The Oxford Handbook of Indigenous Sociology 9780197528778, 9780197528808, 9780197528792, 0197528775

Citation preview

T h e Ox f o r d H a n d b o o k o f

I N DIG E N OU S S O C IOL O G Y

The Oxford Handbook of

INDIGENOUS SOCIOLOGY Edited by

MAGGIE WALTER, TAHU KUKUTAI, ANGELA A. GONZALES, and

ROBERT HENRY

Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2023 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Walter, Maggie, editor. | Kukutai, Tahu, editor. | Gonzales, Angela, editor. | Henry, Robert, editor. Title: The Oxford handbook of indigenous sociology / edited by Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Angela A. Gonzales, and Robert Henry. Description: 1 Edition. | New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2023] | Series: Oxford handbooks series | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2022050273 (print) | LCCN 2022050274 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197528778 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197528808 (online resource) | ISBN 9780197528792 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Indigenous peoples—Social conditions. | Sociology. Classification: LCC HM545 .O94 2023 (print) | LCC HM545 (ebook) | DDC 301—dc23/eng/20221017 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022050273 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022050274 DOI: 10.1093/​oxfordhb/​9780197528778.001.0001 Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America

Contents Preface  C. Matthew Snipp Tracey McIntosh About the Editors  Contributors 

ix xi xiii

1. Introduction: Holding the Discipline of Sociology to Account  Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales 2. Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld  Maggie Walter

1

12

3. All of Our Relations: Indigenous Sociology and Indigenous Lifeworlds  Tahu Kukutai

31

4. Beyond the “Abyssal Line”: Knowledge, Power, and Justice in a Datafied World  Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King

47

5. Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld: Examining Gerald Vizenor’s Notion of Survivance in Street Lifestyles  Robert Henry

67

S O C IA L C L A S S A N D I N DIG E N OU S L I F E WOR L D S 6. Indigenizing the Sociology of Class  Maggie Walter 7. Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-​Being: Known and Unknown Components  Randall Akee

85

96

vi   Contents

8. Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-​Being for Aboriginal Peoples Living with Disability?  Bindi Bennett

121

9. Dispossession as Destination: Colonization and the Capture of Māori Land in Aotearoa New Zealand  Matthew Wynyard

138

10. Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand  Arapera Blank-​Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb

155

11. Making Space in Canadian Sociology: Human and Other-​Than-​Human Lifeworlds  Vanessa Watts

171

12. Decolonizing Climate Adaptation by Reacquiring Fractionated Tribal Lands  Melissa Watkinson-​Schutten

186

13. Closing the Gap: Negotiating Indigenous Power and the Council of Australian Governments  Ian Anderson

200

14. Indigenous Societies and Disasters  Simon Lambert

218

R AC E A N D I N DIG E N OU S L I F E WOR L D S 15. Indigenizing the Sociology of Race  Tahu Kukutai 16. Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples: The Social Construction of American Indians and Alaska Natives in the United States Using National Data Sets  Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear

239

247

17. Rendering the Future a White Possession: Producing Contingent Self-​determination via Racialized Conceptions of Indigenous Youth  263 Lilly Brown 18. Segregation and American Indian Reservations: Places of Resilience, Continuity, and Healing  279 Tennille Larzelere Marley

Contents   vii

19. Kids Feeling Good About Being Indigenous at School and its Link to Heightened Educational Aspirations  293 Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni 20. Race and Indigeneity: Accounting for Indigenous Kinship in American Indian Racial Boundaries  Allison Ramirez

310

21. Tribal Sovereignty and the Limits of Race for American Indians  Desi Small-Rodriguez and Theresa Rocha Beardall

321

22. Colonialism and the Racialization of Indigenous Identity  Angela A. Gonzales and Judy Kertész

335

23. Living Whiteness and Indigeneity: An Autoethnographic Confrontation  Alex RedCorn

350

24. Race, Racism, and Well-​Being Impacts on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples in Australia  Makayla-​May Brinckley and Raymond Lovett

371

G E N DE R A N D I N DIG E N OU S L I F E WOR L D S 25. Indigenizing the Sociology of Gender  Robert Henry 26. Indigenous Womxn’s Embodied Theory and Praxis: Auntie-​ing On the Front Lines  Yvonne P. Sherwood and Michelle M. Jacob 27. Indigenous Gender Intersubjectivities