcombe & Tombs. Hudson, S. (2016). Awakening the ‘sleeping giant’: The hidden potential of indigenous businesses. Policy, 32(1), 3–9. Isenberg, D. (2011). The entrepreneurship ecosystem strategy as a new paradigm for economic policy: Principles for cultivating entrepreneurship. Dublin: Institute of International European Affairs. Katschner, I. (2005). The role of treaty of Waitangi claim settlements on Maori economic development. International Journal of Entrepreneurship and Small Business, 2(2), 163–177. King, M. (2001). Nga iwi o te motu: 1000 years of Maori history. Auckland: Reed Books. Kuntz, J. R. C., N¨aswall, K., Beckingsale, A., & Macfarlane, A. H. (2014). Capitalising on diversity: Espousal of Māori values in the workplace. The Journal of Corporate Citizenship, (55), 102–122. Marsden, M. (2003). The woven universe: Selected writings of Rev. Māori Marsden. Otaki: Estate of Rev. Māori Marsden. Mataira, P. J., & Mataira, P. J. (2000). Nga kai arahi tuitui Maori: Maori entrepreneurship: The articulation of leadership and the dual constituency arrangements associated with Maori enterprise in a capitalist economy. A thesis presented for the degree of doctor of philosophy. Albany, NY, Auckland: Massey University. McNatty, W., & Roa, T. (2002). Whanaungatanga: An illustration of the importance of cultural context. He Puna Korero: Journal of Maori and Pacific Development, 3(1), 88–96. Morgan, G. H. T., & Guthrie, S. (2014). Are we there yet?: The future of the treaty of Waitangi. Lower Hutt: The Public Interest Publishing Company Ltd (PiP). Mrabure, R. O. H., Ruwhiu, D., & Gray, B. J. (2018). Indigenous entrepreneurial orientation: A Māori perspective. Journal of Management and Organisation, 1–25. Ngāi Tahu (2019). Investment. Retrieved from https://ngaitahu.iwi.nz/investment/. Accessed on February 25, 2019. Orbell, M. (1995). The illustrated encyclopaedia of Maori myth and legend. Christchurch: Canterbury University Press. Peredo, A. M., & McLean, M. (2013). Indigenous development and the cultural captivity of entrepreneurship. Business & Society, 52(4), 592–620. Te Puni Kōkiri. (2017). Insights on Māori social enterprise 2017 (Pakihi Whai Kaupapa). Retrieved from https://ir.canterbury.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10092/15663/ 733182%20TPK%20Insight%20report%20M%C4%81ori%20Social%20Enterpriselr.pdf?sequence52 Reihana, F., Sisley, M., & Modlik, H. (2007). Maori entrepreneurial activity in Aotearoa New Zealand. International Journal of Entrepreneurship and Small Business, 4(5), 636–653. Roundy, P. T. (2017). Social entrepreneurship and entrepreneurial ecosystems: Complementary or disjoint phenomena? International Journal of Social Economics, 44(9), 1252–1267. Sengupta, U., Vieta, M., & McMurtry, J. J. (2015). Indigenous communities and social enterprise in Canada. Canadian Journal of Non-profit and Social Economy Research, 6(1), 104–123.

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Stokes, E. (1992). The treaty of Waitangi and the Waitangi tribunal: Maori claims in New Zealand. Applied Geography, 12(2), 176–191. Tainui Group Holdings. (2019). Home. Retrieved from https://www.tgh.co.nz/en/ home/. Accessed on February 25, 2019. Toki, V. (2017). Māori seeking self-determination or Tino Rangatiratanga? A note. Journal of Māori and Indigenous Issues, (5), 134–144. Tripp, C. (2017). Te Ao Māori: Trends and insights. Wellington: Chapman Tripp. Waitangi Tribunal (2016). Meaning of the treaty | Waitangi Tribunal. Retrieved from https://www.waitangitribunal.govt.nz/treaty-of-waitangi/meaning-of-the-treaty/. Accessed on April 5, 2017. Walker, D. (2003). Te Ao Maori/A Maori worldview. In D. Walker, P. Bunt, & M. Stephens (Eds.), A cultural impact assessment of Nelson sewerage and ponds. Nelson Iwi Resource Management Advisory Komiti, Nelson. Yin, R. K. (2014). Case study research: Design and methods (5th ed.). Los Angeles, CA: SAGE. Zahra, S. A., Gedajlovic, E., Neubaum, D. O., & Shulman, J. M. (2009). A typology of social entrepreneurs: Motives, search processes and ethical challenges. Journal of Business Venturing, 24(5), 519–532. Zapalska, A. M., Dabb, H., & Perry, G. (2003). Environmental factors affecting entrepreneurial activities: Indigenous Maori entrepreneurs of New Zealand. Asia Pacific Business Review, 10(2), 160–177.

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Theme 3 Leadership in Tribes and Clans

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Chapter 6

Quechua/Aymara Perspective of Social, Economic, and Environmental Sustainability in the Bolivian Andes: Sustainability and Contradictions in Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa Heartland Tamara Stenn

Abstract Bolivia’s original Aymara and Quechua quinoa producers1 exported 32,000 tons of hand-grown Royal Quinoa valued at $74 million in 2018. Nevertheless, they continued to fall deeper into poverty as low market prices did not cover the cost of their carefully planted, culturally driven production (IBCE, 2018, INIAF, 2018). Quinoa, now a global commodity, had seen increased competition from newly emerging quinoa growing countries with ample financial investment, improved production, and greater supply driving prices down. The more expensive, slow farming methods used by the Bolivian producers who followed traditional social, economic, and environmental sustainability practices were not valued in world markets. In Bolivia, the original quinoa homeland, once booming quinoa towns lay empty. Eighty-percent of inhabitants had moved to cities, leaving behind their native languages, traditions, and indigenous ways. Yet the culture and belief system lived on. This chapter examines Suma Qamana and how the Andean perspectives on social, economic, and environmental sustainability manifested themselves in the Bolivian experience of Aymara and Quechua quinoa producers. What follows is a story of Andean resilience in the face of globalization, and development gone awry. Keywords: Royal Quinoa; Bolivia; Suma Qamana; fair trade; commodity markets; sustainability; Andean

Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 65–86 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211009

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Introduction This is a story of Andean resilience in the face of globalization, and development gone awry. It is a tale of how Royal Quinoa, a sacred gift from the gods once banned by Spanish colonists and shunned by the upper classes, made its way into the hearts and cupboards of health-conscious consumers worldwide. And it is a tale of the unintended consequences of 30 years of development that lifted Bolivia’s poorest out of poverty, giving them the earnings of the upper class for an instant before world markets swept it away. Here, we examine Andean perspectives on social, economic, and environmental sustainability from the experience of Bolivia’s original2 quinoa producers. The story takes place in the Bolivian Andes on the shores of the Uyuni Salt Flats, 12,000 feet above sea level in a land dominated by salt, volcanoes, wind, and open plains: the southern altiplano. Here, Aymara and Quechua people live as they have for thousands of years on small farms with lands scattered about, balancing the grazing of llamas with the production of quinoa. Quinoa and llama meat were sold and traded regionally for other local goods. Now quinoa is a monetized commodity export good – a cash crop sold to world markets. Not much else grows in the southern altiplano’s cold, harsh, dry climate, but tales and cultural richness abound. We start by examining what a Sustainable Business is from the perspective of the original Royal Quinoa producers, the Aymara and Quechua people themselves. This information was documented during a three-year field study looking specifically at the impact that export trade had on producer women and their families. The chapter then moves on to the Dreamtime: origin stories and ancestral homelands. Here, we learn the creation myth of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa, a gift from the Gods sent to save humanity during the time of Pachacuti – world change. Andean people believed that now they were living in this foretold time of transition. This chapter explores how the quinoa myth is lived with ritual and indigenous knowledge playing essential roles in the planting and harvesting of quinoa – the sacred seed of gold, a gift from the Gods. The next section of this chapter, Politics and Policy, looks at the role of organizations and how they function. In 2007, Evo Morales, an Andean Quechua leader, became president of Bolivia. Morales worked with the Bolivians to rewrite the constitution guided by the principles of Suma Qamana, an Andean way of governance based on representative democracy, transparent deliberation, and unified agreement. The influence of this highly inclusive, participatory way of governance is explored in the context of the well-being and sustainable development of the quinoa lands and its inhabitants. This chapter concludes with the Andean Perspectives on Sustainable Business as Bolivia’s quinoa producers struggled to compete in world markets with lower prices. This competition threatened producers’ social, economic, and environmental sustainability. Bolivia’s organically grown, Fair Trade, Royal Quinoa cost 40% more to produce than conventional quinoa and was a higher quality product with a larger, creamier seed and more nutrient content (Medrano, 2018).

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However, few buyers were aware of this nor were they willing to pay higher than market prices for quinoa (Stenn, 2018a,b). The result was that Bolivia’s Aymara and Quechua producers could not make a dignified wage nor maintain their traditional ways of life. They were forced to produce “on the cheap” damaging soils and fragile ecosystems. This chapter is interspersed with quantifiable evidence from a three-year Sustainability Study that documented how producers while balancing the social and environmental elements of quinoa production fall short of being economically sustainable. There was a 21% increase in dissatisfaction with market access, with more than a quarter of producers reporting economic returns on production as “bad” and almost a third of producers unable to manage loans (Stenn, 2018a,b). This disequilibrium threatened the future well-being of Bolivia’s most ancient producers.

Section I – Sustainable Business Here, we begin with perspectives on Sustainable Business. Bolivia’s original Fair Trade–certified, organic quinoa producers struggled to compete in world markets where quinoa was an agroindustrial commodity. World market prices were too low for Bolivian farmers, who carefully hand-produced low-yield, high-quality, blessed quinoa known as Royal Quinoa. They balanced the social and environmental aspects of sustainable business development, taking time to care for the earth and celebrate key moments of gratitude, but fell short of being economically sustainable – due to low market prices. This market disequilibrium threatened the future well-being of Bolivia’s most ancient producers. A review of the recent history of quinoa development helps one to understand better how Quechua and Aymara producers arrived at this place. The second half of the twentieth century marked the beginning of the rise of quinoa to national and international recognition and interest in its social and nutritional value. In 1970, there were 1,600 tons of Royal Quinoa produced for markets outside of the family home, and by 2007, that number had grown to 7,750 tons of quinoa valued at $8.9 million (Soraide Lozano, 2013). This slow but steady increase was spurred on by new research, including Felix Patzi’s development of quinoa noodles and the global “health food” movement (Lozano, 2013). Also helping to bring Bolivia’s rural quinoa to the world stage was the US National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s (NASA) naming of quinoa as a new crop selected for the Controlled Ecological Life Support System (CELS) to support human life in space. NASA chose quinoa because of its “high concentration of protein (12–18%), ease of use, versatility in preparation, and potential for greatly increased yields in controlled environments” (Bubenheim & Schlick, 1993, p. 1). A few years later, a cookbook, “Quinoa, the Golden Grain of the Andes,” brought quinoa into modern kitchens, launching the Novo-Andean cuisine movement (Del Solar, 2005).

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In the 1980s, the United Nations (UN) Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) began providing agronomists, funding, and networks to further grow markets for Bolivian quinoa to lift producers out of poverty. FAO DirectorGeneral Jos´e Graziano da Silva called quinoa an “ally in the fight against hunger and food insecurity” because of quinoa’s nutritional qualities and adaptability to different agroecological conditions (FAO, 2013). Development efforts came to a head in 2013 when the UN General Assembly declared it the “International Year of the Quinoa” (IYQ). They stated that this was done, … in recognition of ancestral practices of the Andean people, who have managed to preserve quinoa in its natural state as food for present and future generations, through ancestral practices of living in harmony with nature. (FAO, 2013) Here, through a collaborative network of governments, agencies, organizations, associations, academics, private sector players, and communities, Bolivian quinoa was recognized and celebrated worldwide. The FAO was determined that the IYQ would be a …catalyst to enable the exchange of information and to start to generate medium- and long-term programs and projects for the sustainable development of the cultivation of quinoa nationally and globally. (FAO, 2013) Rural pride and confidence grew among Bolivia’s most disadvantaged producers, as their Royal Quinoa became more valued, found new markets, and gained international attention (Stenn, 2018a,b). Bolivia’s original Quechua and Aymara producers formed large farmer cooperatives and associations, such as ANAPQUI, CECOAT, APQUISA, and AIPROCA. These organizations with thousands of members collectively sold quinoa to global buyers in Challapata, a small, dusty town located midway between the remote salt flats and the urban export center of Oruro. From here, quinoa was purchased to fill shipping containers sent to Europe, Asia, and the United States. In 2017, 1,391 shipping containers of quinoa left Bolivia (Stenn, 2018a,b). Nationally, there was an upsurge of quinoa consumption, as it became a health craze. Soon, Bolivia’s finest hotels and restaurants were serving quinoa, and for the first time, it appeared packaged on grocery store shelves, instead of simply being sold out of sacks in open-air markets. The Aymara and Quechua producers were used to working together in communal organizations. Equipped with new literacy skills from new rural education programs, empowered by a resurgence in national pride for native identity, and engaged in new powers of local governance, producers directed their own development, quickly becoming modern-day entrepreneurs. The cash flow and

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global attention led to rapid innovation. Meetings of hundreds of cooperative members resulted in days of long discussions and substantial progress forward. Producers formed associations and cooperatives investing in multimilliondollar quinoa processing plants, which they collectively owned. Here, they transformed their tiny seeds into popped quinoa, quinoa flakes, quinoa flour, baked goods, cereals, and snacks for national school breakfasts and export markets (Stenn, 2018a,b).

Research Methodology The research in this chapter was informed by the Capabilities Approach (CA) framework, which provided a basis in which to understand and define sustainable development from the perspective of the people being studied and their own experiences (Sen, 2009). The underlying question is whether one is able to live the life they have reason to value. Through the CA, individuals defined their own goals and values, which were examined in a broader environmental, socioeconomic context driven by the use of a survey. Personal experiences, as shared by the Bolivian Quechua and Aymara people themselves in specially constructed workshops, enabled new details to come into focus and a deeper understanding of Andean social, economic, and environmental sustainability to arise. The data in this chapter are specifically based on a three-year Sustainability Study of 20 different quinoa growing communities culminating in 311 pages of field notes; hundreds of photos; 14 facilitated workshops with 196 participants total; 450 completed Social Life Questionnaire surveys, and countless conversations and celebrations. The Sustainability Study, funded by a US Fulbright Scholar grant and overseen by the SIT Graduate Institute Review Board, was conducted from 2015 to 2018. The study used mixed methods, ethno-economic research methodology (EERM) as the basis of data development and measurement over this time frame. EERM included: (1) participant observation, which built context, trust, and communication; (2) focus groups for problem definitions which were then quantified; and (3) a survey for problem identification and quantification (Stenn, 2019). EERM met the dual objectives of providing: (1) a standardized, comparable model for presenting sustainable development research and (2) a participatory, holistic approach to understanding and evaluating sustainable development goals. EERM research deeply examined a particular social group within a certain place and time. By carefully understanding many smaller groups, a broader understanding of development emerges. A mixed-methods approach conducted by a researcher over time enabled new details to come into focus and experiences to arise, which generated deeper cultural understanding and captured an insider’s point of view of their social, economic, and environmental sustainability. Three distinct styles of ethnographic research were used in this study. (1) Participatory Rural Appraisal (PRA) as developed by Robert Chambers; (2) Participant Observation, a popular tool used in anthropological and sociological

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studies and fieldwork; and (3) Ethnographic Study using Geertz’s method of thick description (Chambers, 2007; Geertz, 1973; Jorgensen, 2015). Used together, these methodologies [KP1] of observation, participation, and description developed the voice of the people and created a language, context, and feeling for the place of study. The author, a US citizen with Bolivian family members, lived in Bolivia continuously from 1996 to 1999 as a US Peace Corps volunteer, business developer, and rural journalist. The author traveled to Bolivia from the United States six times between 2010 and 2018, spending a total of 50 weeks engaged in academic research – as a doctoral student, a private entrepreneur, a postdoc professor, and a US Fulbright scholar. For this research, the author shadowed Aymara and Quechua women through their day, helping to cook, clean, and care for children; attended markets, schools, family events, and community festivals; visited factories and worked in the fields. Meetings and family discussions were witnessed and listened to. In the emic style described by ethnographer Brian Hoey, categories and meanings emerged from this ethnographic encounter rather than being imposed on it from existing models (2011). Although not an original Bolivian woman producer, the author, with participants’ consent, experienced what it was like to be a traditional Bolivian family member, producer, and mother. The author learned to understand the Bolivian ways, build trust among the people studied, established rapport, shared cultural meanings, interpreted data, and crafted stories. The result was a much deeper understanding of social, economic, and environmental sustainability, and how it was understood and experienced by Quechan and Aymara people. To further focus and quantify experiences in Bolivia, the author conducted 14 workshops from 2010 until 2018 using the Talking Stick method. A total of 196 producers participated with 98 being Fair Trade, organic quinoa farmers.3 The Talking Stick method was a Native American tradition of group discussion that entailed participants taking turns speaking freely about a topic while other participants listened (First Peoples, 2011). The Talking Stick workshop used in this research focused on Andean women with the discussion question, “What does sustainability mean to you?” People often responded with social, economic, and environmental themes. Talking Stick workshop monologues were drawn, recorded, and later analyzed through the Text Analysis Markup System (TAMS) to quantify trends and dialects (Weinstein, 2006). Additional discussions about challenges and benefits helped to clarify themes brought up in the monologues (Fig. 6.1). A Circles of Sustainability survey tool was used from 2015 to 2018 to further quantify the experiences of 450 quinoa producers from 20 different communities. The Circles of Sustainability model used the Social Life Questionnaire, first developed in Australia in 2006 with results presented in a four-quadrant circle (James, 2015). This survey explored the dynamics of sustainability, balancing long-term social, economic, and environmental objectives with short-term needs. Besides 10 demographic data questions, the survey had 33 questions with seven Likert scale responses in each of the four categories. In the Bolivia quinoa study,

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Fig. 6.1. A Drawing of Responses to the Prompt, “What Does Sustainability Mean to Me?” from a Talking Stick Workshop in Chita, Bolivia, February 2017, with Nine Participants (Stenn, 2018a,b). Note: The discussion included things that supported sustainability, such as the use of local organic llama manure, a multitude of quinoa varieties, and traditional methods of production. Challenges to sustainability included the cost of the llama manure, a lack of market access, the low market value of quinoa, the double work that women experience with both production and household chores, and the loss of pastureland from the over plowing of grazing lands for expanded quinoa production and drought brought on by climate change. Discussion responses were drawn by the facilitator in order to be more inclusive for producers who shared an oral tradition of Quechua and Aymara communication but did not all read or write Spanish well. the “economic” category had extra questions added to more accurately capture the quinoa experience. The four quadrants were as follows: (1) Social – including governance, law, security, and ethics. (2) Environmental – including the built and natural environment, materials, and energy. (3) Economic – including production, consumption, labor, and wealth distribution. (4) Cultural – including identity, beliefs, gender, and health.

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Respondents reported their degree of satisfaction with statements such as, “The natural environment is…” (from the environmental section) with choices ranging from very bad (1) to excellent (5). The survey was conducted by people from within the communities being studied to ensure greater participation, trust, and accuracy in responses. An evident decline in the economic well-being of the quinoa farmers was documented even though governments and development organizations felt otherwise (Fig. 6.2). From a broad outward perspective, the new quinoa industry seemed a winning benefit for indigenous farmers, being a $6 million a year industry (IBCE, 2018). Upon closer inspection with surveys and participant observation, it becomes apparent that individual earnings from export sales did not cover higher costs of production, nor did it offer sustainable development protections or “right-size” scaling.

Fig. 6.2. The Circles Survey Response of 392 Royal Quinoa Producers’ Self-reported Well-being in 2017. Note: The more robust and green areas in Culture were where participants felt conditions were excellent, particularly around traditional dress and celebrations. The most deprived, orange area in Economics was where people felt they had the least amount of satisfaction – specifically in market access.

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A Brief Introduction to Bolivian Quinoa To understand the Aymara and Quechua Andean perspectives on social, economic, and environmental sustainability from the experience of the producers themselves, one needs to know a bit about quinoa. Cultivated for thousands of years and maintaining a significant place in Andean culture, quinoa was a staple food for Quechua and Aymara people living in the high altiplano since pre-Inca times (Delatoy, 2009). Used in trade and as currency, quinoa was called the “grain of gold.” Spanish conquerors banned the production of quinoa in the 1600s when they established their haciendas (plantations) and required the cultivation of wheat. Despite it being banned, remote pockets of Andean people continued to grow quinoa. Quinoa was challenging to grow and even more difficult to harvest and process into food. Deep holes needed to be dug in the rocky soil, with seeds protected by a ring of spiny branches to keep them from being eaten by birds. As they grew, arid fields needed to be weeded so the maximum amount of water reached the plants. During the long nine-month growing season, the plants needed to be protected from insects, pests, hail, and frost. During harvest, quinoa seeds were beaten off of large seed heads, which often weighed two pounds each. The outer covering needed to be removed from each tiny seed and the seed itself washed and cleaned of saponin – a natural, bitter substance that coated the seed, protecting it from birds. Quinoa was stored in large, woven 220-pound sacks (quintales), which stayed fresh for 10 years (Stenn, 2018a,b). Families managed dozens of varieties of quinoa seed, which they strategically grew in different micro-climates within their quinoa fields (Soraide Lozano, 2013). The land was rotated on a three-year basis, and llama manure used to fertilize the fields. Bioindicators such as frost on rocks, haziness around stars, the number of eggs in birds nests, and the placement of these nests were used to help determine weather patterns and dictate when and where to plant and harvest (Revilla Osorio, 2013). These methods of observation were passed from family to family. Bolivia’s 20,000 quinoa growing families were reasonably isolated, living in adobe houses with thatched roofs and dirt floors clustered into small communities with 20 to 40 households (Stenn, 2018a,b). Ten years ago, in the 1990s, there was no electricity, there were few roads, and hospitals and schools were far away. Most people spoke their native languages of Aymara and Quechua and celebrated holidays together: carnival, community anniversaries, and planting and harvesting times. There were regular trips to the city to sell quinoa or llama meat. Life, though harsh, was balanced. People had food to eat, the animals were well cared for, and the cycles of their lives continued as they had for thousands of years. Battery-powered radios brought news of the country, often by church-run Aymara and Quechua language radio programs such as Radio FIDES. The people in the countryside were well-versed in the political changes and developments happening around them. Young adults seeking more significant opportunity took jobs in the Bolivian and Chilean mines or migrated to Argentina to work in factories or to Chile or Spain to work as domestic servants.

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Fig. 6.3. Export Prices of Bolivian Quinoa Soared during the 2014 Boom and Then Plummeted as the Local Markets Collapsed in Response to Increased Global Competition (IBCE, 2018). Years of development efforts paid off and when the United Nations declared 2014 as the “Year of the Quinoa” and market prices soared for this little known seed (Fig. 6.3). Seemingly, overnight Bolivia’s quiet quinoa lands were transformed. New roads, electricity, cell phone service, water, schools, and development sprung up across the remote quinoa lands. Producer families were suddenly earning more than Bolivia’s middle class (Stenn, 2018a,b). Many of the people who had migrated away from the quinoa lands returned to Bolivia to help with quinoa production and take advantage of the high earnings. Families were reunited. Returning migrants brought new technologies, ideas, and ways of thinking with them. Quinoa land cultivation steadily increased by 30% a year until the market prices dropped in 2015 (IBCE, 2018). At the onset of the market drop, the immediate focus was market access, with 30% of farmers reporting a concern about this (Stenn, 2018a,b). As it becomes more apparent that these low prices were the new normal, more serious concerns about debt and the long-term impact on wildlife and future production arose (Fig. 6.4). Once there were no longer buyers for Bolivia’s high-priced quinoa, family members remigrated back to their previous jobs. The remaining quinoa families had purchased vehicles, improved their rural homes, and invested their residual quinoa earnings into urban real estate and businesses. They moved to the cities and their children enrolled in state colleges (Stenn, 2018a,b). The countryside fell silent again. Quinoa was a boom and bust phenomenon. Now, the lands lie quiet and vacant, with only 20% of the original quinoa families still living full time in the countryside (Stenn, 2018a,b). Market prices were low, and just a few dedicated farmers held on. Since before the market crash, Bolivian producers had been in the process of securing an internationally recognized Certificate of Origin to acknowledge the

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Statistically significant negative changes reported by Royal Quinoa producers in Circles Surveys

60% 40% 20% 0% Market access

Loans % "bad" year 2015

Wildlife

Economic production (viability) of quinoa

% "bad" year 2017

Fig. 6.4. The Circles Survey Captured Concerns Growing Over Time as Producers Become More Pessimistic about Their Future (Stenn, 2018a,b). Note: By 2017, more than half of Bolivia’s original Royal Quinoa producers had severe doubts about market access, with almost a third beginning to default on loans that were guaranteed with future quinoa production and earnings. distinct cultural and nutritional value of Royal Quinoa (CABOLQUI, 2018). But, this was a complicated process that needed government investment and legal support. Until they obtain and adequately market and protect this certification, their “seed of gold” (grano de oro), as locals call it, will continue to be sold on the conventional market, stripped of its cultural and nutritional significance and value.

Section II – Dreamtime Royal Quinoa, as the legend goes, was a magical gift from the daughter of the goddess Tunupa (Yapari, 2018). Thousands of years ago, fishermen lived on the shores of a vast inland sea, the Sea of Coipasa, in large lakeshore trading communities built of high rock fortresses. Over time, the Sea dried up. The fish died, and the people were left with nothing to eat or trade. They pleaded to the gods for help, begging them to have the mercy to sustain them with, “meat and bread” (Yapari, 2018). The lovely goddess Tunupa responded. She said to watch the dried seashore in the morning as she would send her daughter to help. Morning came, and there appeared a beautiful girl on the far shore of the dried sea. Her long black hair was fashioned into two thick braids, and she wore beautiful multilayered skirts of gold, fuchsia, burgundy, and orange. She swirled and danced in the morning sun. The fishermen were delighted. They felt there was hope for them. Some people tried to get close to see Tunupa’s daughter, but she simply danced further away. She continued dancing all day until the sun was high in the sky. Then she disappeared. The people were dismayed, but the next day, with the rising of the sun, Tunupa’s daughter was back. She danced until noon and then disappeared. And the next day it was the same, and the next, and the next. This continued for 30 days. For 30 days at dawn, the beautiful maiden

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appeared and danced around the huge dried-up sea until, by the 30th day, she had finally danced back to where she had first started. Then she disappeared, never to never be seen again. The miracle was that everywhere Tunupa’s daughter had danced, beautiful bright green plants began to grow. The people realized the Tunupa’s daughter had not just been dancing; she was planting seeds. These green plants grew taller than the people of the fishing villages. Then, a great seed head appeared, and the seeds burst into the bright gold, fuchsia, burgundy, and orange colors of Tunupa’s daughter’s skirts. She had come back to them. Tunupa, the goddess, told the people, “Here, you have what you wished for – meat and bread.” And, sure enough, the quinoa seed provided the protein of meat and it can be ground and used as flour, it was a complete food for the people. It was also food for all people. More Gods came to the fishermen and told them they had the responsibility of caring for this quinoa forever and that it would be needed to serve the future of humanity. The people were told of the impending Pachacuti or “world change,” a future time of chaos and strife when quinoa would play an essential role in saving humanity (Guti´errez Aguilar, 2014). It was believed that now the world is in this foretold time Pachacuti. There exists a sense of moral and spiritual obligation among today’s quinoa producers as they continue growing and, inevitably, sharing the seed, even if they do not seem to benefit from it. It is an obligation to the gods and to themselves as trusted guardians of the sacred seed of gold. The challenge that Dreamtime poses for Bolivia’s original Royal Quinoa producers is the pull between their need to protect their own markets, property rights, and food sovereignty versus the God-given mandate to, “feed the world,” making quinoa available to all. By following their belief systems, Bolivia’s producers were losing in a market they once created, controlled, and dominated. Producers understood this, but they were torn between their cultural beliefs to share the quinoa and the need to preserve their market space. Producers have sued US universities and private businesses for the unauthorized use of their seed, their stories, and the Royal Quinoa name, and they have even burnt down one of Bolivia’s two quinoa seed banks (Hamilton, 2014). There is resentment, apprehension, and bitterness towards foreigners among some Royal Quinoa producers, but many have also seen the benefits that new markets and global interactions bring. “They take our seed just like they took our silver, our potatoes, our natural gas, and now our lithium! There is no end to what is stolen from us,” explained quinoa producer Miguel Mamani (Stenn, 2018a,b). Other quinoa producers felt global competition in the quinoa market was inevitable and resigned themselves to that fact – though they would still like to have the chance to benefit more from their original seed. “I will help them (China) to grow the seeds to we can all benefit from our knowledge. If I don’t do it, someone else will, so I might as well be the one,” explained my Fulbright research counterpart Engineer, Jorge Rojas. He had decided to leave his Bolivian university job to spend a year in China, directing a quinoa growing project (Stenn, 2018a,b).

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Despite setbacks and controversy, quinoa made its way out into the world. Dreamtime also takes place in everyday ceremonies and rituals in the quinoa fields. A q’olla or a burnt offering of aromatic herbs is made before planting in September. Here, family members gather together and ask ancestors, mountains, the Pachamama, and local rivers to remember them and care for them and their quinoa plants. They ask for rain and good weather with no hail or early frosts. Small fires are made of twigs and charcoal, as smoky incense transmits these messages to the Gods above. In addition, alcohol is spilled on the ground for the Pachamama to consume. It is also drunk by participants as a way of celebrating together. Sometimes a medicine man, sacerdote or watiri, is called in to help with the blessings. During Carnival in February, the land is celebrated again with young quinoa plants being decorated with colorful confetti and paper streamers. At the harvest in April, a ch’alla takes place, sometimes with the sacrifice of a live white llama. The still-beating llama heart is removed and placed in a fire as an offering to the Pachamama. At the same time, smoky incense and alcohol send messages of thanks to the ancestors, mountains, rivers, and Pachamama. Seventy-eight percent of the Royal Quinoa grown and exported in Bolivia is blessed in this manner (Stenn, 2018a,b). Producers report that they enjoy the ceremonies as a time for the family to be together to reflect, celebrate, and be grateful and hopeful. They enjoy the rituals and making offerings (Stenn, 2018a,b). “I do not know if the ch’alla works, but I am not going to stop and find out that they do – as my quinoa all die,” explained Omar Nina, a quinoa growing teen (Stenn, 2018a,b). Rituals of gratitude are not reserved for quinoa alone. The q’olla is also performed by families on the first day of the month. This is done as a thank you for what lies ahead and as a grateful reflection on what was achieved the month before. Different versions of the ch’alla are held to celebrate weddings, births, anniversaries, deaths, and solstice (inti raymi). An informal market study conducted by University of Massachusetts students found that 88% of US consumers felt that consuming a product that was blessed had meaning, for which they would pay 5%–10% more for (Stenn, 2016).

Section III – Politics and Policy In 2007, Evo Morales, a Quechua leader, became the first indigenous president of Bolivia. Morales worked with the Bolivians to rewrite the constitution, guided by the principles of Suma Qamana, an Andean way of sustainable development based on pre-Inca culture and traditions. Suma Qamana (soo’mah – k – ka’mana), meaning, “living well,” in the Andean language of Quechua, affected the social, economic, and environmental development of the quinoa lands in contradictory ways. It was a sustainable development paradigm that worked across cultures, languages, and socioeconomic divides, highlighting the collective

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universality of humanity by focusing on shared goals of well-being, personal fulfillment, supportive community, and meaningful work. Suma Qamana was a proposal born in the community that was based, not in the logic of economic profitability, but on producing goods in accordance to nature and meeting needs within limits and the careful use of resources (Stenn, 2016). Suma Qamana was presented as an alternative to the western idea of “living better” – than everyone else. To live well, wrote David Choquehuanca, Bolivia’s Foreign Minister, one must know how to, “nourish themselves, drink, dance, sleep, work, meditate, love and be loved, listen, hear, be able to express themselves, and walk” (Choquehuanca, 2010, p. 3). Suma Qamana is also known as Sumaq Kasway in Aymara and Vivir Bien in Spanish. “We don’t believe in the linear, cumulative conception of progress and of an unlimited development at the cost of other people and of nature,” explained President Morales while defining the Suma Qamana concept of sustainability (Hernandez Navarro, 2012). “To live well,” he continued “is to think not only in terms of per capita income but of cultural identity, community, harmony among ourselves and with Mother Earth” (Hernandez Navarro, 2012). Suma Qamana was endorsed by the UN in 2009 as a viable approach to sustainability and adopted into new constitutions written by each of the Andean nations: Bolivia, Ecuador, Colombia, and Peru (Monni & Pallottino, 2013). It is based on the four quadrants of the chakana, or Andean cross (Fig. 6.5), a Southern Hemisphere constellation.

Fig. 6.5. The Chakana (Andean Cross) Depicting the Ideological and Mythical Basis of Suma Qamana Sustainable Development (Lozano Castro, 2004).

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The chakana symbolizes harmony and equilibrium with people and nature. The challenge was to balance the chakana in order to rebuild the world vision. A balanced chakana was sustainable development. This, scholars explain, was achieved by transcending national and regional barriers, recovering the idea of a living world, relearning human life skills, and imparting the urgency of having a cross-cultural perspective with an ongoing quest for wisdom (Garcia, Lozano, Olivera, & Ruiz, 2004, p. 309). The four points of the chakana presented in the Andean language of Quechua are Yachcay – knowing, Munay – loving, Ruray – doing, and Ushay – power. The center is Kawsay – wisdom. The chakana quadrants informed everyday decisionmaking and policy. When looking at these four points through a development lens, they bring into focus the mindset needed for living sustainability. The following is a more detailed interpretation of how these points are realized in today’s times and how they are experienced by Bolivia’s original Quechua and Aymara Royal Quinoa producers.

Yachay Yachay (knowing) is about being aware of the world and how it interrelates. It focusses on resources and the development of expertise, building skills, knowledge acquisition, and diversity, especially in others’ worldviews and rationalities (Garcia et al., 2004). Yachay in business is about taking time to learn where things come from, how materials are made and sourced, where energy comes from, and the environmental impact of one’s actions. A common theme in Suma Qamana and Andean philosophy is that of opposites forming a whole. Having either a narrow economic perspective with a focus on local trade and protective policies or a broad economic perspective that embraces global trade and trade agreements is not viewed as conflictive. In Suma Quamna, it is believed that together they form a complete way of economic being with complimentary contradictions. Both are held together and are equally valued, with no one being more right or wrong than the other. This opens one to more possibilities and creates a different feeling of opportunity, erasing feelings of “otherness,” competition, or disdain, and it results in stronger, further-reaching solutions. For quinoa producers, the opposites in Yachay: the sharing of their seed with world markets and developers in accordance to their ancestral beliefs and modern opportunities, while also losing their seed sovereignty, a living wage, and market access, is not easily held in balance and causes conflict with their internalized Suma Qamana way of being (Fig. 6.6).

Munay Munay means “loving” and the need to be passionate about something. It encompasses emotions, intuition, transcendence, affection, willpower, consent, affection, self-esteem, friendship, mysticism, and the ability to think with the heart (Garcia et al., 2004).

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Tamara Stenn Negative and positive themes expressed in women's Talking Stick workshops. December 2016 - February 2017

40 30 20 10 0 Climate

Gender

Quinoa

Soils (earth)

Positive

Negative

Liestock (llamas)

Economy (markets)

Fig. 6.6. Over 100 Mostly Women Royal Quinoa Producers in Nine Workshops Hosted Over Three Years Shared Their Thoughts and Concerns about Sustainability. Fig. 6.3 is a Snapshot of the Women’s World a Year after the Initial Quinoa Market Crash (Stenn, 2018a,b). Note: In the style of “chachi-warmi” (man-women) and reciprocity, the women producers would couch criticism with points of positivity – instinctively honoring the balance of Suma Qamana. Women were deeply concerned about the state of the quinoa lands and the uncertainty brought about by climate change though they were grateful for the lands and production they did have. They felt pressure to perform extra tasks in their roles as women but were grateful that their men were there for some of the work too. The quinoa was a blessing and a challenge as it nourished the family though quinoa markets continued to tumble. The soils and llamas were interconnected as the land fed the llamas and the llamas produced manure to feed the land – though both were depleted. Interestingly, the women could not find a single positive thing to share about the markets and could only worry about production cycles that were no longer covering their costs. In the workplace, Munay is associated with volunteerism, celebration, and morale. Businesses with strong Munay have lower turnover, higher productivity, and more fun. Munay is the soul, energy, and heart of the organization – the spirit that keeps it alive. Bolivia’s original Royal Quinoa producers do not work alone. They band together in large democratic, community-based associations and cooperatives with hundreds of members. Each family grows its own quinoa collectively, selling it by the shipping container (20,000 tons) to export buyers. Often, associations and cooperatives have their own processing plants and product lines and manage their own fair trade and organic certifications. In 2017, 85% of Bolivia’s exported quinoa was sold as certified organic, and 10% was sold as certified Fair Trade (Stenn, 2018a,b). Most of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa was produced in full compliance with fair trade and organic certification guidelines though buyers did not want to pay the fair trade or organic price, so most of this quinoa was sold at lower conventional market prices (Stenn, 2018a,b).

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Nevertheless, producers continue to follow fair trade and organic guidelines because it more closely aligns with their cultural values and belief systems. Munay is present in these organizations in the way in which they work together, sharing technical assistance, participating in national conversations and global planning, and arranging bulk buying of pest control systems, and food for members. Decisions are made in long, democratic meetings (asembleas) with one vote per family and shared meals and sometimes music. Members travel from far away to attend asembleas and are addressed with dignity and respect, no matter the size of their quinoa production. Quinoa organizations participate in village festivals and parades and are recognized as essential community members. In the circles studies questionnaire, the “culture” quadrant was always full, with the Bolivians enjoying Munay in the form of festivals, traditional dance, dress, and customs.

Ruray Ruray refers to action and doing. It is the capacity to produce, build, generate, implement, experiment, develop, and innovate, both on a product and a personal level (Garcia et al., 2004). This aspect of self-development and the vulnerability it implies is particularly important. So is the idea of an experiment because this implies that the outcomes are unknown. With the Andean embracing of opposites, as seen in Yachay (knowing), Ruray can be achieved when there is both failure and success, as both are opposite sides of the whole process and are embraced as necessary parts. Being able to take the risk to imagine and act on something new or different opens the way for more creativity and innovation, as it gives permission for new ideas to be tried and not always work out. Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa producers are constantly reexamining and adjusting their ways of production, especially with the impacts of climate change, which has led to increased droughts, frosts, and pests (Stenn, 2018a,b). Producers collectively manage more than 85 different seed varieties (Soraide Lozano, 2013). Producers experiment with new organic methods of pest control, as they produce the world’s highest quality, certified organic quinoa. Ruray lets producers take time to develop systems that work together, engage others in exploring new ways of doing things, and form alliances and collaborations.

Ushay Ushay is the motor that drives the Suma Qamana circle and keeps it spinning, engaging the other quadrants, and moving everything forward. Ushay creates action and inadvertently leads to change. It is power, force, energy, vitality, and also the potential and possibility for this (Garcia et al., 2004). Ushay is multimodal, which means that power is not just simply exerted but is also reflected upon. This is very important. The multimodal aspect of Ushay leads to not just action but also a reflection on the results of that action. Dialog and debate are essential elements of Ushay, with opposites often embraced.

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At the time of the quinoa boom, producers worked hard to grow as much quinoa as possible, with family members returning from afar after plowing up grazing lands to increase acreage. Quinoa production more than doubled and prices soared. The push was to grow and earn more and more. However, the dynamic of too much Ushay (force or energy) caused desertification, as too much grazing land was lost, delicate soils exhausted, plants weakened, and the natural ecosystem pushed out of balance. In addition, quinoa was moving quickly into a more mature market cycle with increased global competition and agroindustrial farming in other quinoaproducing countries rapidly driving down prices. The Bolivian producers were out of balance and unprepared when prices fell. In Suma Qamana, Ushay is not just doing but also reflection. Through reflection, Aymara and Quechua producers think about where they are, what is happening, and what they need and want. They realize that if they change their model and value their own quinoa for what it is: organic, Fair Trade, Royal Quinoa – and they charge more for its production, they could have less demand for their product, but higher per pound earnings. With the higher earnings, they realized, they would live in balance – not having to work so hard and produce so much in order to care for their families and have a dignified life properly. It was a leap of faith. It seemed counterintuitive to purposely slow down sales by raising prices and making their product less accessible, but this is what producers did. Little by little, it was starting to work. Since the 2015 market crash, the average price for a sack (220 pounds) of commercially traded quinoa has risen 31%, from 450Bs ($64US) to 650Bs ($94US). This is still less than the all-time high of 1,200Bs, but it is getting closer to the price that producers find ideal, which is 800Bs ($115US) (Fig. 6.7). Using Ushay principles, Bolivian quinoa is beginning to be known as a premium variety and continues to be one of the only certified organic quinoas on the market. Also, more quinoa resellers are promoting the qualities of Royal Quinoa to consumers.

Kawsay Suma Qamana is unique in that it also has a center, that of Kawsay or, wisdom. Kawsay has to do with life and the spiral aspect of it. Unlike western models, Andean time is dimensional and understood as a single moving spiral. This means that the future is forever moving into the present, which is simultaneously moving into the past. One’s singular moments of being are part of a much greater lineage that extends thousands of years down to one’s ancestors and thousands of years up to future generations. This worldview creates a feeling of solidarity and togetherness in the moment and a deep connection to a shared past and future. Kawsay in the Suma Qamana tradition is manifested in living well with simplicity, humility, harmony, transparency, inspiration, silence, and deep knowledge that individually we know nothing but, instead, is a part of a much larger whole. This leads to feelings of freedom, as one lets go, though still is held

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QUINOA PRICES US$ /METRIC TONNE, FOB January 2017 $3,500

$2,999

$3,000

$2,600

$2,500

$2,350

$2,000

$2,100

$1,900

$1,500 $1,000 $500 $Organic Bolivian Variedades (proposed)

Fair Trade, Organic Bolivian

Organic Bolivian

Conventional Conventional Bolivian Other (Peru)

Fig. 6.7. Quinoa Export Prices as of January 2017 (Stenn, 2018a,b). Note: Here the difference can be seen between the price of Fair Trade/ organic, simply organic, and conventional quinoa. Though much of Bolivia’s quinoa is Fair Trade/organic, it is largely sold as conventional – which is still “expensive” in comparison with the high-yield, agroindustrialized quinoa of Peru (and elsewhere). For Bolivian producers to have a dignified life, their quinoa needs to sell at $3,000 a tonne. In comparison to 2017 prices, at the height of the quinoa boom in 2014, a tonne of conventional quinoa sold for $5,333. Bolivian producers have a unique advantage in that they grow dozens of distinct quinoa varieties, each with its own culinary property and personality. Unknown outside of producers’ rural kitchens, these varieties could have a special appeal to chefs and “foodies” in foreign markets – and fetch a premium price for such a rare, authentic ingredient. However, there is currently no marketing or market for this. by the collective spiral. As Amatay Wasi, the world’s first accredited indigenous University located in Ecuador explains, Kawsay is “a sailing adrift in a deep state of alertness, letting life live, and walking without a path” (Garcia et al., 2004). Suma Qamana was deeply embedded in the cultural ways and being of Bolivia’s Aymara and Quechua quinoa producers. Though not outwardly recognized nor spoken of, its elements were present and influenced in everyday life. Suma Qamana led to tremendous resilience in the face of adversary and deep adherence to principals of cultural and environmental sustainability. However, the deeply rooted culture was eroding. Once robust quinoa towns were 80% empty by 2018, with inhabitants preferring the opportunities of the city (Stenn, 2018a,b). Looking back, they felt they had been working too much for themselves and not thinking of the community and their collective future. They believed the market bust and desertification of the land was the vengeance of the Pachamama, the earth mother, put on them because of their greed.

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As producer Jorge Flores explained, “we were enticed by the capitalist system and fell victim to its charm, angering and disrespecting the Pachamama. Now, we are being taught a lesson” (Stenn, 2018a,b). An exodus from the countryside, as producers searched for a better opportunity, was leaving a generation of children and families far away from their centuries-old cultures and traditions. Native languages were being lost, and indigenous ways were forgotten. “My son does not even speak Aymara anymore,” Antonia Quispa tearfully acknowledged, “how will he teach it to his children?” It was believed that a just price of $3,000 a tonne, 25% higher than today’s official Fair Trade market price, was needed to balance the sustainability model and bring families back to the countryside, where language and wisdom could be shared while producers lived in the same comfort they enjoyed in cities – in homes with tiled floors, indoor bathrooms, running water, internet access, cell phone service, and personal computers – and grew quinoa slowly, thoughtfully, soulfully with balance with nature, traditions, and respected by world markets (Stenn, 2018a,b).

Conclusion Andean perspectives on social, economic, and environmental sustainability were exemplified in the story of quinoa. Now considered an important superfood and a savior for the world, the original Aymara and Quechua quinoa producers were simultaneously better off and worse off as they struggled to maintain balance with ancient traditions and beliefs while responding to the modern market challenges. From an economics and marketing perspective, differentiation, the production of something unique and new, with the Royal Bolivian Quinoa varieties could be the key to creating a unique, high-priced market sector and ensuring the cultural and economic survival of the world’s original quinoa producers. The producers knew their Toldeo, K’ispina, Mokho, Ajara, Pupura, Ch’illpi, and other quinoa varieties which only grew in the original quinoa lands – a 50-mile radius along on the shores of the Uyuni salt flats. These varieties which all looked white when cleaned and were mixed together and exported as so had very distinct qualities and culinary uses. If the world was to learn to value and cook with the varieties as the rural Bolivians did, there could be a new world market for quinoa and a sustainable future for the original Aymara and Quechua Bolivian producers.

Notes 1. It is the convention in Bolivia to refer to farmers (campesinos) as “producers,” a term which is seen as bringing more dignity and respect to rural workers, putting them on par with any other modern producer. 2. “Original” (originario) is a term used in Bolivia in reference to native or indigenous people. In this chapter, the originarios are the Quechua and Aymara people of the high altiplano.

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3. In addition to the 98 quinoa farmers, there were 70 Fair Trade alpaca clothing knitters and 28 Fair Trade, organic coffee farmers participating in Talking Stick workshops (Stenn, 2018a,b).

References Bubenheim, D., & Schlick, G. (1993, November). Quinoa: An emerging “new” crop with potential for CELSS. NASA. NASA technical paper #3422. Moffett Field, CA: NASA, Ames Research Center. CABOLQUI. (2018). The Andean supergrain. Royal Quinoa Bolivia. The Bolivian Chamber of Quinoa and Orgnaic Product Exporters. La Paz, Bolivia. Chambers, R. (2007). Ideas for development. London: Earthscan. Choquehuanca, D. (2010). Vivir Bien, diplomacia por la vida. La Paz: Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores. Del Solar, R. (2005). Quinoa: Golden grain of the Andes. La Paz: Editorial Pisces. Delatoy, T. (2009). The Incas. Hoboken, NJ: Blackwell Publishing. FAO. (2013). The international year of the quinoa, a future sown thousands of years ago. Retrieved from http://www.fao.org/quinoa-2013/en/ First Peoples. (2011). Traditional talking stick—an American Indian legend—Nation Unknown. Retrieved from http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TraditionalTalkingStick-Unknown.html Garcia, J., Lozano, A., Olivera, J., & Ruiz, C. (2004). Learning wisdom and the good way to live. Quito: Universidad Intercultural Amawtay Wasi. Geertz, C. (1973). The interpretation of cultures. New York, NY: Basic Books. Gutierrez Arguilar, R. (2014). Rythms of the Pachakuti. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Hamilton, L. (2014). Who owns the world’s greatest superfood? Food & environment reporting network. Retrieved from https://thefern.org/2014/10/quinoa-quarrel/ Hernandez Navarro, L. (2012). Bolivia has transformed itself by ignoring the Washington Consensus. The Guardian, March 12. Retrieved from https:// www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/cifamerica/2012/mar/21/bolivia-washingtonconsensus Hoey, B. (2011, January). What is ethnography? Retrieved from http://www.brianhoey.com/General%20Site/general_defn-ethnography.htm IBCE. (2018). Electronic bulletin. La Paz: Bolivian Institute for the Commercial Exterior. INIAF. (2018). Reportaje de la Quinua. La Paz: Naitonal Institute for Agriculture and Forestry Innovation. James, P. (2015). Urban sustainability in theory and practice: Circles of sustainability. London: Routledge. Jorgensen, D. (2015). Participant observation, methods of research – qualitative. In R. A. Scott, & S. M. Kosslyn (Eds.), Emerging trends in the social and behavioral sciences. Hoboken, NY: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Lozano Castro, A. (2004). Learning wisdom and the good way to live. Universidad Intercultural Amawtay Wasi, UNESCO. Lozano, D. (2013). La Quinua Real del Altiplano Sur de Bolivia. La Paz: Fundacion FAUTAPO.

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Medrano, T. (2018, July 28). Personal interview with Tamara Stenn. Challapata, Bolivia. Monni, S., & Pallottino, M. (2013). Beyond growth and development: Buen Vivir as an alternative to current paradigms. Working Paper #172. Dipartimento di Econom´ıa Universit`a deglistudi Roma Tre, Italy. Revilla Osorio, R. (2013). Experiencias & Logros, en el desarrollo social y technologico del programa complejo quinua altiplano sur de Bolivia. La Paz: FAUTAPO Foundation. Sen, A. (2009). The idea of justice. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Soraide Lozano, D. (2013). Quinua Real del Altiplano Sur de Bolivia (2nd ed.). La Paz: FAUTAPO Foundation. Stenn, T. (2016). Retail consumer study of Bolivia’s royal Quinoa. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Entrepreneurship class. Stenn, T. (2018a). Gender and sustainable development in Bolivia. U.S. Fulbright Scholar research. June 2015 – September 2018. Stenn, T. (2018b, August 16). El futuro de los productores de la Quinua Real en Bolivia. ´ Conference presentation. San Pablo, CA; La Paz: Universidad Catolica. Stenn, T. (2019). Measuring sustainability: Using the Capabilities approach in sustainable development assessment. HDCA, London. Conference paper. Weinstein, M. (2006). TAMS analyzer: Anthropology as culture critique in a digital age. Social Science Computer Review, 24(1), 68–77. Yapari, E. (2018, August 3). Interview by Tamara Stenn. Salinas, Bolivia.

Chapter 7

Leadership Lessons in Sustainability from Elders and Events in Historical Clan Survival Stories Andrew Creed, Ambika Zutshi and Brian L. Connelly

Abstract What leadership lessons in sustainability can be learned from historical clan survival stories that include elders’ responses to survival events? We provide in this chapter analysis of stories of survival in which elders as leaders and advisers convey meanings and morals which serve as educative tools for their clans. The findings relate to current leadership style theories and align with principles of social, economic and environmental sustainability. By observations through an original framework and tabulation, the chapter concisely presents distilled wisdom for the management of current and future crisis events which may threaten supply chains and, consequently, short- and longterm sustainability. The findings are useful to several audiences, such as, organizational leaders, volunteers and community managers who are involved in crisis management and addressing its impact on employees and the broader community. The research also opens the pathway for academics to explore some new areas in survival management. Ultimately, we acknowledge the endeavours and achievements of our elders whose descendants we hope will appreciate the reflection of their contributions. It is the spirit of collaboration, sharing diverse experiences, as we all must do in a crisis, which we hope to learn from and share in the solutions moving forward to future events.

Introduction: Once There Was… This chapter will address the following research question: What leadership lessons in sustainability can be learned from historical clan survival stories that include elders’ responses to survival events? The analysis will lead to findings based on

Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 87–101 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211010

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examination of the public record of clan stories of the past to interpret in a new way elders’ explicit and tacit approaches to the leadership function during crises. The implications for leadership style theories will be explained, especially in the behavioural and situational categories, also with respect to transformational leadership qualities and actions during times of change. Survival events represent a threat to the sustainability and prosperity of a group, clan or city by upsetting group dynamics and disturbing the established supply chains. Human history has oral and written records of environmental and human-induced events having local impact on essential supplies (see Judd, 2013). The current crisis of climate change bringing in more natural events and disasters, such as, floods and fires globally and, increasingly in densely populated areas, can disrupt sustainability now and in future (Hardy & Maguire, 2019; Mayers, 2019). The authors posit that past experiences involving careful management of the available resources, plus well-supported clan leadership, are the keys to minimizing the consequences of the next set of crisis events. Traditionally helping to fulfil functions of efficiently and effectively managing resources and providing leadership are the elders of a group or clan. Elders as leaders can be regarded as, potentially, valuable storehouses of experience, skill and knowledge about survival by connecting the past with the present, which may assist with bridging the gap in knowledge between leadership and management (Kent, 2005). Many societies across South East Asia, indigenous Australia and throughout Africa, as examples, have inbuilt systems for tapping the lived experience and acquired wisdom of elders (Fayemi, 2009). For instance, Westoby, Toon, and Morris (2014, p. 570) explain how: Eldership ensures that the community remains focused on the quest at hand, life-giving learning, which is learning shared with young people, family, peers, and community, and takes into account the need to address recognized requirements for accountability. Such a definition relates to contemporary leadership style research with focus upon objectives, participatory communication and being accountable for outcomes (Gottfredson & Reina, 2019; Kelemen, Matthews, & Breevaart, 2019). Not all leaders today, or from stories of the past, are necessarily elders; however, the social function of elders as guiders of a group by virtue of their experiences is a feature of research in many behavioural and situational leadership contexts. In the past, and in many places today, societies understand that elders have more experience of survival events and, thus, can help to navigate the present challenges of sustainability in that context. Two levels of sustainability need to be defined: One involves an aim to thrive through incremental changes to avoid future trouble, minimize waste and build toward resource efficiency; The second is survival in a crisis and the ability to retreat, protect and preserve essential resources from immediate destruction (Kantabutra, 2020). The latter is our focus in this chapter; however, in either case, elders with experience have often appeared in past stories to provide sustainability

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solutions. Notably, there are characters in those same stories who participate in destructive and unsustainable practices. These counterpoint characters (the villains) are sometimes a vehicle for relaying a moral of the story by representing the inverse awareness of actions to avoid. Whether elders are guides on the side, or engaged centrally as clan leaders who are able to overcome the villains, an eldership function as part of leadership has shown to be useful for calming interand intra-group group conflicts and knowing how to preserve supply chain continuity (Asmerom, 2017; Dinnick & Noor, 2019). In this chapter, by compiling historical clan stories representing the actions and wisdom of their leaders in crisis events, we will distil some key lessons for how to address social, economic and environmental sustainability for present and future events.

Storytelling Analysis for Leadership Knowledge The basis for the chapter is an examination and reflection on the response and style of the leader(s) during a range of survival events told in the oral tradition, conveying the moral of the survival tales. We have compiled stories expressive of the impact of the events on the supply chain and sustainability of the communities and which help to transfer leadership awareness of how to manage the occurrence and the aftermath. We have captured the ethnographic accounts from numerous cross-cultural examples of major events that have been passed down. Storytelling in our applied methodology is supplemented with literature (concurrent or subsequent) to crystallize the essential elements of the story. Storytelling examples from a variety of cultures are compiled and explored for themes and insights. This intercontinental, ethnographic storytelling analysis is timely for reconceiving historical stories previously perceived solely as cultural knowledge preservation, ultimately resurfacing past survival knowledge and contextualizing it to leadership the modern age. Lessons learned from these stories can be a pragmatic knowledge source in times of chaos enabling social, economic and environmental sustainability to be protected and maintained. Storytelling has been a traditional way of transferring knowledge of how to cope with crises, improve decisions and handle consequences. Some stories are based on clear historical facts while others seem embellished to heighten moral messages as part of knowledge transfer in cultural contexts. Exemplars in historical contexts include the hybrid studies of mythology and archaeology at Easter Island (Jarman, 2017) and Pompeii (Reid, 2018), which offer useful insights about sustainability leadership in resource crises. In these cases, oral and pictorial stories transfer some knowledge to investigators, while narratives extrapolated from forensic archaeology add further levels of understanding. Additional ancient survival events underpin the remnant stories of Noah’s Ark, the Goddess Pele and the formation of Hawaii’s volcano, Kilauea, the story of Rama’s Bridge in the Ramayana and the legend of the seven Pagodas of Mahabalipuram, which was recently confirmed by ocean floor changes caused by the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami (Zielinski, 2014). It is evident that economic, social

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and environmental sustainability can be informed by knowledge of past events, especially as more interpreted knowledge comes to light in modern contexts. Sinking land, rising and flowing water and birds shrieking in the night were among the stories told by elders of the Boandik people about signs preceding the volcanic formation of the Blue Lake at Mount Gambier in South Eastern Australia (Nunn, 2017). Elders of the Klamath people tell similar stories about the formation of Crater Lake in North Western USA (Zielinski, 2014). Such environmental warnings were mostly heeded as elders led their people to relocate, thus ensuring survival from these quite sudden land shifts and associated massive water movements. Similar stories are told in all volcanic regions where people have historically lived (Lefebvre, Sardi, & Perrier, 2017; Talevu & Hosni, 2013). Some volcanically formed lakes in Cameroon, Rwanda and Congo have been identified by elders in ancient stories as being haunted. Taboo areas were established around these lakes as a means to protect the clans from dangerous events. New settlers subsequently ignored the haunted lake stories. On August 21, 1986, over 1700 people died when a massive carbon dioxide cloud emerged from one of those lakes and spread across the surrounding area, asphyxiating even insect life along with the animals and humans (Bressan, 2016). It is from previous stories passed along generations that clans come to know about survival in present and future times, and to ignore those stories is a risk to sustainability of their group. Modern scientific studies often find seeds of truth in many traditional stories (Gough, 2015). Emerging events also have a way of recalling the knowledge of leaders who responded in those difficult times. For example, the people of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands knew in advance about the approaching Indian Ocean tsunami in 2004 due to stories about natural signals of impending disaster handed down from elder to elder from many generations ago (Arnold, 2017). Similar and numerous ethnographic accounts exist across the continents and are the focus of our work. Among the compiled story analysis summaries in our findings are the elder and clan responses to volcanoes, storms and floods, wars, earthquakes and other events, each examined for past leadership lessons about disaster management processes which could help mitigate future sustainability challenges. The framework of this broader storytelling anthology is depicted in Fig. 7.1. Of particular focus are the common categories of leadership styles and the fact that elements of story analysis can be broadly aligned with these categories. There are numerous leadership style theories that intersect with the types of narratives we analyzed. Extant studies have explored what constitutes effective leadership style during crises (Boin’t Hart, McConnell, & Preston, 2010). A transformative leadership style, for example, has a positive effect (Pillai, 2013; Zhang, Jia, & Gu, 2012). Other studies suggest that charismatic leadership assists recovery from a crisis (Bligh et al., 2004; Hunt, Boal, & Dodge, 1999; Mumford, Partlow, & Medeiros, 2013). In traditional storytelling, elders often pursue conflict-minimization as a strategy during a crisis (Smith et al., 2016), knowing that this helps a clan to focus on essential supplies rather than get caught up in squabbling which may threaten sustainable supply. Benevolence and mindfulness are among the style attributes given to revered leaders in ancient clan stories.

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Fig. 7.1.

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Storytelling Traverses Leader-Elder Styles in Historical Clan Survival Events.

Even where a respected elder sanctions battle or war, it is often justified for the purpose of defence or supply chain protection and rarely intended to persist without end. A hallmark of the stories we have analyzed is that violence for its own sake is not a viable group goal (Ng, 2017; Smith et al., 2016). Benevolent elders memorialize conflict and related violence mainly to highlight that such events should be minimized in future so that the clan can be sustained economically, culturally and with respect for environment and resources. Disasters experienced by small groups, led or advised by elders, has yielded many stories of strategies, behaviours, accomplishments and outcomes that become lessons in sustainable practice to pass along to younger generations. A diversity of cultures continue to celebrate stories of respect for elders along with their propensity for minimizing intra-group conflict (Liang, Marier, & Cu, 2012) to ensure clan sustainability. The main outcomes of group activities, according to Ng (2017), are task performance, citizenship behaviour and problem solving (innovation) behaviour. Related outcomes are group movement, food acquisition and conflict resolution (Smith et al., 2016), which might be considered as specific elements of the task performance objective of Ng (2017), which all drive toward survival as the ultimate aim. In these empirical discoveries about human survival and adaptation, seeds of theoretical wisdom about leadership essentials for ensuring social, economic and environmental sustainability can be found. From a sustainability perspective, leadership in its well-applied sense helps groups determine their needs and achieve respective outcomes more effectively (Smith et al., 2016). Therefore, by applying the contextual theory of leadership,

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the categories of social, economic and environmental sustainability could be aligned with the stories subjected to analysis. Reflecting on prior disasters allowed us to categorize leadership styles that could help groups cope with damage while enhancing resilience and survivability in future events. One perspective was that elders (a commonly used term in oral traditions, which refers to the leaders of the day, typically male in patriarchal societies, though with some good matriarchal exceptions) have deep knowledge and social network advantages as leaders in survival contexts (von Rueden & van Vugt, 2015). In addition, elders were often imbued, at least retrospectively, with attributes of self-sacrifice, being of service, ¨ usay, ¨ and the idea of succession planning, or passing the mantle (Gum 2019). The elder in clan stories could either lead in their own right, or be an advisor to a young, emergent leader. Emergent leadership (Christensen, Mackey, & Whetten, 2014) is demonstrative of servant and responsible leadership attributes, consistent with some historical accounts examined in this chapter.

Narrative Interpretation of Leadership Styles in Historical Crises Table 7.1 captures the implicit aspects of the historical stories in the context of current and future crisis management. The findings were grounded in ethnographic and evolutionary concepts with connections to contextual leadership theory and sustainability outcomes. The process was iterative because some cultural distinctiveness of the storytelling masked the true value of hidden information. An aspect of ethnographic research, in general, is the encountering of viewpoints that, to a scientific mindset, may seem challenging. The temptation to label aspects of stories as superstitions had to be countered in this project with a focus on interpretation of described events in context with the message and the nature of the cultural transference. Suspension of disbelief and acceptance of diversity were followed with the purpose of discovering hidden data within the analogous phenomena encountered. Prime examples of moral outcomes of stories encountered during the analysis stages of this research are in Table 7.1. Each of the stories involved elders, sometimes as leaders and sometimes as mentors, focused on ensuring clan survival by highlighting supply chain security and the minimization of inter- and intra-group conflict. Drawing upon numerous historical accounts from oral and written stories, the thematic of Fig. 7.1 distilled the captured wisdom of Table 7.1. An iterative process was applied to crystallize the findings with respect to common areas of leadership research and to draw alignments with social, economic and environmental sustainability. The actions and conclusions of elders as leaders in the recounting of each story in Table 7.1 revealed moral distillations with implications for sustainability in each of the three dimensions of social, economic and environmental. For example, the summation by (Couzens, 2014) of an ancient story about the inundation of a once grassy plain to create what is today a deep sea port in a major Australian city involved mythical birds with God-like power, clans behaving selfishly where limited resources became an issue and a set of geological phenomena which match, at least partially, with modern scientific explanation for

Table 7.1. Lessons from Historical Clan Survival Events. Leadership Style Stories

Transformational Transactional

Cultural Songs are Decimation powerful ways to preserve and transfer culture (S) (Alberts, 2018)

Storm, Drought and Flood

War

You have to find within yourself a declaration of peace (S) (Cheetham, 2019)

To survive, you cannot dwell on the sad things or the lost generations (S) (Sailor, 2006) Flood punishes those who do not listen to warning (Ev) (Clarke, 2008)

Responsible

Benevolent

Teach the children what you learn from the elders (S) (Lowe, 2018b)

Love and understand the children (S) (Saunders, 2018)

Persevere and take guidance from spirit (S) (McDermott, 2006)

Flood brings abundance in aftermath (E & Ev) (Clarke, 2008)

Choose peace over war (E & S) (Ross, 2016)

Emergent

Servile

Mindful

Learn respect for elders (S) (Lowe, 2018a)

Flood emerges out of drought (E & Ev) (Clarke, 2008)

Yield low ground in favour of high when overrun (E & Ev) (Couzens, 2014, p. 76) Traditional Be your knowledge country combines with (E, S & Ev) science after (Wright, war to find new 2015) ways to survive (E & Ev) (DEE, 2017)

Strategic

Rivers are important for survival, and home is where your people are (S & Ev) (Carter, 1988) Welcome trade with other places or endure a damaging surplus or shortage (E) (Couzens, 2014, pp. 36–39) People side with you if you do the same work they do (E & S) (Clarke, 2003)

Table 7.1. (Continued) Leadership Style Stories

Transformational Transactional

Responsible

Earth Changes

All earth formations once had personalities, purpose, speech and the power of thought (Ev) (Couzens, 2014, pp. 46–47)

Be wary of caves as they transition between life and death and mark where earth changes (Ev) (Clark, 2007) World peace Reneging on is inevitable a contract (S & E) (Clarke, leads to 2003) fighting (S & E) (Couzens, 2014, pp. 60–61)

Sustainable development can combine natural environment with technology (E & Ev) (Bulith, 2004)

Group Conflict

Benevolent

Emergent

Key: Social sustainability 5 S, Economic sustainability 5 E, Environmental Sustainability 5 Ev.

Servile

Mindful

Strategic

When the ocean recedes, head for higher ground (Ev) (Coopes, 2015)

Ceremonies respect and nurture particular places, species and habitats (S & Ev) (Smyth, 2012) One’s grave has to be perfect. Make it a beautiful and peaceful place (S & Ev) (Clarke, 2003)

Stop and think, and then work around a problem, like water around a rock (E & Ev) (Clarke, 2003)

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how the bay was formed. The moral of the story culminates with imploration by clan leaders that they should generally welcome trade with other places or endure a repeat of the damaging surpluses and shortages of resources, including water inundation as a metaphor for oversupply. This was ultimately interpreted to be a story about economic sustainability and fit within the model of contemporary strategic leadership style. In another example, (Cheetham, 2019) recounted through story and song a mighty guerrilla war that lasted for decades and nearly destroyed a whole population of clans as they confronted an enemy far more physically powerful. The story led to a lesson about how to survive almost total annihilation and, in one sense, continue with the persistence and resilience of guerrilla fighting. The other side of being a fighter was distilled into being able to find within yourself a declaration of peace. This wisdom was imbued and has since been demonstrated in this clan as they have re-emerged in the local culture and are producing high quality, classical music requiems of their past crisis. The social sustainability of this clan has been fostered by their understanding of the stories passed down the generations in a transformational leadership approach to dealing with the terrible war. Responsible leadership style emerged from a story passed down the generations about a volcanic eruption in Australia which completely transformed the landscape of a certain clan territory (Bulith, 2004). The outcome, after much disruption, was a reorganizing of the production capabilities of the clan based on new geological formations from the cooled lava flows. The story explained how, by the action of mythical beings, the new igneous rock structures became capable of being used for trapping eels, which were creatures with significant spiritual power for the people, and also a major food source for the clans. The distilled moral message of the story was that sustainable development can combine natural environment with technology, which is ultimately important for both economic and environmental sustainability. This story has been verified scientifically and the site of the eel fishery, which is older than the Great Pyramids of Egypt, has recently been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Area (Wilson, 2019). More sustainability lessons will emerge from this story as the investigations and recognition continue in future.

Contextual Leadership Issues Extending from Analysis There are numerous other clan survival stories beyond the scope of this analysis which corroborate the framework of Fig. 7.1 and augment the analysis of Table 7.1. With the suite of stories presented in this chapter, we can summate some leadership issues for consideration and highlight relevant directions in further research. Within the stories are implications about key personal attributes of effective crisis leaders. There are hints of wisdom and stability but also aspects of charisma and inspiration and some strategic thinking. These areas are consistent with emergent leadership research across the world today (Megheirkouni &

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Mejheirkouni, 2020). Some of the elders embraced sadness as a way to harness compassion during the crises, yet the circumstances often required decisiveness and adaptability as well. Key behaviours in the survival stories included directedness, extensive communication, staying calm, making good use of clan bonds (teamwork) and being proactive. Modern management research supports many of these as preferred leader competencies (Crespy & Kramer, 2011; Hadley, Pittinsky, Sommer, & Zhu, 2011). DuBrin (2013, p. xi) arguing that a leader’s personal attributes and behaviours play a major role in his or her effectiveness in influencing others in times of crisis, a fact borne out in the ancient stories of clan survival. Bridging a gap in the literature, our study asserts that many of the traditions handed down via storytelling that we investigate support key aspects of modern leadership research. For example, we find leadership emerges from and is required to dissipate group tensions during survival events (Denis, Langley, & Sergi, 2012). Boehm, Enoshm, and Michal (2010, p. 184) suggest that ‘people need leaders who will guide them, [to] ensure the continuing functioning of the community and offer its members a sense of security’. Traditional storytelling indicates that effective leadership is dependent on context (Dinh et al., 2014; Larsson & Hyllengren, 2013; Osborn, Hunt, & Jauch, 2002; Reeves-Ellington, 2009). Osborn et al. (2002), for example, distinguish four distinctive contexts of stable conditions, crisis conditions, dynamic equilibrium conditions and a transition zone at the edge of chaos. Within these, they identify key aspects of a change depending on context, including hierarchical level and expected conditions, leader networking and organizational performance. Actions, directives and distilled wisdom, relayed in stories told by elders and handed down through generations, support all of these aspects. Our analysis has shown that the context of knowledge changes with time, but storytelling can transfer the consistencies in knowledge between contexts, which is an especially useful mechanism when it comes to urgently required sustainability knowledge. Reeves-Ellington (2009, 337) introduced the term ‘enviroscapes’ to determine context, consisting of an internal and external environment, described through ‘climate, knowledge, ethnos and time’. Nunn and Reid (2016) have provided compelling evidence of the scientific value of storytelling, especially regarding the phenomenon of coastal inundation, which is something the Australian indigenous people have observed and passed down information about for tens of thousands of years. Given the current climate crisis with melting polar and glacial regions with threat of coastal inundation in all continents, there is more to learn from this avenue. Nunn and Reid (2006) have already identified that, while global examples of ancient clan stories of coastal inundation, for instance, are available, it seems Australian indigenous clans have the most numerous and detailed. This observation was true in the proportions of stories identifiable for analysis in Table 7.1. The fact we were able to identify nuanced indications of the different leadership styles, and then align distilled outcomes of the available stories to the three main dimensions of social, economic and environmental sustainability, adds impetus to a recommendation for wider research of storytelling in sustainability and leadership in the emerging climate crisis.

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Conclusion: The Moral of the Story This chapter analyzed existing ethnographic data from traditional storytelling sources and corroborative research published about previous crisis events and group responses in tribe and clan folklore. The research question was: What leadership lessons in sustainability can be learned from historical clan survival stories that include elders’ responses to survival events? The aim was to interpret in a new way elders’ explicit and tacit approaches to the leadership function during crises. Making sophisticated rearrangement of ethnographic accounts through analysis revealed implicit lessons from numerous traditional stories across continents. The analysis of the stories explored and distilled leadership lessons for crisis management, as framed in Fig. 7.1 and presented in Table 7.1. The limitations of the narrative analysis meant that a more comprehensive approach to cataloguing the stories and completing a broader review and development of categories or types will need to be undertaken as the next stage. A further recommendation for future research is to expand, catalogue, and analyze additional stories across cultures and times to identify other trends or lessons that can be applied today. The findings may be useful to several audiences, such as, organizational leaders, volunteers and community managers who are involved in crisis management and addressing its impact on employees and the broader community. Leaders with responsibility for planning survival and sustainability strategies and subsequently executing them during the events will find relevance. Others with experience as leaders during crises and disasters and during recovery at different organizational functional levels and across supply chain stakeholder groups will also relate to the findings. Government policy makers should have interest in the practical recommendations for social, economic and environmental resource allocation across a wide range of stakeholder groups during survival events. This research opens the pathway for academics to explore some new areas in survival management. Ultimately, we acknowledge the endeavours and achievements of our elders whose descendants we hope will appreciate the reflection of their contributions. Elders today can be leaders or mentors who continue to offer wisdom based on experiences and also sustainability knowledge passed down through generations. It is the spirit of collaboration, sharing diverse experiences, as we all must do in a crisis, which we hope to learn from and share in the solutions moving forward to future events.

Acknowledgements This chapter is dedicated to Aunty Fiona Clarke, whose relatives are the subjects of some of the previously published accounts cited in this chapter. Her friendliness, openness and dedication to creation, expression and transfer of ancient wisdom through the arts to help with current challenges are the kind of inspiration that enables humanity to survive and be sustained. Visit with Aunty Fiona at: https:// www.facebook.com/fionaclarkeAbartist/ We will also like to acknowledge feedback and input from Dr Birgit Muskat on the earlier iterations of this work.

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Theme 4 Politics and Policy in Tribal and Clan Organisations

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Chapter 8

Jirga, Its Role and Evolution in Pakistan’s Pashtun “Tribal” Society Farooq Yousaf Abstract The Pashtun Jirga is a “tribal” conflict resolution method that has survived for centuries, with the Pashtuns, both in Afghanistan and Pakistan, still practicing it in rural communities. The chapter argues how the introduction and persistence of the Frontier Crimes Regulations, 1901, a colonial-era regulation, has undermined not only the traditional authority of the tribal elders but also diminished the importance of the Jirga. However, the tribal Pashtuns, through Jirga and Jirga-based Lashkars (tribal militias), have also occasionally supported the Pakistani military’s actions against various militant groups operating in the Pashtun tribal areas, formerly known as the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. The chapter argues why, even with its positives, the Jirga still possess various loopholes that result in various gender rights violations in the Pashtun society. Finally, the chapter also discusses how recent developments in the Pashtun tribal areas, leading to their merger with the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, along with the introduction of the country’s judiciary present a challenge for the survival of the Jirga as a conflict resolution tool in the tribal areas. Moreover, the chapter also argues why the young Pashtuns from the tribal region are against the male-dominated nature of Jirga and want it to be replaced with modern judicial structures, presenting a challenge to the survival of Jirga in Pakistan. Keywords: Jirga; FATA; Pashtuns; militancy; colonial legal framework; Pakistan

Introduction Pakistan’s Pashtun1 “tribal”2 areas, formerly known as the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA), have remained the center of global attention both during the 1979–1989 anti-Soviet Jihad and the US war on terror since 2001 in

Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 105–117 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211012

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Afghanistan. Where the former-FATA region was used then to train the Mujahedeen to fight against the Soviet Union in Afghanistan between 1979 and 1989, it again came under global attention after various local and transnational militant groups started operating in and from the region after the US invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001. A direct consequence of this militant influx, since 2001, did not only result in the consolidation of militant groups in the region but also directly, and indirectly, affected the security situation of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Many argue that it was the crumbling of the “tribal” Pashtun society and culture, commonly known as Pashtunwali, and the spread of “Deobandi-Salafist” variation of Islam, since 1979, that ultimately led to a security and governance crisis in the tribal areas (Ahmed, 2013, p. 66). However, such an explanation presents a simplistic view of the region. This is because the former-FATA region is a “colonial creation” resulting from the Durand Line – a border created by the British Raj that divided Pashtuns both in Afghanistan and the Indian subcontinent (now Pakistan) in 1893 (Omrani, 2009). The Pashtun “tribal” region, since 1901, has been governed under the Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCR), a colonial legal framework of exception that was introduced to “tame” the tribes on the “Frontier” (Yousaf, 2019a). A combination of these factors has ultimately culminated in not only the damaging of the social fabric of the “tribal” Pashtun society but has also undermined the Pashtun conflict resolution institution of Jirga.3 A Jirga is the Pashtun council of elders that not only mediates and negotiates inter and intratribal conflicts but also deliberates on issues of local, regional, and national importance. A Jirga has historically played an important role both in Afghanistan and Pakistan for the Pashtuns; however, the institution has gradually lost its effectiveness in the former-FATA region due to a number of factors. These factors include the marginalization of the “tribal” Pashtuns by the post-colonial state of Pakistan, persistence of colonial-era FCR, and the Jirga’s involvement in gender rights violations. However, even with these limitations, the institution of Jirga has still played a significant role in countering militancy in the formerFATA region, since 2002, showing how tribal conflict resolution methods can still play “some” role toward peace and conflict resolution in modern conflicts. The chapter is qualitative in nature and uses an interpretive paradigm of analysis. It uses both primary and secondary sources of data, which consists primarily of documentary analysis of primary sources and investigation and evaluation of secondary sources. The primary sources included archives, think tank reports, and newspaper stories on former-FATA. The secondary sources include monographs and the literature on the Pashtun “tribal” areas and Jirga. The research employs postcolonialism as an analytical framework. This is because the social, political, and cultural situation in the “tribal” areas is, even today, shaped by the colonial inheritances that Pakistan acquired from being once part of the British colony of India. In terms of its outline, the chapter, in its first section, briefly introduces and explains the Pashtun Jirga and what role it plays in the Pashtun society. Following this introduction and background, the chapter, in its second section,

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discusses how the Jirga lost its relevance under the colonial-era FCR, 1901, where this legal framework was used to exclude the “tribal” Pashtuns from mainstream Pakistan, took the Jirga’s powers away from the tribal elders, and gave them to the state-appointed Political Agents (PA). In its third section, the chapter focuses on how the Pakistani military’s policies and the rise of militant and Jihadist networks rendered the Jirga irrelevant. In its fourth section, the chapter, by using recent examples, argues how the Jirga played a significant role in countering militant networks in the tribal areas and how this tribal structure could still play an important role in maintaining order in the region. In its final section, the chapter discusses the future of Jirga in light of the recent reforms and merger of the FATA region with the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

What Is Jirga? The Pashtun Jirga is a traditional peace and conflict resolution mechanism that has historically played a role in maintaining harmony among the Pashtun tribes, both in Afghanistan and Pakistan (Ahmed & Yousaf, 2018). Even though writers of Pashtun history have insisted that the institution of Jirga has remained the oldest and most dominant component of the Pashtun way of life, its written history is still scarce (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). The Pashtun Jirga is one of the most essential components of the Pashtunwali – the Pashtun culture and way of life. The term Jirga refers to an indigenous dispute resolution and deliberation mechanism followed by the Pashtun tribes for centuries (see Gohar, 2014; Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). It is said that the Jirga regulates the way of life of the tribal Pashtuns where decisions range from smaller issues of mutual conflict and interest to major issues pertaining to foreign affairs and national politics (Oberson, 2002, p. 42). A Jirga can be defined as a gathering of a few or a large number of people for consultation purposes (Shinwari, 2011). Arnold Keppel, while explaining the dynamics of Jirga, writes: A mass meeting of the elders (of the whole of the Afridi tribe, for instance), would correspond very much to the old “Shiremote” of the Saxon heptarchy; and, indeed, there is more in the simile than one would expect at first glance, for the democratic spirit that is so characteristic a feature in the gradual growth of English customs finds its counterpart in the spirit of liberty and right of free action that is one of the most cherished prerogatives of the Pathan (Pashtun) tribesmen, be he ever so humble. (as cited in Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005, p. 17) Such was the importance of the institution of Jirga that even in the early eighteenth century, the affairs of the Abdali Empire were handled by a consultative Jirga, which consisted of a council of family elders (Elphinstone, 1842, p. 280). When the Ghazali Empire was overthrown and taken over by the Abdalis (later known as the Durranis) in 1747, a Loya (grand) Jirga, after nine days of

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deliberations, announced Ahmad Shah Abdali as Afghanistan’s new king (Rashid, 2001, p. 10). Sir Olaf Caroe, the renowned British administrator and writer, also noted that in his experience, while observing the Pashtuns, the basic principle to getting anything done from the tribes was to let them “decide on matters through tribal elders” (Caroe, 1958, p. 398). A Jirga is operated by the participation of local elders and leaders from respective tribes. These leaders and elders are Maliks – the tribal elders – and Khans – the heads of clans. The authority among tribes resides with neither of them, but with a collection of Maliks. The proceedings of a tribal Jirga are carried out by Maliks, whereas the Khans preside over the Jirga and hold a ceremonial position, acting as a focal point of communication between the tribes (see Shinwari, 2011; Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). These elders are responsible for making the final decision of the Jirga, whereas other members of the tribal council serve as jurists having recommendatory roles (Gohar, 2014). Whenever a need for consultation among tribes arises, the tribal elders gather in a circle, with no hierarchy or leader, and aim to reach consensus on the issue under discussion (Gohar, 2014). Once the Jirga reaches its decision after deliberations, there are generally two types of outcomes. These outcomes are either Haq (one’s right) or Waak (authority). In case of Haq, either of the conflicting parties has the right to challenge the final decision by presenting their reservations and quoting previous precedents that might be similar to their situation (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). In the case of Waak, the conflicting parties give the final authority to the Jirga members to make a decision, which is mutually binding and respected by the conflicting parties (Yousaf & Poncian, 2018). If the elders believe that “force” might be required to enforce the Jirga’s decision, the elders might order the formation of volunteer militias, known as Lashkars (Ahmad, 2015). The proceedings of a Jirga vary in time and duration depending on the nature of the dispute. On average, a Jirga meeting, or negotiation, might last up to two days, whereas further deliberations are made for issues related to local security, intertribe conflicts, and policy-making (Taizi, 2007). In terms of the level of scope, there are four major types of Jirga practiced among the Pashtuns. These are the Loya (grand) Jirga, Qaumi or Olasi (nation/people’s) Jirga, Sarkari (state) or FCR Jirga, and Shakhsi (personal) Jirga (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). A Loya Jirga is a grand gathering of Pashtun tribal elders from various regions to discuss issues of regional concern. In Pakistan’s Pashtun tribal areas, a Loya Jirga is practiced when elders from a certain “tribal region” gather to discuss inter- or intratribal issues, or elders from different tribes and tribal areas gather to raise a common issue faced by the whole region (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005, p. 51). A Loya Jirga’s membership is determined by the overall authority and respect a tribal elder enjoys within their respective tribe. It is argued that selection of members of the Loya Jirga is a sensitive matter, as any nominated members who do not enjoy full support from their tribe could affect the overall legitimacy of the Loya Jirga (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005, p. 50). The Qaumi or Olasi Jirga is generally held on a local or a village level where local elders gather to deliberate upon issues of local concern (Shinwari, 2011). The

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Jirga is convened by tribal elders in a village or localities and discusses issues ranging from “collective property, rights, and distribution of irrigation water, or common concerns like the selection of a site for a school to issues of national or community interests” (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005, p. 47). It is also through this Jirga that the tribes often reach out to the governments to convey their grievances or get updates on various development projects implemented in the region (Yousaf, Rashid, & Gul, 2018, p. 30). The Sarkari Jirga, until recently in former-FATA, came under the Pakistani state supervision and was first mandated under the FCR 1887 and then, in its final version in 1901, under the British Raj (Hopkins, 2015, p. 375; Yousaf et al., 2018). This Jirga was only convened in response to specific conflicts and was initiated in formerFATA by the PA, representing the Provincial Governor of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province (Shinwari, 2011). The Jirga only went ahead if both the disputing parties gave their consent (Shinwari, 2011). A Shakhsi Jirga is a “third-party Jirga,” where, in case of lack of agreement between two tribes, a “third party,” selected by the elders from both parties, mediates the resolution of the conflict at hand. For successful formation and functioning of the Shakhsi Jirga, it is important for both the conflicting parties to ¨ agree to this resort to a third-party resolution process (Roder & Shinwari, 2015; Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). Just like the Olasi Jirga, a Shakhsi Jirga is also formed by the tribes on their own and derives its legitimacy directly from the people and therefore is often preferred by the locals over state-sponsored Jirgas (Yousaf et al., 2018).

Critique of Jirga Even with its utility toward peace and conflict resolution, the Jirga still presents major challenges when it comes to addressing human rights concerns in the tribal areas. One of the major concerns regarding the Pashtun Jirga is the lack of women inclusion in the overall process due to the patriarchal nature of the Pashtun culture. Even though Afghanistan has been able to attain some representation for the women members in Jirga proceedings (Wardak, 2003), Pakistani Pashtun Jirgas still lag behind in this regard. Moreover, even though the Jirga is claimed to be an egalitarian system of inclusion, giving everyone equal rights, yet the same mechanism completely excludes women from taking part in any proceedings. The FCR Jirga, until it was abolished with FATA’s merger in May 2018, also predominantly worked against women, giving them no representation in the decision-making process (Naseer, 2017). This is because it has been observed that in many cases, a Jirga, while resolving a conflict between two parties, often orders the perpetrator to “give” a woman or a girl in marriage to the aggrieved party in order to resolve the conflict. This exchange happens under the infamous Pashtun custom of Swara (exchange) in the tribal areas, which has been often criticised both on a local and the global level (Naseer, 2019). These negatives of Jirga do not only present social and legal dilemmas for the Pashtun culture but also amount to the violation of the sort of basic human rights

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identified by the United Nation’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights, in particular, gender rights. It is because of the non-inclusion of women in the Jirga process, and therefore their absence of influence within it, that these rights violations fall heavily on women, as well as on children, who are also not represented within Jirga.

The FCR Jirga in FATA Pakistan is one of those former colonies that – even after its independence from the British colonial rule in 1947 – retained certain colonial legal and administrative regimes, especially in the form of the FCR in the former-FATA region. This retention generally pointed toward a “postcolonial thought” in the policymaking circles where the state, while dealing with the Pashtun tribes in peripheries, failed to include them in the country’s mainstream (Mirza, 2018; Mullaney, 2010, p. 5; Yousaf, 2019a). The FCR was used by the British Raj as a further division in the North-West Frontier Province (now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province) to separate “civilized” Pashtuns from the “warrior-like/uncivilized” tribal Pashtuns (Hopkins, 2015). Under the FCR, the British appointed Deputy Commissioner (DC) had the authority to form or re-form the Jirga in response to specific circumstances requiring dispute resolution within and between the Pashtun tribes (Akins, 2017). It is argued that by allowing the DC to convene and deciding upon Jirga decisions, the British Raj, even though acknowledging the importance of Jirga, took the final decision-making authority away from the Pashtun tribes (Akins, 2017; Hopkins, 2015). After Pakistan’s independence, the nomenclature of DC was replaced by PA (Shinwari, 2011; Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005, p. 46). In addition to having the capacity to convene Sarkari (FCR) Jirga, the PA also had, at his disposal, the assistance of the Pakistani security forces, mainly khassadars (paramilitary forces recruited from various tribes), to enforce his decisions (Ghani, 2010). While there have always been calls by the Pakistani civil society for the abolishment of the FCR and the FCR Jirga along with including the tribal areas in Pakistan’s “mainstream,” the process of reforms and integration for the tribal areas has remained slow. However, in November 2015, a six-member committee was formed by the former Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif to come up with proposals for the integration of FATA in Pakistan’s mainstream, the abolishment of FCR, and extension of Pakistan’s judiciary and constitution to the region (Aziz, 2017). The committee investigated three options: (1) maintaining the status quo, (2) making FATA a separate province, and (3) merging FATA with the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province. After months of consultations and deliberations, on March 2, 2017, the committee recommended the merger of FATA with the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, requiring a 5-year transition time and replacing FCR with the Riwaj Act (Dawn, 2017). The Riwaj Act omitted the collective responsibility, yet did not extend fully the national judicial system to FATA, and thus had attracted opposition from

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political parties and civil society in FATA (Dawn, 2017). This was because, under the FCR, the PA was the “judge, jury, and executioner,” deciding of criminal cases and other matter, and therefore taking away the right to seeking justice through the country’s courts from the resident of FATA (Yousaf, 2019a, p. 182). After a series of criticisms over the Riwaj Act and civil society protests, especially pressure from the Pashtun Tahafuz Movement (PTM) (discussed below), the Parliament, on May 24, 2018, passed the 31st Constitutional Amendment Bill – resulting in the 25th Amendment to the Constitution – to merge the FATA region with the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province (Yousaf et al., 2018). The residents of FATA had lost their trust both in the FCR and the FCR Jirgas because the legal framework gave them little authority or influence in the decision-making process. Because the Pakistani state, through its PA, was a major stakeholder in the overall Jirga process, it exerted its pressure and influence over the Jirga members to give recommendations laden with bias or self-interest (Shinwari, 2013). Furthermore, locals argued that tribal elders – the Maliks paid by the PA – could not act as impartial adjudicators while attending the FCR Jirgas (Yousufzai & Gohar, 2005). A research conducted on the perceptions of Jirga by Community Appraisal and Motivation Program (CAMP) also argued that while Sarkari Jirga was “legal” justice delivery mechanism under the FCR and was recognized by the state, it was still less popular compared to the Olasi, or peoples, Jirga, which was considered more legitimate without any formal recognition by the state (Shinwari, 2011).

Why Was Jirga Rendered “Irrelevant” in Former-FATA? The Pashtun Jirga, especially since 1979–1989 anti-Soviet Afghan Jihad, has gradually lost its relevance in the region especially because of the rise of hardline clerics in the region, who have effectively, often with the military’s support, sought to replace the “tribal authority” (Zahab, 2016). Moreover, since the US invasion of Afghanistan and militant influx in the former-FATA in 2001, the Taliban and Al Qaeda – realizing Jirga’s importance – initially started undermining the importance of this institution through their targeted killing of tribal elders and major attacks on tribal peace Jirgas (SATP, 2013; Taj, 2011, pp. 3–4). According to the South Asia Terrorism Portal, in isolated incidents of targeted killing, a total of 120 tribal elders were killed between 2005 and 2013 (SATP, 2013). In one of the many major attacks on tribal Jirgas, the militants attacked a peace Jirga in Mohmand tribal district of former-FATA in 2010, killing more than 100 people (Ali, 2010). In another incident in January 2016, gunmen opened fire on a Peace Jirga gathering killing four tribal elders in Shektoi area of South Waziristan (Dawn, 2016). Both these Jirgas were attacked because the tribal elders had convened these gatherings to discuss strategies to counter militants and keep a check on their activities. However, it was not only the militants who tried undermining the importance of Jirgas in the “tribal” areas. Since the onset of militancy in the FATA region,

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the policies of the Pakistani state, along with its lack of protection for the tribal elders, have also undermined the tribal authority in the region. One such policy, especially influenced by the Pakistani army, was the peace deals signed with various militant groups between 2004 and 2006. Even though the military engaged tribal elders to mediate and negotiate these deals, these elders only had a “consulting” role, with little, or no, authority to enforce the peace deals (Khattak, 2012). The first of such deals, the Shakai Agreement, came in 2004 when the army, after incurring heavy losses in its military operation in 2003, pursued a peace deal with a local Taliban leader, Nek Muhammad Wazir, in South Waziristan (Tankel, 2013, p. 8). After the deal’s failure and lack progress in establishing peace, the state, and the military, signed another deal with the militants, known as Sararogha Peace Accord, on February 22, 2005 (Abbas, 2008). The deal, like others, also failed because both the state and the militants failed to keep their end of the deal. Then on September 5, 2006, the military was forced to sign another peace accord, known as the Miranshah Peace Accord, with the militants. Almost all the peace deals that the government signed with the militant outfits in FATA crumbled one after the other. One of the major reasons for the failure of all these Jirga-based deals was that the militant demands were almost always accepted by the military (Khattak, 2012; Tajik, 2011). Moreover, in various cases, the compensation that the militants received from the state was used for recruitment and continuation of their activities (Khattak, 2012). Moreover, it also argued by that the deals were signed by the state and the military from a “position of weakness,” often occurring as an alternative to military action against the militants when that military action had proved ineffective (Khan, 2016). Hence, this “position of weakness” from the state made the militants deal from a “position of strength,” making the militants more powerful, consequently diminishing the importance and influence of tribal elders (Khattak, 2012). However, even with these limitations and decline in authority, the tribes in the former-FATA region, since 2002, have taken initiatives, through Jirga, to counter militant groups in the region.

Jirga’s Response to Militancy Post-2001 Since 2002, both the Pakistani state, through military operations and peace deals, and the US Government, through CIA-operated drone strikes, have tried countering militant groups in the region. However, a third option, in the form of Jirgabased Lashkars (voluntary peace militias), has also been used by the Pashtun tribes to counter militancy in the former-FATA region. Many tribes in the tribal region, through Lashkars, have tried fighting militants in their region in situations where the military failed to conduct successful military operations. Even though there have been many instances in this regard, a few of them are worth mentioning. When the Pakistani military launched operation Sher Dil in the Bajaur tribal district in 2008, the local Salarzai tribe, through a Jirga of elders, decided to raise a

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Lashkar against militant groups present in the region (Jones & Fair, 2010, p. 65). This Lashkar was raised primarily after the efforts of a local elder Haji Fazal Karim Baro, who was also a retired Bajaur Levies – a security force recruited by the political administration in tribal areas – Major in rank. The Lashkar was effective in pushing the militants out of the region, as a result of which its members also came under attack from the militants. Then in 2009, when the military was unable to counter the militant groups in the region, especially the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), another Jirga meeting of the Salarzai tribe decided to form a Lashkar with support from the government (Yusufzai, 2009). The Lashkar was successful in not only driving out the militant groups from the region but also in inflicting heavy losses on the groups (Yusufzai, 2009). In 2011, when the local militant factions, particularly the Lashkar e Islam, were creating unrest in Khyber Agency, the locals formed Lashkars to fight against these militant elements (Babar & Recknagel, 2011). The Zakakhel tribe from the agency raised these Lashkars against militants, initially, with little or no state support, and therefore the tribe was defeated by the militant group (Aman, 2013). Hence, members of Lashkars from the Khyber Agency claimed that its initial success was negated due to lack of state support and inaction by the Pakistani army against the militants in the region, which also resulted in the Lashkar members coming under attacks from the militants (Taj, 2011, p. 49). These examples of Lashkars, though limited in nature, formed by Jirga in tribal areas even though present an incomplete picture on peace and conflict resolution in the tribal areas, they still suggest the Jirga’s effectiveness in countering militancy of the region. However, this brief overview of events not also sheds some light on the importance of empowerment of the tribal people and their elders but also reiterates the relevance of the Jirga system in the current volatile security situation of the region.

The Future of Jirga in the Tribal Areas After decades of conflict, instability, and persistence of colonial legacies, the Pashtun tribal areas are currently witnessing a watershed moment for two major reasons: the FATA region’s merger with the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province and the rise of the Pashtun Tahafuz (Protection) Movement (PTM) (Yousaf, 2019b). The 25th Amendment to the Constitution, resulting from the passing of the 31st Constitutional Amendment Bill in the national legislature, means that the FATA region is now officially part of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province. Hence, even though the residents of the tribal areas should have access to justice and other basic facilities after the constitutional amendment, the reforms have still not been implemented in their true spirit. Therefore, the state’s narrative and approach toward the Pashtun “periphery” is still similar to what it was before the May 2018 reforms. These circumstances, along with various human rights violation in former-FATA since 2002, have also led to the formation of the PTM. The PTM – a secular nonviolent movement of both men and women – came into being after a group of young tribal Pashtuns; both men and women, in

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February 2018, held a sit-in to protest the extrajudicial murder of young resident from the tribal areas (Mirza, 2018). The young former-FATA resident, named Naqeebullah Mehsud, was murdered by the Counter Terrorism Department in the port city of Karachi on false charges of terrorism (Hayat, 2018). The sit-in then led to the formation of the PTM, with the movement asking the state to afford basic human rights to tribal Pashtuns and release “missing persons,” who were illegally arrested or detained by the security forces in the tribal areas during various military operations since 2001 (Siddique, 2018). It is also argued that the pressure exerted by the PTM, initially, played a major role in forcing the state’s hand to announce the FATA merger and abolish the FCR (Jamal, 2018). Hence, the PTM and its support in the tribal areas suggests that the region is currently facing a clash between “tradition” and “modernity,” with mass demands of the introduction of judicial reforms and extension of the country’s judiciary in the region. Even though such reforms would play a major role toward mainstreaming a region that has always been ignored and isolated from the rest of the country, this also suggests that the social and cultural dynamics of the former-FATA region are also undergoing an evolution process. The younger generation from the tribal areas after getting access to facilities, mainly healthcare, justice, and education, in the urban centers is demanding similar facilities from the state for the tribal areas. On the other hand, many of the tribal elders, previously part of the status quo and benefiting from the persistence of the FCR, are still resisting change in the region. Even with these developments, the discussion in this chapter suggests that, even with its loopholes and it being prone to gender rights violations, the Jirga still remains an important component of the Pashtun “tribal” society for the older generations. The Jirga, like most structures of peace and justice delivery, has both its positives and negatives, as observed previously. However, recent developments, especially the FATA merger, suggest that with the introduction of the country’s judiciary, the role of Jirga might ultimately diminish with time. However, only time will tell how the older generations in the tribal areas adjust to this “change” and whether they will be willing to use the country’s judicial system instead of the Jirga to resolve personal and “tribal” disputes.

Notes 1. The tribes based in the North West of Pakistan are referred to as the Pashtuns, Pakhtun, Pathan, Patan, Pashto, or Pukhtoon. For the purpose of ease of use, this chapter would use the term Pashtun, used commonly in academia, when talking about the tribes in Afghanistan and Pakistan’s frontier region and tribal areas. 2. The word “tribal” is often perceived as a term containing negative and/or primitive connotations. In this chapter, the word “tribal” is used to designate Pashtuns residing in the former-FATA region. 3. Spelled as both Jirga and Jirgah. The chapter would use Jirga for the ease of use and understanding.

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Chapter 9

Effectiveness of ‘Traditional’ Conflict Resolution and Transformation Strategies Farooq Yousaf

Abstract The emergence of intrastate conflicts has not only laid bare the limitations of ‘liberal peace’ strategies but has also raised questions on the utility of such ‘top-down’ strategies in societies that use traditional methods for conflict resolution and transformation. Such limitations in liberal peace strategies have also generated interest in the utility of traditional conflict resolution and transformation methods, especially in the Global South. Using Volker Boege’s framework of traditional conflict transformation and employing case studies from Papua New Guinea (PNG), Rwanda and Timor-Leste, this chapter argues why traditional methods of conflict resolution and transformation still bear relevance in societies where culture and custom play an important role in social harmony and peace. By discussing these cases and using the lessons learnt from their discussion, the chapter concludes that even with their apparent utility and use in ‘hybrid’ models of peace, such traditional methods should be employed with care and after understanding of various social, cultural and historical variables. Keywords: Traditional conflict resolution; custom; PNG; Timor-Leste; Rwanda; liberal peace

Introduction The emergence of ‘new’ intrastate wars, especially in the Global South, has not only seen the failure of ‘liberal peace methods’ in many cases but has also invited criticism on the utility of such ‘top-down’ methods. These ‘top-down’ methods are not necessarily defined as priorities by local populations or that respond to the root causes of armed conflicts (Cavalcante, 2014, p. 141). Rather, these methods Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 119–130 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211013

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have been ‘enforced’ on indigenous and tribal societies and have therefore taken the focus away from traditional and – in many cases – more effective conflict resolution methods. Therefore, because of this failure and criticism, there is a renewed interest in traditional methods of peace and conflict resolution that are more inclusive and also acknowledge the local culture (Run, 2013). In many parts of the world, traditional methods of conflict resolution are either still in place or have been incorporated in state legislation to maintain peace and harmony among local groups. In what can be used an effective definition of traditional conflict resolution, Fred-Mensah (2005, p. 1) equates it to ‘social capital’ and defines it as …social norms and customs to hold members of a group together by effectively setting and facilitating the terms of their relationships…..and sustainably facilitate collective action for achieving mutually beneficial ends. Moreover, these methods are ‘associated with the cultural norms and values of the peoples and gain their legitimacy from the community values instead of the state’ (Alemie & Mandefro, 2018, p. 13). In the context of Global South, Boege (2007, p. 5) defines traditional conflict resolution strategies as those strategies ‘that have developed independently in the context of pre-modern societal structures in the Global South and have been practised in that context over a considerable period of time’. These traditional strategies are predominantly based on the concept of restorative justice, which is defined by Braithwaite (2003, p. 35) as a ‘process in which all the stakeholders affected by an injustice have the opportunity to discuss the consequences of the injustice and what might be done to put them right’. Even today, many tribal societies rely upon traditional means of conflict resolution based on restorative justice, cultural and/or religious norms to solve their everyday conflicts (see, e.g. Adebayo et al. 2014; Brigg & Bleiker, 2011; Braithwaite, 2003; Zartman, 2000). However, such methods practised by societies in the ‘periphery’, in the postcolonial states, have also faced neglect from the ‘centre’ or the state. This neglect of the ‘periphery’ by powerful and centralised elites within the postcolonial states has also resulted in the neglect of traditional methods of conflict resolution. This has also, at times, resulted in the failure of the postcolonial state to effectively deal with the emergence of local-level ‘new wars’ in which local groups are directly involved (Run, 2013). These ‘new wars’ are defined by Kaldor (2013) as: ..the wars of the era of globalisation. Typically, they take place in areas where authoritarian states have been greatly weakened as a consequence of opening up to the rest of the world. In such contexts, the distinction between state and non-state, public and private, external and internal, economic and political, and even war and peace are breaking down. Moreover, the breakdown of these binary distinctions is both a cause and a consequence of violence. (Kaldor, 2013, p. 2)

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In recent years, the emergence of protracted ‘new wars’ and the failure to contain them has invited a growing critique of the idea of ‘liberal peace’ (Bukari, 2013; Mac Ginty, 2008). Fernando Cavalcante (2014, p. 141) argues that peace efforts under ‘liberal peace’ are ‘top-down efforts’ and are ‘characterised by the promotion of liberal norms, practices and values, especially those associated with democracy and the market economy’. Such ‘top-down’ approaches, in which liberal norms are imposed on local actors when these norms themselves may have no presence within traditional culture, result in models of ‘liberal peace’ being perceived by local actors as ‘coercive’ and ‘an alien expression of hegemony and domination’ (Richmond, 2006, p. 300). This is particularly the case when the state imposes such liberal norms in ways that do not engage ‘with local actors and comprehend perspectives, influences, cultures, customs, histories, or political, economic, social systems that exist, or to engage these in interwoven international and local peace projects’ (Richmond, 2012, p. 3). Hence, Mac Ginty (2008) argues that with such limitations of liberal peace, there is a renewed interest in traditional methods of peace-making which are more conciliatory and inclusive of local cultures compared to liberal peace methods. Olonisakin (1997), discussing post-Cold War conflicts in Africa and the failure of liberal peacekeeping solutions, argues that intrastate conflicts need to be resolved through grassroots, and more traditional, means of reconciliation. Babo-Soares (2004, p. 18), while comparing ‘elite’ and ‘grassroots’ reconciliation methods, suggests that grassroots reconciliation not only focuses on local communities but is also more inclusive and aims at ‘stabilising’ community life. This chapter aims to discuss three examples of traditional conflict resolution, from Papua New Guinea (PNG), Rwanda and Timor-Leste, to suggest how traditional methods have been employed effectively by local communities to resolve major and minor conflicts. Moreover, this analysis will aid in arguing whether such methods should be employed in conjunction with modern peace and conflict resolution methods to develop ‘hybrid’ models that take into consideration both the demands of the ‘modern’ world as well as acknowledge local customs and norms. Finally, the chapter uses a case study method, especially because it requires a holistic view of ‘exploration and understanding of complex issue’ (Zainal, 2007, p. 1). Moreover, a case study method has an advantage over other methods of social inquiry as it provides a basis of ‘naturalistic generalisation’ for complex phenomena (Stake, 1978, p. 7). In terms of its framework of analysis, the chapter employs Volker Boege’s (2007) analysis of traditional conflict resolution and transformation.

Boege’s Framework of Traditional Conflict Transformation Boege (2007) believes that ‘new’ intrastate wars in the Global South, resulting from weak states and lack of formal political structures, have led to ‘hybrid structures of political life as local customary patterns and logics of behaviour mix and overlap with modern and post-modern patterns and logics’ (Boege, 2007, pp. 1–2). This overlap of customary patterns with modern and post-modern patterns calls for an inquiry into exploring models of peace and conflict resolution that

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could accommodate the changing socio-political dynamics resulting in ‘new’ wars and help in their resolution and transformation. In this regard, Boege (2007) discusses three important components that make up an effective model of traditional conflict transformation (see Fig. 9.1 below). The three major components of Boege’s framework of traditional conflict resolution and transformation include: (1) Restoration of order and relationships, (2) A holistic and consensus-based approach and (3) ‘We-group’ (and its reframing) (Boege, 2007, pp. 7–11). The first component, according to Boege (2007, p. 7), aims at restoration of order in the society. This component does not solely rely on the punishment of mistakes committed in the past, rather focuses on reconciliation by taking restitution as the founding principle. By doing so, it aims at ‘averting ruptures in social relations’ and creating conducive conditions for future peace and harmony (Reda, 2011, p. 42). The second component calls for a holistic approach based on consensus building and learning from the past. For an effective conflict resolution strategy, such a

Fig. 9.1.

Framework of Traditional Conflict Transformation (Boege, 2007).

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holistic approach should include ‘social, economic, cultural and religious-spiritual dimensions’ of the community (Likesa & Gadisa, 2015, p. 85). Through such an approach, both the conflicting parties aim at reaching a consensus on the past facts and the truth, so that the perpetrators are provided with the conditions to confess their wrongdoings (Boege, 2007, p. 8). The third and final component of the framework emphasises on the ‘we-group’ and collective effort towards peace and conflict transformation in a specific community (Boege, 2007; Bolaji, 2011, p. 195). According to Boege, this component works well within a specific smaller community and therefore warns that this component also presents a weakness in situations of ‘us’ vs. ‘them’. This is because in such conflicts, the ‘we’ or ‘us’ group might follow customary law whereas the ‘them’ group might follow another customary law or statutory law (Boege, 2007, p. 10). In the forthcoming sections, the chapter discusses three cases of traditional conflict resolution, from PNG, Rwanda and Timor-Leste, and various dimensions associated with these cases. This discussion will be followed by an analysis, in the final section, using the Boege framework to discuss various lessons learnt from these cases.

Papua New Guinea (PNG) Papua New Guinea (PNG), in the past four decades, has witnessed a wide-scale recognition and practise of customary laws and traditional forms of justice and conflict resolution. PNG is mostly indigenously owned and clan-based, where blood feuds and composition of clans play an important role in politics (see Filer, 2013). In this regard, the ‘village courts’, established in 1975, play a major role in resolving community-level rural conflicts (Demian, 2014). Because of the lack of state funding for legal institutional development, village courts have remained a relevant justice delivery mechanism and aid in resolving disputes according to the local customs, involving judges appointed locally (Allen & Monson, 2014; Demian, 2014). It is suggested that the village now serve more than two-thirds of the country’s population (Commission, 2012). On the other hand, also in PNG, the battle of Bougainville, or Bougainville Civil war (between 1988 and 1998), provides another example of the success of customary or traditional conflict resolution methods in instances of civil wars and intrastate conflicts (Boege, 2007). The war was fought between the Bougainville Revolutionary Army (BRA) and the PNG state, which resulted in the deaths of 15,000–20,000 Bougainvilleans (Pumuye, 2016). The war was described as a series of complex conflicts in local contexts (Boege & Garasu, 2011). However, the process of transforming the conflict only succeeded when the conflict resolution process drew from customary practices, a process that continues years after the war ended (Boege & Garasu, 2011). Boege (2007) describes PNG’s successful experience of traditional conflict resolution experience in the following words: In the current process of state-making Bougainvilleans can and do heavily rely on the positive experiences of the post-conflict peacebuilding phase. Peacebuilding on Bougainville worked so

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This makes PNG one of the rare case studies in peace and conflict resolution where traditional methods did not only help in conflict resolution and transformation on a local level but also played a major role in state and nation-building (Boege, 2007, p. 5). This positive role has largely been attributed to traditional tribal chiefs who took it upon themselves to maintain a ‘community-based justice system’ (Boege, 2007, p. 7). Moreover, one of the highlights of this model is bringing together of aggrieved parties, where a ‘peace ceremony’ is held and an exchange of gifts takes place for the wrongs committed against the aggrieved party (Boege, 2009). In what makes these mechanisms successful, all institutions and structures, both formal and informal, involved in peace and harmony of the local communities acknowledge the role of other institutions and believe that one institution should not overpower the other (Boege, 2009). This acknowledgement of equal importance, of both the formal and informal structures, ensures that community peace and harmony stay intact. Finally, in terms of diversity and empowerment, women have also played a key role in the peace-making process assuming roles of negotiators, mediators and peacemakers, which suggests the system has also encouraged women representation in the peace and conflict resolution processes (Saovana-Spriggs, 2010). The aim with which traditional structures of conflict resolution and justice delivery were established in PNG was to provide people with means of justice in their own language and ‘custom’, where applicable (Demian, 2014). But even with their success, in some cases, people are not using the courts for their desired purpose and only aim to shame their enemies socially, raising question marks over their effectiveness (Demian, 2014). Moreover, in certain cases, the younger magistrates in these courts are not always aware of the ‘custom’, creating complications in their understanding of unwritten custom (Commission, 2012). Therefore, traditional structures in PNG, even with their apparent utility, also carry limitations.

Rwanda Rwanda has sustained long periods of internal conflict, with the governments experimenting with various tools of justice and conflict resolution to address the grievances of victims and families of 1994s genocide (Reimers, 2014). During the genocide of 1994 – from April through June – almost 800,000 people were killed; with a majority being the Tutsis and about 50,000 moderate Hutus, who refused to take part in the genocide (Staub, 2000, p. 377). After the genocide, the Rwandan government set on a course to try the perpetrators at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) and National genocide trials (NGTs) (Reimers, 2014). Acknowledging that these forums were taking an excessive amount of time and postponing trials of important cases, the government introduced a model of

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traditional justice, known as Gacaca courts. Even though it is commonly believed that Gacaca means ‘justice on the grass’, Ingelaere (2008, p. 33) argues that Gacaca is derived from the Kinyarwandan word ‘umugaca’, which means a soft plant on which people preferred to gather and sit on. The Gacaca courts were inspired from traditional models of justice as well as truth and reconciliation commissions, such as those witnessed in South Africa, and focused on lower levels of involvement in the genocide (Reimers, 2014; Schabas, 2005). Rwanda ran a pilot for the Gacaca courts between 1999 and 2005, and the system finally became operational in 2005 (Schabas, 2005). The Gacaca court model was taken from a traditional conflict resolution mechanism that only focused on minor offences and was based on a system of reconciliation and truth (HRW, 2014). The judges were elected by the locals and were to hear the cases in front of the community members or elders who had knowledge about the instances of genocide or the defendant (HRW, 2014). Even though initially becoming popular and gaining public support, the system also ‘opened a Pandora box’ with the suspected number of perpetrators increasing in relation to the government estimates, as more and more people, trusting the traditional structure, confessed to their involvement and named their accomplices (Schabas, 2005, p. 81). After these revelations, the government announced in January 2005 that the courts would try over a million Rwandans for their involvement in the genocide (Schabas, 2005). The Gacaca system finished working by 2012, but not before closing over two million cases and also leaving mixed responses from the local and international community (HRW, 2014). Where some believed the courts played a major part in bringing peace and closure to many victims, others believe that the system was plagued with distrust, corruption and unfair trials (HRW, 2014). Moreover, those who criticised the system argued that Gacaca was: ..a form of unpopular participatory justice, with large crowds of uninterested people physically present but psychologically absent or unsupportive of the activities. Those who speak are predominantly the judges, the survivors and a small group of liberated prisoners (Ingelaere, 2008, p. 49) Even though the outcomes of the Gacaca courts were not perfect, the system still provided the Rwandan government with an alternative that somewhat aided in the resolution of cases through local and traditional means. However, the scepticism around this traditional ‘hybrid’ system also suggests why traditional methods are not perfect and require an in-depth analysis of history, norms and local variables before their broader implementation.

Timor-Leste In Timor-Leste (East Timor), local and national political leaders have called for more inclusion of traditional mechanisms to resolve various conflicts in the

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country (IRIN, 2013). In this regard, the concept of Nahe Biti (laying out a mat) is one such form of traditional dispute resolution method practised in East Timor (Carroll-Bell, 2012; Mac Ginty, 2008). The Nahe Biti is commonly used by local people to denote the idea of reconciliation and conflict resolution (Babo-Soares, 2004). During a conflict, the victim brings their grievance to the local elder, presumably sitting on a woven mat, who can hear the arguments from both the victim and the offender (Mac Ginty, 2008). After hearing both sides of the arguments, the elder gives their verdict that may be followed by the guilty party giving a statement, and then food and drinks are shared between both the parties (Mac Ginty, 2008). The importance of Nahe Biti for the locals is acknowledged by a local tribal elder, who says: If we nahe biti boot inside the house, we put there tobacco and betel nut and we chew and smoke and talk until it is over. Everyone has to talk. There is not one person silent. I am used to this. This is democracy. This democracy is much better than the democracy we copied from foreign countries....The democracy that we did in 2001, we chose the members of the parliament for the Constitution. Everyone raised their hands, followed Alkatiri and the ones that came from Mozambique....Why is it that before we were under the foreigner and it wasn’t good, under the Indonesians and it wasn’t good but now we want independence. Why don’t we use the democratic system from before? (Cummins, 2010, pp. 904–905) Nahe Biti also represents the frustration of locals towards ‘elite’ and ‘bureaucracy’ whose slow ‘reconciliation’ process forced the locals to take initiatives of local customary reconciliation through Nahe Biti (Babo-Soares, 2004, p. 17). This was because the elite process of reconciliation in the country was mainly geared and focused towards reconciliation among the ‘elites’, namely pro- and antiindependence leadership and supporters (Babo-Soares, 2004, p. 17). Such was the importance of Nahe Biti that it was made the modus operandi of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission established in 2002 to investigate human rights violation in Timor-Leste between 1974 and 1999 (Mac Ginty, 2008). It was found out that the Nahe Biti, through confession, contrition and compensation, helped with a smooth and peaceful transition and reintegration of culprits back into the community (Mac Ginty, 2008, p. 154). Recent examples have also shown how Nahe Biti is still playing an important part in resolving community-level conflicts. The UNDP (2016) reported that an instance of conflict in Uma Wain Leten, Viqueque, resulted in the death of two people, whereas valuable properties were also destroyed. The Dialogue Team of the Department of Peace Building and Social Cohesion (DPBSC) in the Ministry of Social Solidarity (MSS) therefore arranged a dialogue involving both the conflicting parties under Nahe Biti. Soon after, a peace agreement, in the presence of community elders and leaders, was signed between both the parties, who forgave each other (UNDP, 2016).

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What Lessons Can Be Learnt from PNG, Rwanda and Timor-Leste? If looked at through the Boege framework, the PNG case study highlights that much of the success of the traditional models in the country can be attributed to the importance of tradition and restorative justice among the local communities (Zarriga, 2003). However, even though traditional structures in PNG are holistic and community-based, they still often lag in bridging and restoring social relationships, as these structures are used for ‘shaming’ of enemies. Demian (2014, p. 2), while recounting one instance, writes that she was ‘informed by some disputants that their explicit purpose in bringing a court case was to shame the other party into capitulating or otherwise admitting to inappropriate behaviour’. On the other hand, the Gacaca courts followed a holistic approach that also encouraged community involvement, discussed past experiences and focused on repairing community relations. However, the Gacaca experience suggests that one of the shortcomings in the model was the lack of community or group efforts in restoring the social order, which ultimately led to lack of trust on the system by some sections of the local community. Moreover, this lack of trust further contributed towards some failure of the Gacaca model, where critics of the government’s policy and these courts were punished, therefore leading towards lack of ‘community responsibility’ towards the reconciliation process (Le Mon, 2007). Finally, the case of Timor-Leste also provides effective lessons in the implementation of traditional conflict resolution and transformation strategies. When analysed through Boege’s framework, the Nahe Biti model of community reconciliation in Timor-Leste includes all important components required for an effective traditional conflict resolution and transformation model. Using their frustration against the ‘elite’, the local communities took initiative through Nahe Biti by creating a model that was holistic, community-based and owned and was aimed at restoration of social relationships and reintegration of perpetrators back in the community. Therefore, this traditional model still plays an important role in minor community conflicts and their resolution in the country today. The aforementioned discussion of three cases of traditional conflict resolution and transformation methods suggests how, even today, such methods can offer utility in resolving community-based conflicts and can play a role in bringing harmony. However, even though the chapter discussed the effectiveness of these methods and their apparent utility towards modern ‘hybrid’ models of peace, critics suggest that hybrid models can also present their own challenges. One such challenge is that ‘a concentration on hybridity may lead to an overemphasis upon the negotiability of governance arrangements and foreclose robust empirical investigation of existing power structures’ (Luckham & Kirk, 2013, p. 30). Moreover, Goodfellow and Lindemann (2013, p. 22) argue that success of hybrid models, which acknowledge traditional methods of conflict resolution, depends on ‘deeper historical factors and the prevailing political calculus in a given context’. Moreover, a major lesson learnt from Rwanda’s Gacaca courts is that such methods are context and community-specific and therefore face

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challenges when applied on a macro or a national level. This leads us to a similar problem encountered in ‘liberal peace’ methods that ‘one size does not fit all’.

Conclusion In recent years, the limitations presented by ‘liberal peace’ strategies, which are ‘top-down’ in nature, have led to a renewed interest and debate on traditional strategies of conflict resolution and transformation. This chapter discussed how traditional strategies of conflict resolution are more inclusive and holistic and focus primarily on the restoration of social relationships and order. The three cases – PNG, Rwanda and Timor-Leste – discussed in this chapter also highlighted the effectiveness of traditional methods of conflict resolution. However, using the Boege framework, the chapter also concluded why traditional methods are not always perfect, similar to liberal peace strategies, and therefore should only be employed after proper understanding of context and history, among other variables, of the community. Having said that, the chapter also highlighted how various positive lessons, based on custom and tradition, can be learnt from traditional conflict resolution strategies. These lessons can effectively be incorporated in ‘modern’ liberal peace strategies for better inclusion and representation of the aggrieved parties in the conflict resolution and transformation process.

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Braithwaite, J. (2003). The fundamentals of restorative justice. Canberra: Pandanus Books: Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies The Australian National University. Brigg, M., & Bleiker, R. (2011). Mediating across difference: Oceanic and Asian approaches to conflict resolution. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai’i Press. Bukari, K. N. (2013). Exploring indigenous approaches to conflict resolution: The case of the bawku conflict in Ghana. Journal of Sociological Research, 4, 86–104. Carroll-Bell, S. (2012). Re-interpreting customary practice as a framework for development: Lessons of Timor-Leste’s community reconciliation process. Local-Global: Identity, Security, Community, 11, 36–44. Cavalcante, F. (2014). The influence of the liberal peace framework on the United Nations approach to peacebuilding in Guinea-Bissau. RCCS Annual Review, 6, 141–161. Commission, A. L. R. (2012). Recognition of aboriginal customary laws (ALRC report 31). (1986) 24 Nov. 2012. Retrieved from https://www.alrc.gov.au/publications/report-31 Cummins, D. (2010). Democracy or democrazy? Local experiences of democratization in Timor-Leste. Democratization, 17, 899–919. Demian, M. (2014). Innovation in Papua New Guinea’s village courts: Exceeding jurisdiction or meeting local needs? Legal innovation: Part 1. Australian National University, Canberra. Filer, C. (2013). The political economy of forest management in Papua New Guinea. Broko, Port Moresby: The National Research Institute. Fred-Mensah, B. (2005). Nugormesese: An indigenous basis of social capital in a West African Community. World Bank. Retrieved from http://documents.worldbank.org/ curated/en/915931468003871371/pdf/343460iknt86.pdf Goodfellow, T., & Lindemann, S. (2013). The clash of institutions: Traditional authority, conflict and the failure of ‘hybridity’in Buganda. Commonwealth & Comparative Politics, 51, 3–26. HRW. (2014). Rwanda: Justice after genocide—20 Years on. Human Rights Watch. Retrieved from https://www.hrw.org/news/2014/03/28/rwanda-justice-after-genocide20-years. Accessed on January 1, 2017. Ingelaere, B. (2008). The gacaca courts in Rwanda. In L. Huyse & M. Salter (Eds.), Traditional justice and reconciliation after violent conflict: Learning from African experiences (pp. 25–60). Stockholm: International IDEA. IRIN. (2013). Timor-Leste promotes traditional conflict resolution. Reliefweb. Retrieved from http://reliefweb.int/report/timor-leste/timor-leste-promotes-traditional-conflictresolution. Accessed on February 20, 2017. Kaldor, M. (2013). In defence of new wars. Stability: International Journal of Security and Development, 2, 1–16. Le Mon, C. J. (2007). Rwanda’s troubled Gacaca courts. Human Rights Brief, 14, 1–5. Likesa, W. S., & Gadisa, D. A. (2015). Traditional conflict resolution mechanisms: In case of Ameya Woreda. Journal for Studies in Management and Planning, 1, 81–103. Luckham, R., & Kirk, T. (2013). The two faces of security in hybrid political orders: A framework for analysis and research. Stability: International Journal of Security and Development, 2, 1–30. Mac Ginty, R. (2008). Indigenous peace-making versus the liberal peace. Cooperation and Conflict, 43, 139–163.

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Olonisakin, F. (1997). African"homemade" peacekeeping initiatives. Armed Forces & Society, 23, 349–371. Pumuye, G. M. (2016). Legal transplants: A conflict of statutory law and customary law in Papua New Guinea. ISLRev, 4, 31. Reda, K. T. (2011). Conflict and alternative dispute resolution among the Afar pastoralists of Ethiopia. African Journal of History and Culture, 3, 38–47. Reimers, B. C. (2014). The "Intra Tutsi Schism" and its effects on truth, justice and reconciliation in the Rwandan Gacaca courts. In A. G. Adebayo, J. J. Benjamin, & B. D. Lundy (Eds.), Indigenous conflict management strategies: Global perspectives. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Richmond, O. (2012). A post-liberal peace. Routledge studies in peace and conflict resolution. Abingdon; Oxon: Routledge. Richmond, O. P. (2006). The problem of peace: Understanding the ‘liberal peace’. Conflict, Security & Development, 6(3), 291–314. Run, P. (2013). Reconsidering the crisis of confidence in indigenous African conflict resolution approaches: a postcolonial critique. Journal of Pan African Studies, 6, 26–40. Saovana-Spriggs, R. (2010). Bougainville women’s role in conflict resolution in the bougainville peace process. In S. Dinnen, A. Jowitt, & T. Newton (Eds.), A kind of mending: Restorative justice in the Pacific Islands. Canberra: ANU E Press. Schabas, W. A. (2005). Genocide trials and Gacaca courts. Journal of International Criminal Justice, 3, 879–895. Stake, R. E. (1978). The case study method in social inquiry. Educational Researcher, 7, 5–8. Staub, E. (2000). Genocide and mass killing: Origins, prevention, healing and reconciliation. Political Psychology, 21, 367–382. UNDP. (2016). The power of traditional dialogue mechanism for peace and reconciliation. UNDP. Retrieved from http://www.tl.undp.org/content/timor_leste/en/home/ourwork/ crisispreventionandrecovery/successstories/Peace-Reconciliation.html. Accessed on January 5, 2019. Zainal, Z. (2007). Case study as a research method. Jurnal Kemanusiaan, 5, 1–6. Zarriga, R. (2003). Restorative justice in papua new guinea: A collaborative effort. Canberra: Pandanus Books: Research School Of Pacific And Asian Studies The Australian National University. Zartman, I. W. (2000). Traditional cures for modern conflicts: African conflict “medicine”. Boulder, CO; London: Lynne Rienner Publishers.

Chapter 10

The Resolution by the White Earth Anishinaabe Nation to Protect the Inherent Rights of Wild Rice Lawrence W. Gross

Abstract On December 31, 2018, the White Earth Reservation Business Committee, or tribal council, passed Resolution Number 001-19-009 recognizing the inherent rights of wild rice. The resolution also includes a regulation entitled “Rights of Manoomin,” meaning the regulation is enforceable under tribal law (White Earth Reservation Business Committee, 2019, pp. 19–21). The Rights of Manoomin lays out the legal protections afforded to wild rice under the resolution. The Reservation Business Committee passed Resolution Number 001-19-010 the same day to support the previous resolution (White Earth Reservation Business Committee, 2019, pp. 22–26). The resolution to recognize the inherent rights of wild rice is part of a larger international movement to recognize the rights of nature (Bouayad, 2020, pp. 39–40). However, the case of the White Earth Anishinaabeg (pl.) and wild rice is different for two reasons. First, the Rights of Manoomin regulation is the first to recognize the inherent rights of a plant (LaDuke, 2019). Second, the resolution claims protection for wild rice in all the territories the Anishinaabeg ceded under the 1867 treaty with the United States government that established the reservation. In this paper, I will argue that the importance of wild rice to the Anishinaabeg and the threats it is currently under served as an impetus for the White Earth Reservation Business Committee to pass the resolutions in question.

Background The White Earth reservation is located in northwest Minnesota, just west of the source of the Mississippi river. It is one of seven reservations in Minnesota that

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are home to the Anishinaabe people. The Anishinaabeg are also known as the Ojibwe and the Chippewa, and I will use all three names interchangeably in this paper. The White Earth reservation was established under the 1867 treaty between the United States government and the Mississippi Band of Chippewa Indians (Kappler, 1929, pp. 974–976). It encompasses 36 square miles. Wild rice (Zizania palustris) is a very important food crop for the Anishinaabeg. Wild rice is called manoomin in the Anishinaabe language (Manoomin Search Results, n.d.). “Manoomin” literally means “good seed” (Manoomin, n.d.). Wild rice beds are generally located along the shores of lakes or in slow moving streams. The water in the beds tends to be fairly shallow, usually about two to three feet. The grass grows anywhere from three feet to six feet off the water. The seeds ripen in late August and early September. Wild rice is a highly nutritious food and has long been a staple in the diet of the Anishinaabeg. Wild rice figures predominantly in the culture of the Anishinaabeg as well. In fact, the Anishinaabeg understand they originally lived around the Gulf of St. Lawrence, but were led on an epic migration to the land where the food grows on the water (LaDuke, 2005/2016, p. 168). There are other sacred stories associated with wild rice as well. Wild rice tends to be ubiquitous in Anishinaabe country. It is served at ceremonial and other gatherings, generally as a plain side dish with other traditional foods, such as rabbit meat or venison. It is also often gifted as a way of showing one’s honor and respect for the recipient. So, wild rice is both an important food crop for the Anishinaabeg and a significant component of their culture. With that background in mind, it is hardly surprising the White Earth Anishinaabeg would want to protect their wild rice, as they have consistently done since the treaty making era up to the present day (Bouayad, 2020). That same desire to protect such a valuable cultural resource is evident in the resolution to recognize the inherent rights of wild rice, to which we now turn.

The Rights of Manoomin Starting with the regulations codified in Resolution Number 001-19-009, “Rights of Manoomin,” there are three important subsections that deserve closer analysis, one pertaining to the rights secured under the resolution and two regarding the prohibitions necessary to secure the rights of wild rice. The text of the relevant portions are as follows: Section 1: Statements of Law – Rights. (a) Rights of Manoomin. Manoomin, or wild rice, within the White Earth Reservation possesses inherent rights to exist, flourish, regenerate, and evolve, as well as inherent rights to restoration, recovery, and preservation. These rights include, but are not limited to, the right to pure water and freshwater habitat; the right to a healthy climate system and a natural environment free from human-caused global warming impacts and emissions; the right to be free from patenting, as well as rights to be free from infection, infestation, or drift by any means from genetically engineered organisms, trans-genetic risk seed,

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or other seeds that have been developed using methods other than traditional plant breeding. Section 2: Statements of Law – Prohibitions Necessary to Secure Rights. (a) It shall be unlawful for any business entity or government, or any other public or private entity, to engage in activities which violate, or which are likely to violate, the rights or prohibitions of this law, regardless of whether those activities occur within, or outside of, the White Earth Reservation. (b) No government shall recognize as valid any permit, license, privilege, charter, or other authorization issued to any business entity or government, or any other public or private entity, that would enable that entity to violate the rights or prohibitions of this law, regardless of whether the authorized activities occur within, or outside of, the White Earth Reservation. In regard to Section 1, there are two points of interest, one pertaining to the natural environment and the other to the wild rice itself. So, the section makes provisions for the protection of the natural environment, both on the local scale and in terms of larger ecological issues. Wild rice needs clean, clear water in which to flourish. So, the section explicitly states wild rice has the right to “pure water and freshwater habitat.” However, the section recognizes that wild rice is not just threatened by local environmental concerns and so it makes reference to climate change as well. Indeed, with a warming climate, it is not clear wild rice will continue to survive in its native habitat. So, the resolution says wild rice has a right to be free of the deleterious effects of human induced climate change. Section 2 makes much bolder pronouncements as it refers to legal entities and their actions on the one hand and the prohibitions being enforceable both on and off the reservation on the other. The legal entities in question are intentionally expansive so as to draw in government bodies, corporate enterprises, and any other entity whether private or public. The fact the resolution claims the provisions are applicable off the reservation may make it seem White Earth is illegally extending its jurisdiction. However, when the Anishinaabeg negotiated the 1837, 1842, and 1854 treaties with the United States Government, they explicitly reserved their rights to hunt, fish, and gather in the ceded territories (Kappler, 1929, pp. 491–493, 542–545, 648–652). Retaining the right to harvest a natural resource is a type of “usufructuary right.” Usufructuary rights are type of right recognized under the law. The right allows the owner to “use and enjoy the property of another, provided its substance is neither impaired nor altered” (Usufruct, n.d.). So, because the Chippewa did not surrender their usufructuary rights in the ceded territory, they still have certain rights upon those lands. That conclusion results from a landmark 1999 Supreme Court decision. In Minnesota v. Mille Lacs Band of Chippewa Indians (526 U.S. 172), the Supreme Court ruled the Mille Lacs Band of Chippewa Indians retain the right to hunt, fish, and gather on public lands in the territories ceded in the 1837 treaty with the Chippewa. The Mississippi Band of Chippewa Indians, some of whom settled on White Earth reservation, were party to the 1837 treaty. As such, the Reservation Business Committee is asserting their

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usufructuary rights as affirmed by the Supreme Court on public lands within the ceded territory. They are using that right as the basis to extend the provisions of the regulation to lands outside the reservation as well. Section 2(b) takes the further step of disallowing government entities from granting permission to other legal entities or private parties to engage in actions that violate the protections of wild rice set forth in the resolution. So, not only does Section 2 prohibit governments from violating the resolution, it also bars governments from allowing other parties to do so. For its part, Resolution Number 001-19-010 provides further reasons for the necessity of passing the Rights of Manoomin legislation. The following portions of the resolution deserve consideration: Whereas, the 1855 Treaty ceded territory is at the top of three of the four North American continental divides/watersheds: the Red River north to Hudson Bay; the Mississippi River south to the Gulf of Mexico; and Lake Superior tributaries east to the Atlantic Ocean; and prior to European contact, and prior to any of the treaties, each of these water bodies were pristine and bountiful with natural resources provided as gifts from the Creator who guided us here to the place where the “manoomin” grows on the water, a place with which we have a spiritual covenant and responsibility to protect … Whereas, the State of Minnesota has a legal obligation under federal law to honor and respect our right to parity recognition to the same treatment of Chippewa usufructuary property rights in the 1855 treaty ceded territory as has been accorded in the 1837 and 1854 treaty ceded territories, and the state is further obligated to recognize that co-management of on and off reservation resources must include Chippewa priority to water rights and the right to withhold consent as co-owner of the resources … Much of the resolution addresses the specific legal basis for the Rights of Manoomin law and also covers the concerns of the White Earth tribal government about threats to wild rice. So, the resolution discusses the legal precedents that establish the usufructuary rights of the White Earth Ojibwe as well as sections that cover proposed oil pipeline developments and the threat of climate change. However, the two sections above encapsulate the larger claims upon which the Rights of Manoomin law rest. Examining the second section first, it again looks to the legal foundation for the Rights of Manoomin law. In this case, the Reservation Business Committee is clearly declaring that the White Earth Ojibwe are co-owners of certain natural resources in the ceded territory, but most especially water rights. As co-owners, the tribal council is declaring that they have the legal right to intervene and stop any activity that threatens their property rights within the ceded territory. This is a different argument from the claims made in Resolution Number 001-19-009 about usufructuary rights. Usufructuary rights simply convey upon the owner the right to use property, not own it. However, in this additional resolution, the tribe is making its claim about the natural resources off the reservation clear: They still own property rights in the ceded territories. In

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asserting the right to those natural resources, the White Earth government is claiming the right to intervene off the reservation to protect their property interests. So, the Anishinaabeg, including the White Earth Anishinaabeg, technically have legal rights beyond the reservation borders. By including lands off the reservation in the resolution, the resolution is simply making claims to the property rights to which they are entitled. The first section presented above speaks to the moral claim of the White Earth Ojibwe. The 1855 treaty referenced in this section ceded a large portion of central and northern Minnesota (Kappler, 1929, pp. 685–690). As stated above, the Mississippi Band of Chippewa Indians were party to the treaty, and a portion of them eventually settled on the White Earth reservation after the 1867 treaty established that reservation. The important part of this section is the last part. As stated above, the oral tradition of the Anishinaabeg says they were led on a sacred migration to the land where the food grows on the water. That oral tradition thus establishes a “sacred covenant” the Anishinaabeg have with the Creator to be the caretakers of the land. So, for the Anishinaabeg, the question of protecting wild rice is not simply a matter of material interest. They have a deep spiritual bond with the land, including wild rice. They take that bond seriously and view themselves as having the moral responsibility to the Creator to protect the land and its natural resources. So, the argument goes beyond the legal and includes spiritual considerations as well.

Research Question Taken all together, then, the two resolutions presented above provide a comprehensive statement regarding the inherent rights of wild rice and the protections to which it is entitled. But, why would the tribal government feel so strongly about wild rice that they felt it was necessary to pass two such resolutions? The answer can be addressed in two parts: (1) The importance of wild rice to the Anishinaabeg and (2) the threats to the survival and very integrity of wild rice. The rest of this paper will examine those two issues in turn, starting with the importance of wild rice to the Anishinaabeg. For this discussion, instead of engaging in a broad, abstract examination, I will look at how wild rice actually functions in the culture. I will rely on discussions I had with family and friends in the summer of 2019. By examining life on the ground for the Anishinaabeg, we will be able to get a much better picture of the affective nature of wild rice for the Anishinaabeg as opposed to engaging in a more generalized discussion of the topic. I am keeping the names of my conversation partners anonymous. They are not public figures, but I chose them exactly for that reason. I wanted to convey what wild rice means to regular Anishinaabe people. However, in this age of the internet and social media, I thought it would be best to protect their identities.

The Importance of Wild Rice to the Anishinaabeg During the summer of 2019, I traveled to northern Minnesota to speak with friends and relatives about the importance of wild rice to the Anishinaabe people.

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Rather than having a set of questions predetermined for the interview process, I allowed my conversation partners to talk about the importance of wild rice for themselves and about their relationship with it. Their responses shed light on the depths to which wild rice penetrates Anishinaabe life and culture. One individual talked about the residents of Rice Lake village on the White Earth reservation. The village of Rice Lake is nestled in the pines just off County Road 7 near the eastern border of the reservation. Rice Lake is being visited by all the dysfunctions commonly found on Native American reservations. But, even with those dysfunctions, life is not all bad. They do have their points of pride. In that regard, my conversation partner said the ricers from Rice Lake are the best in the world. I suppose he could have limited it to being the best among the Anishinaabeg. But, he wanted to make the point that the ricers from Rice Lake were truly exceptional. He talked specifically about their ricing techniques. My conversation partner said that when the harvesters from Rice Lake come off the lake, their rice is absolutely clean. There is not any debris in the rice at all, such as leaves or sticks. He contrasted the skill of the harvesters from Rice Lake with other individuals, talking with some derision about how when they come off the lake, the rice is all dirty, by which he meant that there is literally dirt in the rice. My conversation partner further stated he likes to purchase wild rice from the Rice Lake harvesters. Wild rice is sold by the pound. But, wild rice from poorly skilled harvesters will be contaminated with leaves and sticks, and may even be weighed down by sand. My conversation partner does not want to pay for anything but wild rice. So, he goes to the best in the world at Rice Lake to purchase his wild rice. So, even with all the challenges they face in Rice Lake, they can take pride in their harvesting tradition. Interestingly enough, harvesting is not the only way the Anishinaabeg can develop a specialization when it comes to wild rice. I asked a second conversation partner about harvesting wild rice. He somewhat surprised me when he said he does not harvest wild rice himself. Instead, he has been working to develop his skills at processing wild rice. He stated that harvesting wild rice is a skill that he does not care to work at. He said we are all given certain gifts, and it is not his gift to be skilled at harvesting wild rice. As such, he prefers to leave the harvesting to those individuals who excel at the task. Rather, he has opted to work on processing wild rice. It turns out, raw wild rice seeds are milky. So, the seeds have to be parched to remove their water content. From there, the chaff is separated from the seed. When finished in this manner, wild rice can keep for many years. However, parching wild rice is a skill in itself. Traditionally, wild rice is parched over a low fire in a large iron kettle or perhaps a tin wash tub. The wild rice is stirred in the kettle, generally with a canoe paddle, to keep it from burning. The wild rice must be carefully monitored so that, on the one hand, the wild rice seed is completely free of moisture, and, on the other, not so parched as to burn. It takes quite a bit of practice to be able to parch the seeds just right and so it is a skill in and of itself that can be developed into a specialization. That was the skill my conversation partner has developed. He was very happy to fit into the wild rice harvesting culture of the Anishinaabeg in this manner. So, it is interesting the degree to

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which the Anishinaabeg have developed harvesting and processing wild rice to such a high art. It is true that anybody with an interest can harvest wild rice and parch it themselves, and indeed, many Anishinaabeg do just that. Still, having areas of specialization also points to the degree to which wild rice is taken very seriously by the Anishinaabeg. It is no wonder it has so deeply penetrated Anishinaabe culture. One way in which wild rice has penetrated the culture involves its role in gift giving among the Anishinaabeg. A third individual with whom I spoke is involved in higher education at an institution which will remain unnamed. She stated how they always keep wild rice on hand and make it a regular part of their gift giving. For example, during the holiday season at the end of the year, her office will give the Anishinaabe students wild rice. Giving wild rice to the students at the holiday season carries a lot of cultural symbolism. It really is one of the best ways to honor someone in Anishinaabe culture. The above is just a small taste of the importance of wild rice for the Anishinaabeg. It provides some understanding of why the tribal council would want to take measures to protect it by passing a resolution to recognize its inherent rights. However, other factors are in play as well, most especially the current-day threats to the health and well-being of wild rice, the subject to which we now turn.

The Threats to the Survival and Very Integrity of Wild Rice Although there are many threats to wild rice, such as mining, invasive species, and shoreline development (Raster & Hill, 2017, p. 8), the two largest threats are genetic modification and water pollution. This material has been covered in a number of other works (Bouayad, 2020; Cragoe, 2017, pp. 140–203; Kojola, 2018; Kokotovich, 2014, pp. 98–149; LaDuke, 2005/2016, pp. 167–190; Raster & Hill, 2017; Streiffer, 2005; Walker, 2008; Walker & Doerfler, 2009). As such, I will keep my remarks here brief. One of the features of wild rice is that the seed “shatters.” That is, the kernels do not come ripe all at the same time. However, this phenomenon makes wild rice in its natural state a poor candidate for commercial production. To harvest wild rice for commercial purposes, the grain needs to come ripe at the same time to make machine harvesting possible. In the 1950s, agronomists at the University of Minnesota succeeded in developing hybrid varieties of wild rice that would be suitable for farming. As a result, now most of the wild rice sold in stores is commercially grown wild rice. The Anishinaabeg generally refer to this type of rice as “paddy” rice because it is grown in diked fields that are flooded to grow the rice and the entire production process is mechanized. To successfully grow paddy rice, chemical inputs are regularly used. Paddy rice can easily be distinguished from real wild rice. The grains of paddy rice are uniform in length and the color is black. The grains of real wild rice will vary in length and color. There is also a distinct difference in the way they smell. In my experience, paddy rice has a chemical odor. Real wild rice, however, smells of the lakes and woods from which it originates. It has a deep, earthy smell.

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As it turns out, over the years, the center of paddy rice production has shifted from the Midwest to California, and the vast majority of wild rice is now grown in that state. So now, paddy rice dominates the market for wild rice. Researchers are still highly motivated to improve its commercial growing potential. Two particular instances stand out. In 1999, researchers at NorCal Wild Rice Company in California were granted separate patents on two strains of wild rice (Bouayad, 2020, p. 33; LaDuke, 2005/2016, p. 177; Raster & Hill, 2017, p. 7; Streiffer, 2005, p. 38). In 2000, researchers at the University of Minnesota announced they had sequenced the genome of wild rice, potentially opening the door for the creation of genetically modified wild rice (Bouayad, 2020, p. 33; Kokotovich, 2014, p. 106; LaDuke, 2005/2016, p. 175). The potential genetic modification and patenting of strains of wild rice were a matter of grave concern for the Anishinaabeg for two principle reasons. First, genetically modified versions of wild rice can contaminate wild rice stands. This can happen through a process of pollen drift. As Cregan (2004) has demonstrated, pollen from wild rice can spread up to two miles. Second, the potential negative health implications of genetically modified foods remain uncertain, as researchers in the field themselves acknowledge (Walker & Doerfler, 2009, pp. 524–526). With those and other concerns in mind, the Anishinaabeg mobilized to prevent the introduction of genetically modified wild rice in the state of Minnesota. The Minnesota Chippewa Tribe, Honor the Earth, other Anishinaabe organizations, and allied groups lobbied vigorously to get legislation passed to protect wild rice from genetic modification. Their efforts came to fruition when the Minnesota legislature passed and the governor signed legislation to that effect in 2007 (Walker, 2008; Walker & Doerfler, 2009). Other threats to wild rice remain on the horizon, though, including water pollution as a result of leaks and spills from oil pipelines. There are a number of oil pipelines that already cross northern Minnesota. These pipelines worry the Anishinaabe people because, on the one hand, the pipelines pass through some areas with wild rice stands, and, on the other, the pipelines have a history of leaking. One such pipeline is the Line 3 pipeline owned by the Canadian-based energy company, Enbridge. In fact, as Bouayard reports, Line 3 experienced “the largest-ever inland oil spill in the USA, on 3 March 1991, when 1.7 million gallons of oil ruptured from the pipeline in Grand Rapids, Minnesota” (Bouayad, 2020, p. 35). In 2014, Enbridge announced plans to replace Line 3 (Bouayad, 2020, p. 35). In reaction to the news, the Anishinaabeg of northern Minnesota again mobilized to protect their resources, most especially wild rice (Bouayad, 2020, pp. 35–38; Cragoe, 2017, pp. 190–203). Their efforts suffered a serious setback when the Minnesota Public Utilities Commission granted a permit for construction in January 2017 (Bouayad, 2020, p. 38). However, there are several avenues of approach still open to the Anishinaabeg, including court actions and appeals to the Minnesota Pollution Control Authority (Bouayad, 2020, p. 38). So, the Anishinaabeg are still working to stop the construction of the replacement for Line 3.

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Be that as it may, the intense and focused efforts by corporations to exploit wild rice through patenting and genetic modification and the threats of water pollution because of oil pipeline spills represent clear and present dangers to natural stands of wild rice. As such, these two issues figured prominently in the White Earth Reservation Business Committee resolutions to recognize the inherent rights of wild rice and to declare their legal rights to protect it. So, in looking at the most recent history of the Anishinaabeg, treating wild rice as intellectual property through patents and genetic modification or as potential collateral damage from oil transportation figure among their largest, most immediate concerns.

Protect Wild Rice to Protect the People So in the end, the importance of wild rice to the culture of the Anishinaabeg people and the threats it faces gave a strong impetus for the Reservation Business Committee to put into their own legislative language measures to protect wild rice. Going forward, it remains to be seen how effective the resolutions will be in helping the White Earth nation take legal action based on these resolutions. Keeping in mind that the Rights of Manoomin legislation is a legal statute for the White Earth nation, if White Earth were to take any legal actions based on the statue, it would have the force of tribal law standing behind it. Probably the most consequential aspect of the resolutions is the declaration by White Earth that they maintain and assert their property rights within the ceded territories. I am not aware of any plans that White Earth intends to take based on the Rights of Manoomin law and its associated resolutions. However, it will be worthwhile for interested parties to stay alert to any legal action the White Earth tribal government may take based on the law and resolutions in question. So, the White Earth Reservation Business Committee passing the Rights of Manoomin law and associated resolutions is just the beginning of the story. We have yet to see how the law and resolutions will play out in the future. But, no matter the outcome, it is certain the Anishinaabeg will continue to defend the natural environment, including wild rice.

References Bouayad, A. (2020). Wild rice protectors: An Ojibwe odyssey. Environmental Law Review, 22(1), 25–42. doi:10.1177/1461452920912909 Cragoe, N. G. (2017). Mii o gwayak inaajimotaagooyaan [this is how it was told to me]: Narrative identity and community-building in northern Minnesota. PhD dissertation, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Cregan, J. L. (2004). Aspects of seed storage, pollen travel and population dynamics of wild rice (Zizania palustris). Master’s thesis, University of Minnesota. Kappler, C. J. (Ed.). (1929). Indian affairs: Laws and treaties (Vol. 2). Government Printing Office. Retrieved from https://dc.library.okstate.edu/digital/collection/ kapplers/

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Kojola, E. (2018). Extracting identities and value from nature: Power, culture, and knowledge in the contested politics of mining. PhD dissertation, University of Minnesota. Kokotovich, A. E. (2014). Contesting risk: Science, governance and the future of plant genetic engineering. PhD dissertation, University of Minnesota. LaDuke, W. (2016). Recovering the sacred: The power of naming and claiming. Strike; Chicago, IL: Haymarket Books. (Original work published 2005). LaDuke, W. (2019, February 1). The White Earth Band of Ojibwe legally recognized the rights of wild rice. Yes! Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.yesmagazine. org/environment/2019/02/01/the-white-earth-band-of-ojibwe-legally-recognizedthe-rights-of-wild-rice-heres-why Manoomin. (n.d.). The Ojibwe people’s dictionary. Retrieved from https://ojibwe.lib. umn.edu/main-entry/manoomin-ni. Accessed on June 23, 2020. Manoomin Search Results. (n.d.). The Ojibwe people’s dictionary. Retrieved from https://ojibwe.lib.umn.edu/search?utf85%E2%9C% 93&q5manoomin&commit5Search&type5ojibwe. Accessed on June 23, 2020. Raster, A., & Hill, C. G. (2017). The dispute over wild rice: An investigation of treaty agreements and Ojibwe food sovereignty. Agriculture and Human Values, 34(2), 267–281. doi:10.1007/s10460-016-9703-6 Streiffer, R. (2005). An ethical analysis of Ojibway objections to genomics and genetics research on wild rice. Philosophy in the Contemporary World, 12(2), 37–46. doi:10.5840/pcw200512221 Usufruct. (n.d.). The Free Dictionary. Retrieved from https://legal-dictionary. thefreedictionary.com/Usufructuary1Rights. Accessed on June 22, 2020. Walker, R. (2008). Wild rice: The dynamics of its population cycles and the debate over its control at the Minnesota legislature. PhD dissertation, University of Minnesota. Walker, R., & Doerfler, J. (2009). Wild rice: The Minnesota legislature, a distinctive crop, GMOS, and Ojibwe perspectives. Hamline Law Review, 32(2), 499–527. White Earth Reservation Business Committee. (2019). 001 Administration resolutions (001-034). Retrieved from https://whiteearth.com/assets/files/admin/resolutions/ Administration%20001%20FY19%20Resolutions.pdf

Theme 5 Tribal and Clan Views on Health and Well-being

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Chapter 11

Therapeutic Landscapes and Indigenous Culture: Māori Health Models in Aotearoa/ New Zealand Jacqueline McIntosh, Bruno Marques and Rosemary Mwipiko

Abstract Research has shown that Indigenous people suffer significant health inequalities in comparison to dominant colonising cultures. Evidence shows that these inequalities can be addressed by gaining a deeper understanding of the social and cultural determinants of health, applying Indigenous views of health and developing better definitions of the term wellbeing. The following chapter draws on research exploring the relationship between Indigenous culture, the landscape and the connection with health and wellbeing. In Aotearoa/New Zealand, consideration of Indigenous Māori is a national imperative, enshrined in the Te Tiriti o Waitangi (Treaty of Waitangi) which establishes it as a bicultural country. Exploring three Māori health models, the chapter examines the factors that play a significant role in shaping Māori people’s health. It relates how landscape is a foundational therapeutic aspect of Māori wellbeing using the models to express the forces that impact both positively and negatively on this relationship. The chapter concludes that all three concepts, culture, health and landscape, are interconnected and must be balanced to reduce Māori health inequalities and to provide a more sustainable model for health and wellbeing for all New Zealanders. Keywords: Therapeutic landscapes; health models; Māori; health and wellbeing; indigenous culture; holistic health; health geographies

Introduction The intersection of culture, place and health is an area of significant inquiry and can be usefully studied by applying therapeutic landscape theory. Therapeutic landscapes are settings that comprise of the physical, psychological and social Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 143–158 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211016

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environments associated with treatment and healing (Wendt & Gone, 2012). Since their introduction nearly 20 years ago, therapeutic landscapes have been predominantly concerned with three areas: physical spaces associated with health; health care delivery locations; and sites that are specific to marginalised populations (Williams, 2009). This is of particular interest in bicultural Aotearoa/New Zealand where colonised Māori carry the greatest burden of health inequalities. Statistics show that Māori life expectancy is approximately eight years earlier than non-Māori (Ministry of Health, 2015; Robson & Harris, 2007). In addition to greater health problems, Māori suffer significant social disadvantages, with evidence indicating that even after accounting for factors such as poverty, education and location, disparities between Māori and non-Māori still exist (Marriott & Sim, 2015). The literature also suggests that inequalities between Māori and non-Māori can be understood by focusing on factors such as social and cultural health determinants, colonisation, intergenerational trauma and holistic notions of wellbeing (Kingsley, Townsend, Henderson-Wilson, & Bolam, 2013). With a holistic worldview and a critical connection to landscape, the consideration of Māori culture and its impacts on health must be taken into account in any healthcare model. To bridge the gap in understanding of the Māori view of wellbeing, holistic notions of wellbeing are explored using three Māori health models, which bring a number of different disciplines together to offer an understanding on the significance of contact with the natural world. The models are not about measurement, but they are attempts to move beyond Western models to provide a holistic understanding of Māori views on the connection to nature and to consider the implications of this for wellbeing. While research exploring the individual and collective impact of holistic notions of wellbeing is growing internationally, little is known about the influence of these factors on Māori health and practices (Wirihana & Smith, 2014), and only a few studies have explored the beliefs systems of Māori and how they shape health (McIntosh, Marques, & Hatton, 2018; Panelli & Tipa, 2007). Following a brief review of the historical context, an examination of the cultural implications of terminology such as health and wellbeing is explored to understand the intricacies of Māori health. The chapter finds that the interconnections between health and wellbeing with the landscape and the subsequent shaping of Māori identity are under-represented in current healthcare models.

Historical Context The following is not a comprehensive portrait of New Zealand’s history but rather a brief discussion of traditional or pre-European views of Māori followed by an outline of a few major historical events associated with Māori identity. Māori are the Indigenous people (tangata whenua) of Aotearoa/New Zealand and have resided in the country for approximately 1,000 years. As of the last census on major ethnical groups in New Zealand in 2013, they represented around 15% of

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the population (Zealand, 2013). To understand how the environment helps to shape identity and health, it is crucial to gain an understanding of pre-European Māori social and economic organisation. According to Lo and Houkamau (2012), Māori organised themselves into small communities based on three main social groupings: whānau (family units), hapū (sub-tribes) and iwi (tribes). Family units were central to Māori society and generally comprised three generations of family members of common descent, living together (Walker, 1990). Multiple groups of whānau living together in one area became hapū and multiple hapū merged to form iwi. Each iwi occupied a specific geographical area in New Zealand, called rohe (Lo & Houkamau, 2012). Difficult living conditions at the time resulted in family units being co-dependent on one another, as multiple families were required to plant, harvest and gather food (Selby, 1999). As a consequence of this communal social and economic structure, Māori identified themselves in relation to their position within their whānau, hapū and iwi, and their position in the landscape. Presently, when Māori are in gatherings or other culturally driven contexts, they introduce themselves by naming their iwi and hapū as well as key landforms, such as mountains, rivers or lakes, important to situate their geographic location in the country (Houkamau, 2006). Similar to other Indigenous peoples, when Māori were colonised, they lost a significant amount of the land which helped to sustain their traditional lifestyles (Marques, Grabasch, & McIntosh, 2018b). This loss resulted in many Māori becoming geographically disconnected from their extended family networks and traditional practices (Kokiri, 2000). The challenges of adjusting to new cultural contexts had a significant impact on how they identified themselves and created an underlying sense of dislocation. Over time and other factors, such as economic pressures, access to materials and resources, meant that for Māori to progress economically, they had to move to commercial centres and adjust to Western culture (Marques, McIntosh, Hatton, & Shanahan, 2019b). This shift has not been without consequences, and it is widely acknowledged that Māori health inequalities have been one outcome of the accumulated effects of colonisation.

Understanding Health and Wellbeing Wellbeing is a complex concept, often used in conjunction with terms such as health and quality of life (Kahn & Juster, 2002). In order to have a deep understanding of the concept of wellbeing, all lived lifespans and their influences on individuals and communities must be considered (Stewart, 2004). McNaught (2011) expands individual subjectivity to accommodate wellbeing as deeply linked with family, community and society as well as with environmental, socioeconomic and political forces. Overall, this means that wellbeing comprises a wide range of dimensions, including physical, psychological, social, mental and spiritual health. In terms of Māori wellbeing, a large majority of wellbeing indicators produced in Aotearoa/New Zealand indicate negative trends in Māori communities. According to the 2017/18 NZ health survey, Māori adults were about 1.5 times as

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likely as non-Māori adults to report a high or very high probability of having an anxiety or depressive disorder (Ministry of Health, 2019). While these universal indicators can be applied to Māori communities, there are unique characteristics of Māori that require specific measurement; in particular, measures that are in harmony with Māori realities and worldviews. For example, a Māori-specific measure of adequate housing might take into account the level of provision for extended families and visitors, or a measure of educational attainment might include information about the use and knowledge of the Māori language (Durie, 2006). Clearly, there is a significant gap in knowledge with regard to Māori health. Māori continue to experience the worst health outcomes of any population group in Aotearoa/New Zealand (Waitangi Tribunal, 2019). A cultural appropriate health service is deemed essential for the delivery of effective health services for Māori, and a deeper understanding of the foundations of wellbeing and Māori worldviews can help to reduce rates of ill-health within the Māori community. While currently 88% of Māori live in urban centres away from their cultural connections, over the last three decades there has been a Māori Renaissance grounded on the revival of language and land claims based in Te Tiriti O Waitangi (Treaty of Waitangi) and supported by the Tribunal of Waitangi. This has meant a shift from a homogenous society to one that embraces a culturally diverse population (Thorns, Fairbairn-Dunlop, & Du Plessis, 2010), and for Māori it has meant embracing their unique identity by acknowledging their lineage and learning about Māori history, culture and language. Focusing on Māori definitions of health and examining the role of landscape in shaping health outcomes is a useful starting point. First, Māori conceptions of health can be better understood through a discussion of three Māori health models. Second, the significance of the land as the basis of Māori identity must be considered. Finally, connecting the health models with the landscape emphasises the importance of the interconnectedness of Māori health perspectives.

Examining the Interconnections of Health and Place To fully understand the link between land and health, it is useful to explore Māori conceptions of health and wellbeing. The three Māori health models, Te Whare Tapa Whā (the four cornerstones), Te Pae Māhutonga (Southern Cross constellation) and Te Wheke (the octopus), examine the factors that play a role in shaping Māori people’s health. Exploring the foundational knowledge from the past is beneficial to understanding the ways that these models are used to deliver healthcare in the current environment and some of the successes from adopting these health values. Each of the models below not only emphasises the importance of the interconnectedness of Māori health perspectives; the associations between the physical, the spiritual, the environmental, the individual and the family, but they also present a way which can inform the construction of therapeutic landscapes that reflect culture and identity.

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Te Whare Tapa Whā: The Four Cornerstones The first model, Te Whare Tapa Whā, conveys the importance of balance and encompasses four main elements using the analogy of a house with four walls (Durie, 2004) (Fig. 11.1). Its first element, taha tinana (physical body), refers to the body and is the physical expression of health and wellbeing. The second element, taha wairua (spiritual realm), reflects the spiritual aspects of wellbeing. The third element, taha whānau (family and community), highlights the need and significance of the family and community to one’s health and wellbeing; and the last element, taha hinengaro (mental health), describes the importance of the mind. All four elements are interwoven and interact to support a strong and healthy person. Rochford (2004) suggests if one of these key elements is missing or damaged, then the resulting imbalance may lead to negative health outcomes. To achieve balance and good health, individuals must live in harmony with others, their communities and the spiritual realm.

Te Pae Māhutonga: The Southern Cross Constellation The second model, Te Pae Māhutonga, is named after the Southern Cross (constellation of stars) and identifies the magnetic South Pole. Developed in

Fig. 11.1. Te Whare Tapa Whā, or the Four Cornerstones, Depicts How the Four Pillars of Health and Wellbeing Come Together. Source: Author’s own

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Fig. 11.2. The Southern Cross Constellation, Known as Te Pae Māhutonga, Brings Together Six Overarching Themes for Health and Wellbeing Promotion. Source: Author’s own response to modern Māori cultural deprivation, Durie (2004) advocates greater accessibility through the use of a variety of Māori cultural experiences such as participation in the marae (communal meeting house), waka (ancestral canoe) paddling and other social contexts. These serve to connect to the past through positive models of autonomy and leadership. The model is made up of four central stars arranged in the form of a cross, and there are two stars arranged in a straight line which point towards the cross. These are known as the two pointers (McNeill, 2009). Te Pae Māhutonga (Fig. 11.2) is used as a guide and a symbolic map for bringing together the significant components of health promotion, as they apply to Māori health. The six stars represent specific goals of health promotion: mauriora (cultural identity), waiora (physical environment), toiora (healthy lifestyle), te oranga (participation in society) and the two pointers ngā manukura and te mana whakahaere (leadership and autonomy) (Durie, 2004).

Te Wheke: The Octopus Te Wheke, also known as the octopus, is another model used by Māori to represent the health of family/whānau, iwi or hapū. Introduced by Pere following a hui (tribal meeting) (Durie, 1995), the head of the octopus represents te whanau (family), the eyes of the octopus as waiora (overall wellbeing for the individual and family) and each of the eight tentacles represents a specific component of health (Love, 2004). These components are: wairuatanga (spirituality), hinengaro (the mind), taha tinana (physical wellbeing), whanaungatanga (extended family), mauri (life force in people and objects), mana ake (unique identity of individuals and family), hā a koro ma, a kui ma (breath of life from forbearers) and whatumanawa (the open and healthy expression of emotion) (Love, 2004). Each of these components is interwoven and is a representation of the close relationships

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Fig. 11.3. Te Wheke or the Octopus, Brings Together Family with Wellbeing through a Comprehensive List of Elements That Are Intertwined. Source: Author’s own that exist between each health dimension. The model also illustrates that healthy individual selfhood is intertwined with and indivisible from the health of the family/whānau; and that the health of the family/whānau is inseparable from that of the hapū, and the health and wellbeing of the hapū is indivisible from that of the iwi. In this way, the model is applicable to both individuals and to groups (Pere, 2006) (Fig. 11.3). The main finding from the models presented above is that balance between all elements of an individual’s social, physical and spiritual life is critical for maintaining and supporting good health. If one element is neglected or receives too much attention then health suffers in all areas (Wilson, 2003). Each of the models provides a unique perspective; the Te Whare Tapa Whā model is simple and easily understood by all tribes and easily adaptable for a variety of communications. However, its simplicity is also the chief criticism of the model. It does not define the uniqueness of Māori as a cultural entity nor does it incorporate the sociocultural outcomes of the colonial experience (McNeill, 2009). Conversely, the Te Pae Māhutonga incorporates these outcomes ‘through accessibility to a range of different Māori cultural experiences’ (McNeill, 2009, p. 100) and highlights the importance of Māori leadership (Ngā Manukura) and autonomy (Te Mana Whakahaere). The limitations of this model are the potential for divisiveness and its failure to address the complexities of Māori spirituality. The Te Wheke model articulates the uniqueness of traditional Māori philosophical beliefs and values; however, it does not take into consideration Māori cultural deprivation. Furthermore, its complexity has proven difficult in practical application (McNeill, 2009). One aspect that is missing from these models is the connection with the land and how for Māori, the land supports all elements of life. Responding to this imperative, the New Zealand government created Whānau ora (healthy families)– a complex concept that emerged from traditional Māori

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ways of viewing wellbeing. The creation of this organisation responded to the recognition that standard ways of delivering social and health services were not working and that outcomes for Māori health were not improving. Whānau ora introduces a delicate balance between the overall wellbeing of whānau (extended family members) and their connection to each other; their wider communities; their ancestors and the land; and, the physical, emotional, spiritual and social health of the individual with health and illness issues (Kara et al., 2011).

How the Land Shapes Māori Identity A significant aspect of health relates to the meaning of the land and its importance to Māori identity. Historically, Māori have always had a strong relationship with land (Papatūānuku, mother Earth) as it shapes the way in which they express their cultural, spiritual, emotional, physical and social wellbeing. By utilising what the land provides, individuals are able to attain the balance necessary to maintain a good level of health. In the Māori worldview, the land is seen as a powerful female entity who is a provider of all the physical and spiritual necessities required to sustain life (Panelli & Tipa, 2007). Traditional Māori believe that people are born from the Earth and that this establishes the foundation for the relationship between the individual, whānau and nature. Many Māori follow beliefs regarding their whakapapa (genealogical relationship) and interactions with plants, animals, people, the land and other aspects of the natural environment (Panelli & Tipa, 2007). For instance, Ngāi Tahu (largest iwi located in the South Island of New Zealand) believes that the importance of whakapapa is demonstrated in their relationship with ‘their territorial lands, their reverence for tūpuna (ancestors), their determination to exercise rangatiratanga (chiefly authority) and kaitiakitanga (the exercise of customary custodianship)’ (Panelli & Tipa, 2007, p. 450). Whakapapa is a significant source of identity for Māori as they believe that identity is not established by what a person does or by where they live, but that identity is linked by mauri (life force) to the mountains, waters and ancestral lands (Fig. 11.4). This reverence for natural environments and its influence in shaping Māori identity is captured in the phrase tangata whenua (literally people of the land). Returning to the three approaches to Māori health and wellbeing described above, the relation between land and people illustrates how wellbeing is derived from the same place that also forms the ancestral roots of the culture. This suggests that the land is more than just a space in which people carry out daily activities. Instead forests, waterways and wetlands are therapeutic landscapes that Māori view as mediums for physical, emotional, mental and spiritual health and wellbeing. Māori view therapeutic landscapes through a ‘whole of landscape’ approach known as ‘ki uta ki tai’ (to the mountains to the sea). This concept stresses the importance of recognising and managing the interconnectedness of the whole environment and the need to celebrate culture and identity. Taking the intertwined relationship of human and environment into account, the idea of a therapeutic landscape is thereby broadened to encompass issues of history, culture, memory and identity (Hepburn, Jackson, Vanderburg, Kainamu, & Flack, 2010).

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Core Māori Principles and Values. Source: Hatton (2018), p. 106

How Land Contributes to Health Māori separate the environment into four linked, yet unique areas. These are the whenua (the land), te wao nui a Tāne (the forest), nga wai ora (the water) and te rohe koreporepo (the wetlands). An understanding of the Māori view of these elements can aid in improving our understanding more specifically of how land contributes to health. Whenua: The Land The concept, whenua, has numerous meanings. These include land, country, ground, territory and placenta. According to the Māori view of the world, the natural environment has a deep meaning and must be nurtured. The traditional way of thinking states that the world is connected, and nature is the mother of all life. Ancestral connection to landscape is ultimately valued through interpretation, heritage, identity and status, providing people with a link to their past and to their future (Kawharu, 2009). In this way, the therapeutic attributes of landscape are centralised around life processes. If all things are related, and the landscape is not maintained correctly, then the health and wellbeing of all things become

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affected. The close engagement between people and environment is inseparable as there is no division between the material and non-material, the tangible and intangible (Kawharu, 2009). The combination of traditional knowledge and landscape engages people and nourishes their health and wellbeing while allowing them to develop and maintain therapeutic relationships with mana whenua (local people), whānau (family) and tangata whenua (people of the land). This also suggests that the identity of the people and the landscape are prerequisites for the good health of Māori people, linked by the ancestral knowledge of landscape through whakapapa (genealogy). Te Wao Nui a Tāne: Forests Forests enabled Māori to experience and make sense of the world. The therapeutic qualities allowed Māori to live as part of the natural environment through whakapapa, through containment of rare significant taonga (treasures) and through repositories of culture. Traditionally, forests were highly valued and were sought out places for spiritual domains, sources of food, places of education and places of healing (chemist/medicine). These fostered mana/power, responsibility, spiritual relationship, rangatiratanga/chieftainship, wellbeing and survival. When Europeans established themselves in Aotearoa/New Zealand, their practices meant the eradication of the rich forest ecosystems as agriculture, mono-culture tree farming and urbanisation gained pre-eminence. Approximately 60% of native forests were destroyed immediately following colonisation, and by 1840, only 50% of the Indigenous forest survived. Today, only 23% of the original native forests remain (Ridley, Bain, Bulman, Dick, & Kay, 2000). With introduced human activities and exotic species, those remaining Indigenous forests have been forced into steep, less productive and mountainous terrain unsuited for economic gain (Harmsworth, 1997). Overtime, the connection of people to the forest has waned, and the oral traditions have faded until only a small portion of forest knowledge remains (Marques, McIntosh, & Kershaw, 2019a). In traditional understanding, forests were sources of mauri (life force), mana (power) and wairua (spirit). They were also sources of food through the customary harvesting of native birds, fish and plants, and sources of materials for construction of buildings and carving (whakairo). Ancestral beliefs maintained that the earthly and heavenly gods would provide and protect the natural environment. In these ways, therapeutic landscapes have always been considered by Māori as a means of lineage connecting all sources of life, reliant on the health and wellbeing of living things. Nga Wai Ora: Waterways Waterways provide an abundance of life with food and purification both contributing to the wellbeing of people. In oral traditions, water was seen by some groups as the source and foundation of life, rather than the land. For Māori, this is reflected through wairua which refers to the spiritual plane or may refer to the fundamental dimensions of all life in the form of water. The elements are air, earth, fire and water. Fire represents the underworld, air the heavenly skies or the afterlife, and water and earth the physical world. Water and earth form an

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inseparable bond vital to sustain and balance the natural environment. Traditionally, water has been classified in a number of ways: waikino, dangerous waters; waitapu, sacred waters; waimāori, pure water; waitai, seawater; waimanawa-whenua, water from beneath the land (springs); waikarakia, water for ritual purposes and waiwhakaika or waikotikoti, water to assist cutting of the hair (Williams, 2006). Māori lived and thrived near water as it sustained life. Some Māori, for example, those in geothermal areas around the central North Island, used the heated water; and hot-springs or geysers became places to bathe, cook and heal. The environment offered hapū (sub-tribes) and iwi (tribes) a close and distinctive knowledge of their surroundings. Water meets therapeutic needs in providing cleansing, purification and sustaining life. Sadly, the growth of urban settlement has led to negative effects on natural waterways. Many Indigenous waterways are culverted, piped or redirected, destabilising natural water catchments and flows. The scarcity of water and the pollution of these systems are becoming more evident specifically with the depletion of lakes, springs, rivers, streams and oceans. For Māori, each body of water was considered to have its own life force. If water bodies contacted one another, both were at risk of having their ecosystem equilibrium disturbed (Durie, 1998). The mixing of water or the division of water bodies decreased the mauri (life force) in many places. These holistic views meant that for Māori, a water environment needing restoration or rehabilitation required its mauri or life force to be enhanced (Harmsworth, 1999). There is a discussion today on water treatment with the preference for impure water (mixed, polluted, land effluent or sewage) to be treated on land first rather than direct distribution into natural water ecosystems. By tackling these problems at the source, the betterment of people’s wellbeing and health will enable both land and people to be sustained and the integrity of the mauri in each water body maintained (Durie, 1998). Te Rohe Koreporepo: Wetlands Wetlands derive from spiritual beings like all natural environments. The wetland systems play a key role in maintaining the integrity of the mauri (life force) of water bodies. They are highly valued by Māori and regarded as a taonga (treasure) as they were sources of food, traditional knowledge and materials. For over 800 years, human interaction with the wetlands created an active relationship with historical and cultural importance and values. In areas of urban intensification, wetlands were drained in the creation of the urban infrastructure. Many natural wetland systems lie beneath ever-growing cities, but their important role on the natural landscape is forgotten. Wetlands were a source of therapeutic health and wellbeing and enabled the collaboration of people and place. Wetlands are also often the interface between terrestrial ecosystems and freshwater ecosystems, therefore having a valuable role as part of the whole catchment, and enhancing stream and river health, and improving the mauri of waterways. By enhancing these water ecosystems, we can help to re-establish their traditional therapeutic values, creating a deeper connection to the landscapes so crucial to the environment.

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Like many Indigenous cultures, Māori therapy seeks resources from the landscape in rongoā (herbal remedies), mirimiri (therapeutic massage) and honohono (spiritual massage, similar to reiki, traditional Japanese massage). These concepts are referred to as talking therapies, and they encompass the spiritual and psychological dimensions of health (Hopkirk & Wilson, 2014). The core concepts of rongoā embrace spiritual healing and the use of traditional practices to support the four pillars of Māori health values. Mirimiri intends to link body, mind and soul with the environment, and rongoā is often involved as a way to connect to the elements. Like other holistic cultures, Māori believe in many spiritual alignments. Honohono represents the healing of a person’s inner spiritual connection to themselves and the universe. It reflects on the change of a person’s persona and environment, clearing and assisting in the transition of a person’s mind, body and soul with their placement in the world (notion of place) (Marques, McIntosh, & Hatton, 2018a; Te Pou, 2010). The relationship between land and health is far more complex than what has been presented above, and there are many other issues that need to be considered but lie outside of the scope of this chapter. For example, men and women have different roles and therefore connect in different ways to the landscape (Wilson, 2003). Further research is needed to gain greater insights into the ways that gender shapes the relationship between health and place as well as the other issues relating to the material and symbolic aspects of place as positive agents for health.

Discussion The rapid progression and development of social and cultural change today lacks an ideology around people and place. Reintroducing holistic models of health and wellbeing and revising current practices through a stronger (re) connection to the land is an achievable goal which can offer a framework for the future. In this chapter, we examined three Māori health models: Te Whare Tapa Whā, Te Wheke and Te Pae Māhutonga; which illustrate the challenges of finding a useful single model. These holistic constructs express the inner emotions of Indigenous culture but also offer potential for layering to provide the desired levels of specificity to suit unique tribal perspectives. They also all proffer ways which can inform the makeup of the therapeutic landscapes that underpin Māori identity. Containment of identity is obtained through acknowledging the spiritual and tangible dimensions of life. But possessing strong cultural identity goes beyond knowing one’s ancestral heritage; it takes into account the ecological, economic and social contexts that underpin the positive health of people. We maintain that holistic Māori views where ‘using nature’ and ‘nurturing nature’ are central to both wellness and therapeutic landscapes and should be seen as a part of modern ways of living. Too often, a dominant culture suppresses alternative ways of knowing and healing, and dominant forms of inhabitation similarly suppress other ways of living.

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Western cultures could learn much from the deep ideological connection between landscape and health and by adopting the principles and knowledge of Indigenous peoples. The application of the land connection with current health and wellbeing frameworks can thereby be regarded as essential in servicing Māori and Non-Māori health and wellbeing, having an adaptive integrity that is as valid for current generations as it was in the past. Incorporating Indigenous beliefs of stewardship and kinship with the land can also facilitate a restorative and therapeutic landscape and can offer new opportunities for living with nature in urban and rural contexts.

Conclusion The aim of this chapter was to explore the role of therapeutic landscapes in shaping health, identity and wellbeing. The findings were presented in three stages by; firstly exploring Māori conceptions of health through a discussion of the three Māori health models; then by demonstrating the significance of the land as the basis of Māori identity; and finally, by examining the ways in which the land contributes to health. The research emphasises how the health of Māori might be improved by including conceptions of health and place that acknowledge the land as more than just physical or symbolic spaces for healing. The framing of cultural responsiveness in therapeutic landscapes is usually written about in opposition to Western ideas in relation to the concepts of therapy, wellness and healing. One could speculate that this is due to the impact of colonisation and the spread of Western culture through globalisation. In colonised countries, most health treatments and the …evidence-base for them have been developed within a Western colonial context, meaning that the implicit values, assumptions and methods often subjugate the epistemological frameworks and healing traditions of Indigenous people. (Smith, 1999, p. 487) As such, the interpretation of a therapeutic landscape is only evident in sensory gardens, healing gardens and community food gardens. This chapter maintains that trying to apply Western ideas of health and healing in an Indigenous context is inappropriate for a number of reasons including a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of landscape in Indigenous healing contexts. For Māori, the ideals inherent in these therapeutic landscapes are not separate entities, but part of a wider holistic system that caters for people’s senses, emotions, values and enables links to the landscape. To move forward, research conducted within the framework of therapeutic landscapes must make room for the exploration of the links between health and place as manifested in the daily lives, cultures and geographies of all individuals. Through understanding Māori cultural and therapeutic landscapes, key concepts can be integrated into and produce meaningful and reflective environments. All three concepts; culture, health and landscape are interconnected and must be balanced to reduce Māori health inequalities and benefit the lands and all people of Aotearoa/New Zealand.

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Chapter 12

Fire, Stories and Health Deborah Wardle, Faye McMillan and Mark McMillan

Abstract Traditional fire practices are explored so as to understand transformative relationships to Country and as an analogy for developments in Indigenous Health. Stories of fire encompass the resistance of Indigenous Australians to colonial dispossession. Stories of fire engage Indigenous communities with law and culture and from this with health. Transformative knowledges can be built upon re-kindling Indigenous land and law practices through fire practices. Building relationships with fire and burning practices corresponds with the developing sustainable health and cultural practices across Indigenous communities. Keywords: Indigenous health; cultural burn; indigenous health; research methodology; indigenous fire practices; sustainable health

Introduction This chapter explores the potency of fire as an integral part of sustainable connection to Country and Cultural practice, and as an analogy for transformations of Indigenous health. Fire transforms landscapes and communities and contributes to what it means to be connected to Country (Pascoe, 2014; Steffensen, 2019). Systematic Cultural burns across the Australian continent links Aboriginal people to sustainability of Cultural practices and to healthy environments (Gammage, 2012; Steffensen, 2019, 2020). Cultural burn means small-scale, or cool, burns at the right time and in the right place for the regeneration of vegetation and health of ecosystems (Allam, 2020). We write of Australian Dreamtime’s fiery origins from different perspectives. I, Mark, write as a Wiradjuri gibir (man) lawyer and academic. I, Faye, write as a Wiradjuri yinaa (woman) academic and health practitioner. I, Deborah, write as a white settler, academic and researcher. We acknowledge the inevitability and endless nature of change in cultural, legal and social forces of Indigenous and non-Indigenous nations. We write with a commitment to a methodology that

Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 159–168 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211017

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honours Indigenous sovereignty and to a relationship of respect. We write with a respect for the potency of fire to destroy and to enable new beginnings. Cultural practices of Indigenous peoples across the globe and across long epochs of human development have always been in a state of change. Knowledge systems worldwide transform and develop over time (IUCN, 1997). We start our thinking with a notion that knowledge systems, both Indigenous and nonIndigenous knowledges, are not fixed nor ever perfect, but naturally evolve in relation to contextual pressures and forces. Cultural fire practices are explored as both an analogy for change and as a means of thinking about Indigenous connection to Country and to Indigenous health (Steffensen, 2020, p. 172). In similar ways that landscapes are transformed and maintained by planned cycles of burning practices, so the Nation building project of Aboriginal Australians is also a transformative project towards self-determination. Our writing towards this chapter follows the principles of ‘decolonising research’, including stories that are based upon:

• • • •

Respect Responsibility Reverence and Reciprocity (Archibald & Parent, 2019)

Knowledges of Indigenous cultural practices are partially derived from archaeology and anthropological research. The history of Indigenous archaeology in Australia has not always been respectful, nor undertaken and reported in ways that respect Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination (Griffiths, 2018). Much of the early colonial excavation of Indigenous knowledges by white researchers took an extractive approach to finding information about Indigenous people, often paradoxically focused on how long First Nations peoples have occupied the Australian continent. Protracted deployment of the myth of terra nullius as a rationale for colonial occupation, theft of land and extinction of Cultural practices was overturned following the High Court ruling on Mabo vs Queensland 1992. The ensuing Native Title Act (1992) partially recognises Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander rights to occupy Country (Moreton-Robinson, 2007, p. 3; Anker, 2014, pp. 1–2). This legislation also meant that Australian common law admitted the existence of Indigenous customary laws. Efforts by Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars to deepen understanding of diverse cultural and legal practices across the vastly different environments and Nations of the Australian continent have only recently started to reveal to wider settler and global audiences the complexity of Indigenous Nations and Clans, and the extent and intricacies of land management practices (Griffiths, 2018). The dynamic and ever-changing nature of Australian Indigenous culture cannot be ‘captured’ by western anthropologists, nor western lawmakers who have struggled to shuck the epistemological views associated with notions of cultural superiority and white privilege (Griffiths, 2018; Moreton-Robinson, 2007).

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This chapter explores how fire stories are connected to Country, to the health of communities, to knowledge of community’s places. Storytelling makes connections to places as acts of resistance to colonial practices (Behrendt, 2019). It is through our shared stories that connections to place and identity and to healthy sovereign relationships are forged. Wiinybarra is the Wiradjuri word for fire making. We write about the role of fire making with respect for fire’s potency and an aspiration towards its capacity to build health and its contribution towards Nation building.

Story and Resistance Stories are part of an essential and ongoing resistance of Indigenous nations to colonisation (Behrendt, 2019; De Santolo, 2019). Storytelling is part of the decolonising movement and a way to ensure sustainability of cultural knowledges and practices. Stories are encounters of ‘deep-meaning making’; they are expansive creative collaborations across communities, across Country (De Santolo, 2019, p. 171). Stories carry Law, as ‘Law Stories’ and they also call for social justice (Behrendt, 2019, p. 175). Storytelling is part of extensive Indigenous knowledges and is ‘an act of sovereignty that reinforces Indigenous identity, values and worldview’ (Behrendt, 2019, p. 175). Indigenous nations have in many similar ways used story to resist ongoing colonial efforts to extinguish populations and disconnect Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders from their Countries and Waters. There is no scope in this chapter to fully discuss the impacts of Australia’s history of assimilation policies. We focus instead upon the resistances and survival of Indigenous Cultural practices, even where they have been fragmented and even lost through the effects of genocide and assimilation. Cultural practices occur through storytelling, and these practices ‘are as old as societies themselves’ (McMillan, 2014, p. 112). Such practices create a meeting place between law and stories. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander storytelling takes Indigenous voices and puts them at the centre of research as foundational work towards self-determination (Behrendt, 2019, p. 183). At the same time, storytelling as a basis of Aboriginal law is a keystone to sovereignty, and as we illustrate later in this chapter, becomes a basis to health (Behrendt, 2019, pp. 183–184). Through learning and practicing burning patterns and systems, people learn specific stories attached to maintaining healthy Country. People particularly learn the fire stories that are steeped in the spiritual connection of people to Country (Pascoe, 2014, p. 180). Practicing consistent and regular Indigenous burning practices is part of the resistance to colonial appropriation of land and language, which have attempted to ignore and subsume Indigenous cultural practices. Stories are conveyed over time, over different places in a range of different ways. Consolidation of contemporary Indigenous cultures occurs through meetings of clans and nations, family gatherings, and public expressions of story through painting, song writing, poetry, literature, radio and television, such as NITV. When Indigenous nations work with fire on Country they work together to

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‘speak lawfully through their rights and sovereignties to Country’ (Muller, Hemming, & Rigney, 2019, p. 1). Collaborations are foundational to story lines – collaborations have the dual effect of establishing relationships that ‘reimagine collective will’ and of creating breaks in imperialist boundaries (De Santolo, 2019, p. 171). We see this work as part of lawful responsibility for caring for Country, part of the expressions of lawful sovereignty and part of the storytelling that maintains the health of Aboriginal Australians. Colonial land management practices have been built upon an ontology that sees land and waters as resources to be owned and exploited. Through the cultural construct of Western science that disconnects humans from the ‘objects’ of the ‘natural’ world they are studying, Indigenous connections to Country and Waters are disregarded. This has denied expression of Indigenous perspectives and separated Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders from processes of care for Country (Muller et al. 2019). Linking Indigenous cultural practices and storytelling about fire with a recognition of the potency of fire to bring about change is the basis upon which we build an argument for growing Indigenous health and self-determination. The crucial connection between Indigenous agencies and selfgovernance, and innovative decolonising of environmental practices such as fire management, we argue is one means of enabling generative health strategies that recognise the health of land and people.

Fire as Allegory for Transformative Knowledge The frequency of small-scale burning to manage Country is well documented through Indigenous story and through the records of early white settlers to Australia (Gammage, 2012; Pascoe, 2014). Many landscapes across the Australian continent were irremediably transformed after colonial occupation, not only by introducing hooved livestock and fouling and diverting waterways, but significantly through reduced burning practices, which had been practiced for tens of thousands of years. Gammage (2012), Pascoe (2014) and Griffiths (2018) describe how Aboriginal people had utilised fire to thin out eucalypt forests and establish patterned grasslands to enable seed collection and the hunting of kangaroo and wallaby who were attracted to the lush regrowth of grasses after fire. As has been evidenced in recent escalation of uncontrolled fires in Eastern Australia, burning also risks wildfires through large untended forests. The traditional practices of caring for Country through seasonal and regular burning were discontinued with the widespread removal of Aboriginal custodians from Country, through massacres, displacement and disease. Both Gammage (2012) and Pascoe (2014) provide the historic evidence that Aboriginal people across the continent farmed with mosaic burning, or fire-stick burning, to break up the fuel loads, and using different fire regimes to suit the seeding and regenerative patterns of different species of grasses, eucalypts (including stringybark, swamp gum, blue gum), casuarina (desert oak, she-oak, bull-oak), mulga and acacia. For example, across western Victoria protection and cultivation of vast yam daisy crops through burning, clearing and planting also ensured year-round food supply for many of

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the clans and tribes of this region (Gammage, 2012; Pascoe, 2014). Gammage (2012) collates evidence of tendered grassland landscapes across Australia by analysing original journals and period paintings by colonial artists throughout the invasion period. Historical records frequently use the term ‘park-like’ to describe the open grassy landscapes, with one or two trees per acre. After colonial settlement, without the intricacies of Indigenous fire management practices the southeastern Australian landscape quickly changed from lightly wooded perennial grasslands to dense sapling coverage, and then to thick bush across tree-covered hillsides, valleys and coastal plains (Gammage, 2012). Australian landscapes are becoming ‘denser’ by the year. Changing the timing and intensity of fires radically changed the nature of the country, so that what had been productive agricultural land became scrub within a decade (Pascoe, 2014, p. 165). At the same time, huge areas of the Australian continent have been cleared for wide-scale grain, cotton, fruit, nut and livestock industries. Many of the forests of contemporary Australia, which have generated over the past 200 years because of the loss of Indigenous burning practices, have accumulated high fuel loads, and have posed increasing risks to wildfire when coupled with the effects of climate change (Altangerel & Kull, 2013). Fire-stick burning, mosaic burning, cool burn or cultural burning or a range of other terms entails ‘burning practices developed by Aboriginal people to enhance the health of the land and its people’ (Firestick Alliance, Web). Clearing and maintaining health and openness of Country through planned cultural burning are understood as cleansing practices that accompany custodial responsibilities. Losses of these practices are mourned by Indigenous people and by Country itself, which is now described as ‘sick’ without regular custodial care to control weeds and spread seeds of certain species at the right times (Steffensen, 2020, pp. 171–3). Aboriginal Australians have used fire in many ways over millennia of caring for Country. I, Deborah, recently participated in a ranger’s tour of the new UNESCO listed Budj Bim eel traps. Our guide, Aaron Lovett, explained how his ancestors had engineered the complex systems of channels and ponds from volcanic bedrock, over the past 2,800 years. We lay fire on the bedrock to heat and expand it, then smashed cool boulders onto the softened bedrock, to excavate small water channels. We had to get the depth right so that swamps wouldn’t dry out, and so that various places across the whole system would flow in different seasons. It was all thought out over a long time. I asked him more about the use of fire on Gunditjmara Country. He replied, We’re trying to bring Cultural burning into and even above government departmental burning because it’s much more thought out. Caring for Budj Bim Country has a long history of connection to fire that now must contest western bureaucracies. In Victoria, the prescribed burns of

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Department of Water, Land, Environment and Planning remain controversial after research indicating the damage of the hot burns, to both property and environments (Altangerel & Kull, 2013). The journey of finding, re-claiming and sharing pre-colonial knowledges and stories is slow and requires resilience and refusal against ongoing racism and damage to community processes. Like the slow mosaic burning practices that maintained the territories of many Indigenous Clans, stories of fire enkindle Indigenous knowledges. Knowing the capacity of fire to transform landscapes provides an analogy for the slowly transforming sovereign relationships and the health of Indigenous communities. In the same ways that spiritual beliefs entail reciprocal relationships binding human and non-human entities and places, so the relationship with fire formed a foundation to healthy Nation building for tens of thousands of years. This is expressed through both ancient, epic stories and contemporary narrations of new and old stories. The continuity of relationships with fire forms an element of continuous self-determination and sovereignty.

Fire as Health From this basis of the transformational capacity of fire, we now turn to examine the ways that stories and the Law of fire provide transformative connections that empower Indigenous communities, and lead to recognition of sovereignty over Country. Fire, ‘when applied in the right way, … activates and heals the land and the people’ (Steffensen, 2019, p. 235). From consolidation of practices of cultural knowledges, Indigenous participation in self-sustaining health is built. As an example, the Victorian State government launched the Traditional Owner Cultural Fire Strategy in May 2019. The six principles that underpin the strategy are as follows:

• • • • • •

Principle 1: Cultural burning is Right Fire, Right Time, Right Way and for the right (cultural reasons) according to Lore. Principle 2: Burning is a cultural responsibility. Principle 3: Cultural fire is living knowledge. Principle 4: Monitoring, evaluation and research support cultural fire objectives and enable adaptive learning. Principle 5: Country is managed holistically. Principle 6: Cultural fire is healing (Forest Fire Management, 2019).

The importance of this fire management strategy in Victoria, which brought together Traditional Owners (through the Federation of Victorian Traditional Owner Corporations (FVTOC)) with the Department of Environment, Land Water and Planning (DELWP), Parks Victoria and Country Fire Authority (CFA) rests on the ongoing relationships and ‘a transition in contemporary fire management towards a more culturally appropriate, Traditional Owner-led approach to fire management’ (FVTOC, 2019). The importance of Indigenous

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control of burning practices is recognised as a significant contributor to Indigenous knowledge and health by Uncle Dave Wandin, a significant player in developing the Traditional Owner Cultural Fire Strategy. He says, …at the heart of the strategy, it enhances and embeds [my] cultural rights, not only as a Wurundjeri Elder, but for all Aboriginal Victorians. (FVTOC, 2019) Running parallel to growing recognition of the importance of Indigenous fire practices, the National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Health Plan (2013–2023) is framed on the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples with the centrality of Culture at the core of the plan. The Department of Health (2013) describes the centrality of Culture to health, explaining that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples ‘have the right to live a healthy, safe and empowered life with a healthy strong connection to culture and county’ (Dept of Health, 2013, p. 7). The inextricable link between being able to practice and participate in cultural practices as described within this chapter (as well as cultural practices not covered within this work) and the health and well-being of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples cannot be underestimated. The strength of culture and cultural practices is an important protective factor in determining health of individuals and communities. Telling the stories of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people’s resilience, strengths and survival of culture and cultural practices since colonisation of Australia impacts on physical and mental health (Dept of Health, 2017). Engaging a holistic approach to health of communities is inherent in Cultural practices. The fifth National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Mental Health and Suicide Prevention Plan (2017) has clear priority areas (priority 4 & 5) that relate directly to improving the mental health and well-being outcomes for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. The Department of Health (2016) states that Cultural respect would be defined as ‘Recognition, protection and continued advancement of the inherent rights, cultures and traditions of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people’ (2016, p. 1). Consultations with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and communities supported the drafting and ultimately the ratification of these documents by the Council of Australian Governments (COAG). Consistently such consultations provide the evidence of the importance of being able to practice as sovereign people, to fully participate in the improved health outcomes that are associated with stories and Culture. The inherent practices of Culture provide clear indicators of health and well-being for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples (Deptment of Health, 2013). Translating Indigenous resistance and refusal to accept white transgressions of Indigenous law and cultural practices to a Traditional Owner Fire Strategy, recognised and supported by the State government, is one step towards cultural change. In the context of recognition of Indigenous sovereignty and cultural sustainability this is one among many strategies and laws that have taken decades to be enacted.

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Conclusion The health giving potential and transformative potency of Cultural fire practices to Aboriginal and Torres Straight Island peoples is founded upon pre-colonial histories of connection and responsibility to Country. Eastern Australians faced unprecedented firestorms and catastrophic loss of life and property through uncontrolled fires of 2019/20 (Mullins, 2019). Combined with the ongoing experiences of the effects of climate change, Indigenous and Non-Indigenous populations in Australia who are working through the multiple griefs of the recent fires have the opportunity for collaborations that draw on their multiple strengths and agencies. Recovery must recognise the historical resilience of Indigenous communities, the ongoing agency that has maintained connection to Indigenous law and Country (Williamson, Weir, & Cavanagh, 2020). Western fire management on its own is based on fighting fires and is not suiting the vegetative growth, population movements nor the longevity of cultural fire practices of this continent. Broadening understandings of the importance of regular fire and burning practices is not only about reducing the risks to property and life, it is an inherent form of building relationships across Indigenous communities as well as between White and Indigenous practices. Reclaiming fire and regular, timely burning practices, not from an environmental management perspective, but as Cultural practice, is an important new set of relationships to develop in an Australian context. Building these relationships corresponds with and develops sustainable health and cultural practices across Indigenous communities.

References Allam, L. (2020). Right fire for right future: How cultural burning can protect Australia from catastrophic blazes. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/ australia-news/2020/jan/19/right-fire-for-right-future-how-cultural-burning-canprotect-australia-from-catastrophic-blazes Accessed on February 26, 2020. Web. Altangerel, K., & Kull, C. A. (2013). The prescribed burning debate in Australia: Conflicts and compatibilities. Journal of Environmental Planning and Management, 56(1), 103–120. Anker, K. (2014). Declarations of interdependence: A legal pluralist approach to indigenous rights. Surrey, Burlington: Ashgate. Web. Archibald, Jo-A., & Parent, A. (2019). Hands back, hands forward for indigenous storywork as methodology. In S. Windchief, & T. San Pedro (Eds.), Applying indigenous research methods: Storying with peoples and communities. New York, NY: Routledge. Behrendt, L. (2019). Indigenous storytelling: Decolonizing institutions and assertive self-determination: Implications for legal practice. In Jo-A. Archibald, J. LeeMorgan, & L. T. Smith (Eds.), Decolonizing research: Indigenous storywork as methodology. London: ZED. De Santolo, J. (2019). Indigenous storywork in Australia. In Jo-A. Archibald, J. LeeMorgan, & S. Linda Tuhiwai (Eds.), Decolonizing research: Indigenous storywork as methodology. London: ZED.

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Department of Health. (2013). National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Health Plan 2013–2023. Canberra, ACT: Australian Government. Department of Health. (2016). Cultural respect framework 2016-2026 for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Health. Australian Government, Canberra, ACT. Department of Health. (2017). The Fifth National Mental Health and Suicide Prevention Plan. Australian Government, Canberra, ACT. Federation of Victorian Traditional Owner Corporations (FVTOC). (2019). https://www.fvtoc.com.au/blog/2019/culturalfire?rq5cultural%20fire. Accessed on November 4, 2019. Firesticks Alliance. https://www.firesticks.org.au/about/cultural-burning/. Web. Forest Fire Management Victoria FFM. https://www.ffm.vic.gov.au/bushfire-fueland-risk-management/traditional-owner-burns. Accessed on November 4, 2019. Gammage, B. (2012). The biggest estate on earth: How aborigines made Australia. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin. Griffiths, B. (2018). Deep time dreaming: Uncovering ancient Australia. Black incorporated. Carlton, VIC: An Imprint of Schwartz Pty. IUCN (1997). Indigenous peoples and sustainability: Cases and Actions IUCN intercommission task force on indigenous peoples. Utrecht: International Books. McMillan, M. (2014). Koowarta and the rival indigenous international: Our place as indigenous peoples in the international. Griffith Law Review, 23(1), 110–126. Moreton-Robinson, A. (Ed.). (2007). Sovereign subjects: Indigenous sovereignty matters. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin. Muller, S., Hemming, S., & Rigney, D. (2019). Indigenous sovereignties: Relational ontologies and environmental management. Geographical Research, 57(4), 399–410. doi:10.1111/1745-5871.12362. Mullins, G. (2019). This is not normal: What’s different about the NSW mega-fires. Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from https://www.smh.com.au/national/thisis-not-normal-what-s-different-about-the-nsw-mega-fires-20191110-p5395e.html. Accessed on December 16, 2019. Pascoe, B. (2014). Dark emu: Aboriginal Australia and the birth of agriculture. Broome, WA: Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation. Steffensen, V. (2019). Putting the people back into the country. In Jo-A. Archibald, J. Lee-Morgan, & S. Linda Tuhiwai (Eds.), Decolonizing research: Indigenous storywork as methodology. London: ZED. Steffensen, V. (2020). Fire country: How indigenous fire management could help save Australia. Melbourne: Hardie Grant Travel. Williamson, B., Weir, J., & Cavanagh, V. (2020). ‘Strength form Perpetual grief’ How Aboriginal People experience the bushfire crises. The Conversation. January 10. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/strength-from-perpetual-griefhow-aboriginal-people-experience-the-bushfire-crisis-129448. (Web) Accessed on February 20, 2020.

Further Readings Bowman, D. M. J. S., Balch, J., Artaxo, P., Bond, W. J., Cochrane, M. A., D’Antonio, C. M., . . . Swetnam, T. W. (2011). The human dimension of fire regimes on Earth. Journal of Biogeography, 38(12), 2223–2236. Web.

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Dja Wurrung Clans Aboriginal Corporation. (2017). Dhelkunya Dja - Dja Wurrung Country Plan 2014–2034. Dja Wurrung Clans Aboriginal Corporation. Retrieved from http://www.djadjawurrung.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/Dja-DjaWurrung-Country-Plan.pdf Fast, E., & Kovach, M. (2019). Community relationship within indigenous methodologies. In S. Windchief & T. San Pedro (Eds.), Applying indigenous research methods: Storying with peoples and communities. New York, NY: Routledge. Hemming, S., Rigney, D., Muller, S. L., Rigney, G., & Campbell, I. (2017). A new direction for water management? Indigenous nation building as a strategy for river health. Ecology and Society, 22(2), 13. Mitchell, A. (2018). Revitalizing laws, (re)-making treaties, dismantling violence: Indigenous resurgence against ‘the sixth mass extinction’. Social & Cultural Geography, 21(7), 909–924. Retrieved from https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/ 10.1080/14649365.2018.1528628. Windchief, S., & San Pedro, T. (2019). Applying indigenous research methods: Storying with peoples and communities. New York, NY: Routledge.

Chapter 13

Ubuntu Identity, the Economy of Bomvana Indigenous Healers, and Their Impact on Spiritual and Physical Well-being of an African Indigenous Community Chioma Ohajunwa Abstract Spirituality is a foundational concept within African indigenous communities. Spirituality informs the socio-cultural, political, environmental and economic operating systems within these communities. It is perceived as a strength, but with the systemic debasement of the African indigenous spirituality, many systems informed by spirituality have been impacted in various ways, including the ethno-medical livelihood practices. This chapter is based on a study that used an exploratory ethnographic case study approach with qualitative methods of data collection to explore the understanding of spirituality and its influence on well-being. The study context is Bomvanaland, in the Eastern Province of South Africa. The people of this area are called ‘amaBomvane’. The study is positioned within the social justice, constructivist interpretivist paradigm, combining Resilience theory (Mertens, 2009) with Ubuntu (an African indigenous framework), which is an African moral philosophical framework, as the influencing frameworks of the study. The study outcomes posit a practice of ethno-medical spirituality that is foundational to the identity and culture of the people who come from this area. This practice is embedded in Ubuntu, supporting resilience and wellbeing that carry the potential to positively influence their economies. Keywords: Ubuntu Identity; indigenous economies; spirituality; livelihoods; wellbeing; African community

Introduction Spirituality has been, and continues to be, elusive and challenging to define (Amanze, 2011; Chile & Simpson, 2004; Karakas, Sarigollu, & Kavas, 2014). Clan and Tribal Perspectives on Social, Economic and Environmental Sustainability, 169–189 Copyright © 2021 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved doi:10.1108/978-1-78973-365-520211018

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Spirituality undergirds communal practices and the very nature or attribute of the phenomenon, which always seeks to transcend, to reach beyond and connect to the other, to another, and challenges all efforts to confine, restrict and categorise the concept and all it embodies: it is not an homogenous concept (Amanze, 2011; Chile & Simpson, 2004). Spirituality is ever-changing, ever evolving and adapting to address differing individual and group experiences and growth, within various contexts. Indigenous African understanding and practice of spirituality is no different. Literature discusses various understandings of indigenous economy, but is often mainly focused on ecosystems, issues of displacement, livelihoods and subsistence, farming and biodiversity (Haldar & Abraham, 2015; Saxena, Maikhuri, & Rao, 2008; Seong-Won, 2005; Shackleton, Shackleton, & Kull, 2019). There is less focus on the holistic nature and connectivity of these concepts, and alignment with the indigenous, ethno-medical practices as informed by the indigenous African spirituality which in turn informs their indigenous spiritual economy. The African understanding of spirituality posits spirituality as critical to life and an influencer of well-being. This chapter emanates from a PhD study that explored the understanding, interpretation and expression of spirituality and its influence on care and wellbeing within the Bomvana people, an indigenous community in the Eastern Cape of South Africa (Ohajunwa, 2019). One of the outcomes of the study revealed the existence of an indigenous system of enterprise that is informed by the Bomvana indigenous healthcare practices, linked to the Bomvana practice of a holistic spirituality influenced by their worldviews. This is what I refer to here as the Bomvana indigenous economy.

Bomvana Spirituality Within indigenous African communities, spirituality is recognised and practiced as a foundational concept of life (Chile & Simpson, 2004; Karakas, 2008). The Bomvana community understands spirituality as relational. A complex, multilevel relationship, (not relationships) of the person with themselves, with other persons living and non-living, nature, animals and the divine. I refer to these complex connections as relationship instead of relationships because although the connection is all encompassing and multi-faceted, the Bomvana believe that all relationships emanate from one source and exist within one shared space which is spirit. This alludes to a multiple relationship within us and others so to speak, as we are all aspects of each other. This understanding refers to the notion of a collective spirituality. A collective spirituality connects to self, other people, nature and a higher being (Amanze, 2011; Karakas et al., 2014). So, for the Bomvana, all relationship is spiritual.

AmaBomvane History and Context The study context, Bomvanaland, is a deeply rural community situated in the southern part of the Transkei area and the district of Elliotdale, in the Eastern

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One of the Bomvana Village Clusters and the Indian Ocean That Runs Next to It.

Province of South Africa. The Indian Ocean runs along the one side of its border and the indigenous people of this area’s earliest interaction with people from other parts of the world came over this Ocean. The Bomvana live within nine village clusters (Fig. 13.1). The people of this area are referred to as amaBomvane, and are part of the Nguni group that speak isiXhosa, which is a Bantu language in South Africa (Jansen, 1973). The Bomvana are warriors that emigrated from southern Natal in South Africa in the 17th century, engaging in tribal wars for over two centuries. At the beginning of the 19th century, they finally settled down with the Gcaleka tribe in peaceful co-existence (Jansen, 1973). This peace lasted till 1856, when Mhlakaza, a tribesman of the Gcaleka reported on a vision his niece had received from their ancestors. In this vision, the Xhosa tribes were apparently asked to kill all their cattle and destroy all their grain, so that the ancestors would bless them more abundantly with new crops and more cattle. This heralded the infamous ‘cattle killing delusion’ (Jansen, 1973, p. 12) among the Xhosa tribes. The Bomvana people did not believe in this prophecy and rather refused to kill their cattle or destroy their crops (Jansen, 1973), so that while the rest of their tribes people suffered famine and poverty, the Bomvana people prospered and thrived in their context. The highest determinant of well-being for amaBomvane is to live as a person who embodies Bomvana culture (Jansen, 1973; Mji, 2012), having the ability to

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fulfil all cultural expectations. Because of the fact that amaBomvane did not destroy their crops or cattle, they had the capacity to fulfil their cultural obligations and be secure in their identity as amaBomvane (Jansen, 1973; Mji, 2012, pp. 223–226). Their first contact with foreigners who were shipwrecked on their shores occurred with this attitude of pride and positive identity of self and context. Along with the arrival of foreigners on Bomvanaland, new Western knowledges were introduced within the Bomvana context in the areas of education, religion and medicine (Mji, 2012). Western medicine came into the South African context along with colonialism, primarily spearheaded by the British and the Dutch people and was soon entrenched as the perceived ‘dominant’ medical practice with the force of legislation in South Africa (Dauskardt, 1990). Simultaneously, indigenous knowledges and healthcare practices were deemed to be ‘bad, inadequate and lacking’ by the British and Dutch colonialists. Indigenous knowledge is defined here both as an interaction and process: …the set of interactions between the economic, ecological, political, and social, environments within a group or groups with a strong identity, drawing existence from local resources through patterned behaviours that are transmitted from generation to generations to cope with change. (Eyong, 2007). During apartheid, the public healthcare system, services and facilities were segregated along racial lines (Dauskardt, 1990), which means that communities of racial minorities were inadequately resourced and currently still suffer much disparity in terms of healthcare services.

Current Context of the Bomvana The Bomvana community is now included within a municipality (Mbshe municipality) and still exists with much tension and conflict within their communities because of the political structural changes they are currently experiencing. Within these current structures, traditional leaders have been placed much lower than they were previously. This is perceived to be disrespectful by traditional leaders, effectively reducing their power and autonomy, which creates much discontentment and anger (Tsoko, 2014). Political infighting, factionism and the politics of resource allocation by various government departments in the Mbatshe Municipality, within which the Bomvana land resides, has equally posed a serious challenge to their spirituality and attainment and maintenance of wellbeing. One factor is the reality facing traditional rulers within the current democratic dispensation in South Africa, despite certain government policies aimed at addressing this issue. Policies such as the White Paper on Traditional leadership and Governance (SA 2003) (Tsoko, 2014) have tried to clarify and streamline the role of traditional leaders within the political structures of the South African community.

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Methodology This was a qualitative, interpretivist study, positioned within the social constructivist paradigm. A qualitative interpretive paradigm is a naturalistic approach concerned with creating meaning and the exploration of the nature of reality as a social construction (Denzin & Lincoln, 2011), studying phenomena within its natural context, and situating the researcher within the study context (Creswell, 2013) especially within indigenous research (Mkabela, 2005). The above attributes made the qualitative approach appropriate for this study. Findings from this study were not aimed at being objective but are aimed at representing the multiple understandings of truth as portrayed by the study participants. Resilience theory and Ubuntu (an African indigenous framework) influenced the conceptual framework of the study. The study straddled between both western and African indigenous knowledge and sought to find a middle ground between both knowledge systems. Therefore, the use of resilience and Ubuntu allowed a shared space of existence for the study, the researcher, context and amaBomvane to explore spirituality and well-being holistically, allowing the narrative from both knowledge systems to emerge and create something new and different from the norm. The study is also an exploratory, ethnographic case study design (Chilisa, 2012; Denzin & Lincoln, 2005; Yin, 2009), required a holistic approach with dense description and multiple data gathering strategies to capture the complete narrative and experience of spirituality. Purposive sampling and snowballing was used in this study to identify participants, and multiple data gathering methods were utilised in accordance with the case study approach. These data gathering strategies included one-on-one, in-depth interviews, focus groups, participant observations (of spiritual rites and rituals), reflexive journal keeping and photographs. A total of 52 people consisting of five main groupings which included: Chief and chieftains; Elitist women and Men (Indigenous knowledge holders); Traditional healers and medicine men/women; Christian leaders; and, Healthcare practitioners, participated in the study in four villages across Bomvanaland. The villages selected were spread across the area for an even representation. One village from the entry to Bomvanaland was selected: two from the middle area and one village from the most remote area of Bomvanaland. Data were analysed using a twofold analytical strategy. The twofold analysis comprised an analytical strategy of theoretical propositions (Yin, 2009) and a connecting strategy (Maxwell, 2013). The guiding proposition and research questions influenced the analysis. The analytical strategy brings out the participants’ positions and understandings, while the connecting strategy relates more to further interpretation that was given by the researcher. The data analysis process involved vertical and cross analysis of data transcripts, yielding rich findings that revealed the placement of spirituality within the Bomvana communities. This chapter is informed by one of the outcomes from the study findings.

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Understanding Bomvana Well-being Spirituality is understood as a three-dimensional relationship that involves the human, nature (including animals) and the divine. Maintaining this relationship gives well-being. ‘Our spirituality helps us to connect with God through ancestors. We believe in our ancestors; we communicate with them through our kraals.1 We ask them so that we can prosper on what we do’ (CH CA). The Bomvana people believe in spiritual realities that control the physical world (Ohajunwa & Mji, 2018). Their well-being is embedded within their cultural and spiritual context and practices (Islam & Sheikh, 2010; Ned, 2019). The underlying factor is a spiritual relationship or connection that must be adhered to and constantly maintained (Figs. 13.2 & 13.3). I will become unhealthy if I don’t connect with my ancestors. If I don’t connect with the ancestors, I will get ill…The Westerners say these rituals are not right. But to us they are our well-being (CH; CA).

Fig. 13.2.

The Kraal in One of the Chief ’s Compounds, with an Entrance on the Right.

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Fig. 13.3. The Image Above Depicts How Typically During a Ceremony, People Sit Facing the Direction of the Kraal.

Ubuntu Worldview as Foundational to Well-being This understanding of well-being, as the establishment of spiritual connections through relationship, permeates the socio-political, cultural and ethno-medical economies and systems that exist within the community. This relationship is expressed through Ubuntu.2 Ubuntu is an African philosophy that enshrines humanity, where the individual is placed within a reciprocal connection with other people (Masango, 2006), it is an indigenous African moral spiritual philosophy of humanness (Masango, 2006). Ubuntu is about humility, sharedness, hospitality, kindness, the collective, it is about community. Ubuntu simply is the way of living from the heart… Where are you in relation to the people next door to you, in respect to the animals around you, in respect to the space around you, to the flowers, to the grass, because all those things need to survive in life. (EM CC). Ubuntu is a core value of our spirituality because without that you won’t be a human being according to our tradition and customs. (CH CC). Ubuntu is foundational to the Bomvana indigenous ethno-medical practices and its related systems. All spiritual practices are embedded in Ubuntu, the healers are expected to be kind and lenient to someone who cannot afford their charges.

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A Healing Spirituality The amaBomvane healing systems are embedded within its spirituality, with indigenous practitioners and eco-systemic practices that inform the Bomvana ethno-medical system. These indigenous practitioners, and their practices, exist within a holistic spiritual relationship that informs well-being. The older women of the families (the matriarchs and mothers-in-law), who possess knowledge of various home remedies and medicinal herbs to treat various diseases within their families, are normally the first point of call when a family member is unwell (Mji, 2012). The traditional doctors (medicine men/herbalists) are mainly men who use indigenous herbs and other indigenous preparations for treatment of various diseases and ailments, the usage of which is learnt through a mentor/trainer. He receives no spiritual calling to become a medicine man. A Sangoma on the other hand, does. Isangoma (Sangoma) (a Zulu term) or amagqirha (a Xhosa term) means ‘diviner’. The Zulu term of sangoma is commonly used. This is usually a woman (or sometimes a man) who operates within a traditional, religious, supernatural context and acts as a medium with the ancestral shades (Freeman & Motsei, 1992). The sangoma has a spiritual calling to become a sangoma, conducting their healing practices. The traditional chemist is a relatively new inclusion within the Bomvana community. The traditional chemist can be equated to the pharmacist in formal healthcare, dispensing traditional medication. The traditional chemist sells beads, sangoma clothing, herbs and various traditional condiments for making medicine (Muthi) to both the sangomas and medicine men if they are unable to access various forests because of government bans. I have not found any discussion of this link (Traditional Chemist) in the chain of ethno-medical healing praxis within literature, but only encountered them within this study process (Fig. 13.4). The Traditional chemist has Xhosa medicines and sometimes they make a bottle for you if you come here… It affects us because when we cannot go and dig it ourselves we end up buying; it is bad for the business that way (TC CD). Banerjee and Tedmanson (2010) in their article on the Regimes of whiteness and the entrenchment of systemic disadvantage of Indigenous communities. The authors discuss how this imposition of white ideology as superior supported the appropriation of Indigenous land, the disruption of Indigenous livelihoods and the incarceration of Indigenous peoples in Australia. This is a similar experience for amaBomvane. Currently the Bomvana people need to gain permission from their local chiefs or the municipality to gain access to their ancestral forests and nature reserves. The indigenous practitioners find this very tedious and detrimental to their healthcare practices. Even the traditional chemist sometimes buys the herbs from other sellers, which makes the herbs even more expensive for the end users.

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Fig. 13.4. A Traditional Chemist’s Shop with Indigenous Herbs and Medicinal Solutions for Sale. The Red Candle on the Floor Welcomes the Ancestors Into the Space. We used to live off the forests like fetch the wood from it and poles to do the fencing and kraals for our cattle without having to buy things. Now everything must be bought. People were told to go to the royal house to ask for permission to enter the forest to get poles even for the grass for ceiling. … If you went without permission you would be in trouble. You were disruptive to those in power (SEW2 CB).

Bomvana Ethno-Medical Spiritual Economies The practice of their ethno-medical spirituality not only influenced Bomvana physical and psychological well-being but also supported their financial and material well-being (Fig. 13.5). Study participants who are sangomas and medicine men discussed how the practice of their spirituality is their faith, occupation and livelihoods because they do receive remuneration for their services. They will pay according to that headache… I do not charge before healing but firstly they only pay for imbokodo (Consultation fee) because you do not just take the medicines with nothing. You came here and wanted herbs from me; you will give me the money for imbokodo. Then you pay for the medicine. (THS CC).

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Fig. 13.5. The Image Above Shows the Consultation Fee I Paid During my Consultation with the Sangoma. She Put Some Dirt from Her Bag on the Money and Did Not Touch It till the Session Was Done. Aside from the direct fees paid to the traditional healer for their herbs and expertise, the use of indigenous beads worn by the sangoma, and particular cloth worn for various spiritual ceremonies, does not only speak to identity, but contributes equally to indigenous commerce and industry, further contributing to sustainable livelihoods for the community. The reason why it is beneficial for the indigenous industry as a whole is because although the traditional pharmacists sell the products, they do not necessarily make the outfits. The materials for making the outfits are sourced by community members who have the skill, and the outfits are made by other community members, then sold to the traditional chemists and other people who want to buy. One of the sangomas in my study was a tailor and made these outfits for sale (Fig. 13.6). One of the most important things that characterise amaBomvane is the way they dress. That is different from any other tribe the way they make that dress, the way that this dress looks is quite different, it’s an artefact that is different. Even the way they do their beads, their beads are quite different from the other tribes in fact in the Eastern Cape… (EM CC). Therefore the use of beads for various ceremonies fuel indigenous enterprise and is equally perceived as a manifestation of a spiritual process. When worn by a sangoma, this is believed to impact their well-being, the beads also act as an

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Fig. 13.6. The Photo Above Was Taken during the Initiation to Manhood Ceremony for Young Boys. The Cloth and Beads Worn by These Young Men Are Produced Locally Which Further Contributes to a Sustainable Indigenous Economy.

Fig. 13.7. All Sangomas Wear the White Beads, but the Colourful Bead In-between I Refer to as a Spiritual DNA, because the Sangoma’s Ancestors Give This to Him or Her, and Identify Him/Her Though This Bead. identity marker because the sangoma is identified by his or her ancestors though the beads they wear (Fig. 13.7). The farming of indigenous herbs and food to feed the household and make beer for ancestral veneration is another contributor to their spiritual economies.

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Currently, the introduction of government grants is not seen as addressing the challenge of the production of indigenous food but rather creating a dependency that is a negative to their well-being. What the government is doing is worse; is to give some people food parcels and says that they cannot do anything for themselves. (FGCH CB). We had everything we needed; we grew our own food there was no need for money. There was enough food, no one cared for fish oil, no one cared for soup we had food from the garden as you can see now, I have sweet potato… even now if we can have enough food no one would care for money. That is the most important thing for one’s well-being, land. Because land gives us food, it is very important because one must eat. We eat three times a day so that means we spend money, but if you eat from the land no money is spent. (EM CA). Another aspect that contributes to the Bomvana indigenous economy is rearing of various animals and animal products which are relevant to the practice of their spirituality. We need our animals for our well-being, we need our cattle to plant our fields and also perform our ceremonies and customs. These animals were created together with the black people, that is why you find people named after the animals such as amaJola, Ngqosini the river people, Mpinga, and so on. … We have a strong bond with the land and our animals. We safe-guard them. (EM CA). The spiritual significance and relationship to their animals relates not only to domestic animals but also to totemic animals as well.3 We live because of them [animals]. Our lives depend on them (FGCH CB). They [animals] do connect with us for example when a woman gives birth, like a wife, someone who’s married to this family, there will be a snake coming here, there will be a black snake and that snake will not hurt anyone. It will just go to the child and sit there for about two to three days. (CH CA). Here in the Bomvanas, as ‘Tshezi’ is Bomvana, we do have different cows that are from the river. We live with those cows, us as women who are married to the ‘Tshezi’, we respect the cows that are from the river. If they come into your garden, you do not shout at it, you ask those cows politely to leave your garden. Those cows are like people. (FGCA).

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Bomvana Ethno-Medical Spiritual Economy as Identity Expressed through Ubuntu Bomvana ethno-medical spiritual system is practiced within Ubuntu, where the humanity of a person is acknowledged during the process of a healing transaction. Traditional healers will not turn a person away because they cannot pay at that time. There is the belief that in showing kindness to the other, they will also receive kindness from their creator. It is Ubuntu… Someone comes with nothing at all but with a sick person, I treat that person and they get well. And then later they pay me. They cannot die while I am here. Yes, with just a cry for help. I don’t leave them. (THS1 CC). Whether or not they have something to give in return like money, I help them because I know that God will help me. I do not only help them when they come with something to pay. (THS CB). I look after you until you are healed, that I can do. I do not turn you away if you have no money. (THMM CB). AmaBomvane have struggled to maintain their culture and traditions because of some government policies that infringe on their belief system. They perceive these policies as influenced by western perspectives that do not take note of their own context and belief system. Examples of some of the policies that they argue infringe on their rights to perform ritual slaughtering of animals include the Animal Protection Act No. 71 of 1962 which prohibits animal cruelty on all domestic and wild animals in captivity or under the control of humans, and the Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act of 1993 in Pretoria (Department of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries) which has now become the Department of Agriculture, Rural Development and Land Reform 2019. The Bomvana people believe that their practices are perceived by western thinking as cruelty because westerners are uninformed or have poor understanding of the Bomvana relationship to their animals. As I said, our ways of life are destroyed by the western ways. (CH CA). This is hard; it is corruption for them to think our ways don’t matter. But the people are so westernised these days. (CH CB). Other examples are the permits granted to individuals to open up Shebeens (drinking parlours) in the Bomvana community. The youth are often found drunk and stumbling out of these Shebeens at all hours of the day. This has been an issue of ongoing conflict between the community and government officials.

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Discussion Profit to non-Natives means money. Profit to Natives means a good life derived from the land and sea, that’s what we are all about, that’s what this land claims was all about. . . . The land we hold in trust is our wealth. It is the only wealth we could possibly pass on to our children. Good old Mother Earth with all her bounty and rich culture we have adopted from her treasures is our wealth. Without our homelands, we become true paupers. (Antoinnette Helmer cited in Kuokkanen, 2011). More than 14,2 million self-identifying indigenous people live in Africa (Ohenjo, Willis, Jackson, Nettleton, Good, & Mugarura, 2006, p. 1938). The poor health status of many indigenous communities in Africa has been recognised and documented, raising numerous debates about the health status and well-being of these indigenous communities. The indigenous traditional healing system and its practitioners have often come out on the negative end, being blamed for diverse atrocities perpetuated in the name of healing and healthcare delivery to indigenous people, even policies like the Millennium Development Goals have been perceived as further subjugating the indigenous peoples’ experience of well-being through its top-down approach (Stephens Stephens, Porter, Nettleton, & Willis, 2006). This blame is accorded without seeking to fully understand well-being from the perspective of indigenous peoples, and the socio-political narratives of a colonial history that continue to cause havoc on them today, influencing these negative health outcomes, have consistently not been highlighted as they should (Banerjee & Tedmanson, 2010; Ohenjo et al., 2006; Vellenga, 2008) African indigenous culture and identity forms part of her indigenous economy. As reflected in the quote above, there is a strong move of capitalism and globalisation in terms of the understanding attributed to gain and profit, including approaches to economies and livelihood within urban and indigenous areas alike (Banerjee & Tedmanson, 2010; Coates, Gray, & Hetherington, 2006; Kuokkanen, 2011). Every society creates its own culturally embedded understanding and ideologies of what constitutes well-being or not (Emeagwali & Dei, 2014). However, the understanding of well-being for African indigenous communities has been marginalized and in many cases, replaced with western ideologies and understanding of well-being and health discourses (Coates et al., 2006; Negis¸-Is¸ik ¨ & Gursel, 2013; Waldron, 2010, p. 51), which includes livelihoods by implication. Western scientific traditions, epistemologies and practices that often dominate within the social structures of Western and nonWestern societies, resulting not only in the normalization and privileging of these traditions, epistemologies and practices, but also the pathologizing of non-Western ideologies and practices (Waldron, 2010, p. 51).

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However, the mere fact that these issues of well-being link to identity, culture and spirituality signifies the complexities involved in forcing change on indigenous communities (Banerjee & Tedmanson, 2010; Blignault, Hunter, & Mumford, 2018) and equally emphasised by the quote above. An example of this forced change is the belief among amaBomvane of how the current education system in South Africa does not prepare their children to contribute to their indigenous economy but presents the western worldview within the curriculum as a goal to aspire to (Emeagwali & Dei, 2014; Ned, 2019; Nlooto and Kaya Hassan, 2017). Subjects like agriculture, for instance, could showcase various indigenous farming and horticultural strategies, but the indigenous worldviews are still excluded. Therefore, their children leave home after high school, ending up with menial jobs in the cities, because their indigenous contexts cannot – of course – support such aspirations (Ned, 2019). The Bomvana medico-spiritual practices are equally being demonised and marginalised. The western medical practitioners often perceive indigenous traditional healers as mostly incompetent and harmful, while indigenous healthcare practitioners in turn perceive western healthcare practitioners as disrespectful and untrustworthy (Nlooto & Kaya Hassan, 2017; Ohajunwa, 2019), thus collaborations have been challenging. This tension between western and indigenous healthcare unfortunately negatively impacts indigenous healthcare practices in various ways, including the indigenous economy. Indigenous communities are under tremendous pressure to conform to global economic practices for profit. The relevance of working for cash is pushed at communities, feeding the rural-urban migration. In amaBomvane, this strategy has constantly emptied the community of fathers, and young men, who move to the mines for paid work. This has meant that many homes have no young men to make the traditional beer (umqombothi) for ancestral reverence and for certain spiritual ceremonies (Mji, 2012). Kuokkanen (2011) refers to the indigenous economy and the sharing, interdependent, reciprocity extended to all nature and living beings as spirituality and an expression of identity and culture. She defines indigenous economies as ‘traditional and local economic systems of indigenous peoples…At the centre of the economic activity is not the exchange for profit or competition but the sustenance of individuals, families, and the community’. (Kuokkanen, 2011, p. 219). It is for the well-being of all (Cagat, 2018), which aligns to the Bomvana notion of Ubuntu. Bomvana wealth is in their humanity. Sustainability and reciprocity are two key principles of indigenous economy (Kuokkanen, 2011; Peterson, 2013). This is witnessed within the Bomvana ethnomedical spiritual practitioners. Bomvana spirituality, for example, is a basis for identity formation and well-being, which contributes to livelihoods that sustain their indigenous economy. However, these familiar notions of spirituality and identity have been maliciously and systematically attacked by the advent of colonialism (Haldar & Abraham, 2015), which has fragmented the community. The Bomvana now exist with a plurality of belief systems, which is further goaded by certain political factions and creates tension within their communities (Blignault et al., 2018). This is common among many African indigenous communities (Moshabela, Zuma, & Gaede, 2016; Ross, 2010). In discussing Bomvana identity, there remains a need to accommodate the influences of the different

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ontological and epistemological narratives (Moshabela et al., 2016) and power dynamics that influence their economy through this fragmented identity. Hence, the issue of identity cannot be simplified as merely an issue of being, it is also an issue of becoming, and power relations and influences that reshape their indigenous economy, creating dependence (Walelign, Nielsen, & Jacobsen, 2019). In marginalising their indigenous knowledges and practices, a whole economic system of livelihood is impacted (Haldar & Abraham, 2015). Indigenous African communities such as amaBomvane have been historically forced to abandon their indigenous cultural practices, but no adequate plan was made to create relevant support or strategy to fill this space. Even currently, very few structures have been put in place to support this enforced transition into a more monetised, political economy in a manner whereby indigenous African communities do not lose their identity and economic sustenance in the process of said transition (Mji, 2012). The transition space here refers to the vacuum in which amaBomvane currently exist. Their healthcare practitioners are being marginalised and discriminated against because of their indigenous healthcare practice. On the other hand, no formal training and poor if any collaboration is being offered by the formal healthcare system (Mji, 2012). Hence amaBomvane exist in an in-between space, where they are not fully supported to exist in either spaces. The support and exploration of, rather than the demonisation of the indigenous medico-cultural practices, can support this transition. An economy that supports the transition of indigenous communities must be informed by their context and collective cultural experiences (Ren, 2012). The solutions proffered must not be imposed, but integrated into existing, effective practices to reflect local realities (Sillitoe & Marzano, 2009). A sustainable livelihood economy would ground their understanding of spirituality and Ubuntu as the framework for engagement because through this, trust can be built. Trust is a key element in the Bomvana transactions with the outside world. The understanding of spirituality and the practices that emanate from the observance of Bomvana spirituality would help support an ethno-medical and ecosystemic approach and sustainable economy. Ecosystemic here refers to the Bomvana holistic approach of well-being, where they recognise the connection between the well-being of living and non-living beings, the animals and the physical environment around them to their own well-being. Ohenjo et al. (2006) buttress this Bomvana belief by discussing the relevance of nature to the well-being of the human. He highlights how the mortality rates in the Twa communities dropped from 59% to 18% when they were given back their land. Even at a basic systemic level, having access to natural resources contributes to a positive state of psychological and emotional well-being (Kamitsis & Francis, 2013). Then policy and decision makers could be more informed and sensitive about policies that disregard the Bomvana need to access medicinal plants and herbs on their ancestral land for well-being. African consumers will continue to ‘find the practitioners who they believe are the only people capable of healing them’ (Freeman & Motsei, 1992, p. 1186). This could be because the indigenous healing is holistic, bringing in identity, lineage, well-being and livelihoods. This situation suggests a context where medical plurality will continue to thrive (Emeagwali & Dei, 2014) and potentially the

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economy that is aligned to it. Rather than ignoring this reality, it is relevant that government begins to explore how these existing ethno-medical, spiritual, contextual systems could be supported to be more effective in addressing the current challenges faced by indigenous communities in Africa. This will hopefully address the rural to urban migration by youth which further impoverishes indigenous communities. Freeman and Motsei (1992) refer to a fear of losing power and control, in relation to the economic advantage currently held by Western healthcare, and which might be another reason for the slow progress in exploring the indigenous ethno-medical system and its potential to contribute significantly to sustaining the indigenous economy through income generation. A lack of income generation opportunities that align to their context and worldview is one of the critical factors that influence indigenous peoples’ health (Cagat, 2018; Islam & Sheikh, 2010; Kuokkanen, 2011). The various streams of income identified through the practice of Bomvana spirituality has the potential to propel government projects and initiatives that align to it. Occupations like farming, animal husbandry, cattle rearing, cloth weaving and bead making are some of the immediate areas that can be explored in terms of both production and marketing. The role of the traditional chemist in this process should not be ignored as traditional chemists can be integrated into the pharmacological stream of healthcare, providing indigenous herbs in coalition and consensus with the community, which could be tested in the laboratories for wider use. Careful scrutiny could, however, be paid to issues of power abuse, transparency, patency and ownership of the final products, so that the indigenous economy is adequately reimbursed and compensated for their products. I will propose here that not every indigenous practice should be carried forward, but neither should they be pushed aside. These practices require scrutiny and an exploration for a relevant understanding of the philosophies that guide them rather than taking these practices at face value. It is then understood that the indigenous practitioners must be part of this process of dissection and meaning making regarding their culture and lived experience within a collaborative space.

Conclusion The negative impact of historical events within the Bomvana communities is still being felt. The Bomvana medico-cultural understanding and practice of wellbeing is relational and is informed by Ubuntu. The discourse of health within literature is saturated with the discussion of the health disparities that indigenous communities experience, without focussing on the connection between these factors that inform their well-being as part of indigenous economy. AmaBomvane economy is operationalised within a complex holistic system, in which their medico-cultural practices and livelihoods are embedded. The traditional healers’ profit is informed by this humanistic approach of Ubuntu and, by marginalising the Bomvana ethno-medical belief systems, their indigenous sources of livelihood are impoverished, since there is a no separation of systems. The amaBomvane beliefs are their livelihood, and there is a need to rather explore ways that their

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indigenous knowledge can be supported and institutionalised to both retain their knowledge and grow their economy. We could then potentially learn from the various underlying philosophies of indigenous spirituality to inform initiatives and practices within African indigenous communities and contribute to resilient indigenous economies.

Notes 1. The Kraal is a large enclosure normally made from sticks, wood, some thatches and other vegetation from the surrounding forest for the cows to stay in. The Kraal is highly spiritually significant for the amaBomvane people and many of their indigenous rituals are performed at the Kraal because it is seen as the meeting place of the ancestors. 2. Ubuntu is an African philosophy that enshrines humanity, where the individual is placed within a reciprocal connection with other people (Masango, 2006). 3. Totemism is a complexity of ideas, practices, legends, fears and kinship patterns which refer to the connection between human beings and animals and plants. It is the practice of taking a particular natural object or animal and making it the symbol (totem) of a particular special group/clan (Gumo et al., 2012).

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Appendix A: List of Acronyms Used

CA CB CC CD CH CL CLR EM FGTP FGCH FGEW FGQ HCP ICL SEW THMM THS

Community A Community B Community C Community D Chieftain Church Leader Church Leader Reverend Elitist Male Focus Group Traditional Practitioners Focus Group Chieftains Focus Group Elite Women Focus Group Queens Healthcare Professionals Indigenous Church Leader Saved Elitist Woman Traditional Healer Medicine Man Traditional Healer Sangoma

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Index Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, 11–12, 36 Barayamal Centre of Entrepreneurship’s (BEC), 42–43 health and wellbeing, 165 Indigenous Australians, 36, 38 Ākau, 54–57 AmaBomvane, 170–172 Andean, 66 ancestral practices, 68 cross, 78 culture, 73 nations, 78 sustainable development, 77–78 Anishinaabeg, 131–132, 135–137 Auahatanga, 53 Australia, 37 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander population, 40 Circles of Sustainability model, 70–71 debilitating effects, 12 Indigenous businesses, 42 Indigenous culture, 160 Indigenous entrepreneurs. See Indigenous entrepreneurship Indigenous water rights, 3, 14 water law and policy, 9–10 Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), 36 Australian National Water Act (2007), 14 Barayamal Centre of Entrepreneurship’s (BEC), 42–43 Birrarung River Council, 17–18

Bolivia, 66 market disequilibrium, 67 politics and policy, 77–78 Royal Quinoa, 66, 75, 81 sustainable business, 67 Bomvana, 170, 172 ethno-medical spiritual economies, 177–181 well-being, 174 Budj Bim Cultural Landscape, 14–15 Circles of Sustainability model, 70–71 Colonial legal framework, 106 Commodity markets, 66–67 Controlled Ecological Life Support System (CELS), 67 Council of Australian Governments (COAG), 165 Cultural burn, 159 Cultural Water, 9–11, 13 Customs, 16, 27, 175 Māori, 57 Munay, 81 Pashtun, 109 Department of Environment, Land, Water and Planning (DWELP), 17–18 Ecosystem, 10 entrepreneurial, 49–50, 53–58 forest, 152 freshwater, 153 intergenerational sustainability, 24 natural, 82 soils and fragile, 66–67 Ethno-economic research methodology (EERM), 69

192

Index

Fair trade, 66–67 Bolivia, 67 market price, 84 Royal Quinoa, 82 Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA). See also Pashtuns, 105–106, 110–111 Fire, 77, 136–137 allegory, 162–164 health, 164–165

Indigenous entrepreneurship, 35 Australia, 39–43 Barayamal Centre of Entrepreneurship’s (BEC), 42–43 landscape, 43–45 Indigenous health, 5, 160, 182 Indigenous ontologies, 23–25, 27–30 Indigenous Procurement Policy (IPP), 38

Gunditjmara, 14–15, 163 Budj Bim lava, 15 cultural practices, 16–17 language, 16

Jirga, 4, 105–110 critique, 109–110 Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA), 110–111 Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCR), 110–111 militancy post-2001, 112–113 tribal areas, 113–114

Healing spirituality, 176–177 Health and wellbeing, 30, 145–146, 148 Māori, 52 wetlands, 153 Health models. See Māori Indigenous African, 173 aqua nullius, 12 Australia, 176–177 Bomvana, 170 cultural heritage, 12–13 economic development, 49–50 Jirga, 17 knowledge, 28–30 language, 17–18 ontology, 27–28 Papua New Guinea (PNG), 123 self-determination, 12 sovereignty, 12 Indigenous cultural heritage, 14–18 Indigenous cultural water rights, 11–14 Indigenous culture, 49–50, 154 African, 182 Australia, 160 ownership concepts, 13 sustainability, 11

Kaitiakitanga, 52–53 Kawsay, 82–84 Lashkars, 108 Leadership knowledge, 89–92 Leadership styles, 92–95 Liberal peace, 119–120 critique, 121 limitations, 121 Loddon River, 10–11 Loya Jirga, 108 Manaakitanga, 53 Māori autonomy, 149 communities, 145–146 entrepreneurial ecosystem, 53–58 health model, 144, 146 leadership, 149 life expectancy, 144 social and economic organisation, 144–145 social entrepreneurship (SE), 50–53

Index spirituality, 149 wellbeing, 144 Militancy, 106, 112–113 Munay, 79–81 Olasi Jirga, 109 Ownership concepts, 13 Pakistan, 105–106 colonial inheritances, 106 Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCR), 110 Jirga, 106 militancy, 112 Pashtun. See Pashtuns security forces, 110 Papua New Guinea (PNG), 123–124 Pashtuns, 5 Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA), 110–111 Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCR), 110–111 Jirga, 106–113 Pashtunwali, 106 Political Agents (PA), 106–107 Pashtunwali, 106 Political Agents (PA), 106–107 Qaumi Jirga, 109 Research methodology, 69–75 Rights of Manoomin, 132–135 Royal Quinoa. See also Bolivia, 66 Circles Survey Response, 72 Dreamtime, 76 nutritional value, 67 sustainable business, 67 women producers, 80 Ruray, 81 Rwanda, 4, 90, 124–125 Sarkari Jirga, 109 Shakhsi Jirga, 109

193

Social entrepreneurship (SE), 50–51 Māori, 51–53 social bricoleur, 50 social constructionist, 50–51 social engineer, 51 Social innovation Ākau, 57 he iwi kotahi tatou trust, 58 Stay Native, 58 Social value, 50 Spirituality, 169–170 Bomvana, 170 healing, 176–177 Storytelling analysis, 89–92 Suma Qamana, 66, 77–78 Kawsay, 82 sustainability, 78 Ushay, 81 Sustainability, 2 Andean. See Andean Bolivia. See Bolivia Circles of Sustainability model, 70–71 Fair Trade, 84 Indigenous Water rights, 9–14 leadership knowledge, 89–92 reciprocity, 183–184 story and resistance, 161 Suma Qamana, 78 Sustainable business, 67–69 Tainui Group Holdings (TGH), 52 Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), 113 Therapeutic landscapes, 143–155 health and place, 146–150 health and wellbeing, 145–146 land contribution, 151–154 Māori, 150 Timor-Leste, 125–126 Tino rangatiratanga, 53 Traditional conflict resolution, 119–123 Papua New Guinea (PNG), 123–124

194

Index

Rwanda, 124–125 Timor-Leste, 125–126 Ubuntu, 175 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), 24 Ushay, 81–82 Water law, 11–12 Water policy, 11–13, 19 Water rights, 3, 14–18 Aboriginal, 9–10 Chippewa, 134 ethical, 18

Indigenous, 9–10 policy, 18 sustainability, 11–14 Waterways, 152–153 Wetlands, 153–154 Whānau businesses, 52 Whānaungatanga, 53 Wild rice, 132 importance, 135–137 integrity, 137–139 protection, 139 survival, 137–139 Yachay, 79–80 Yarra River, 17–18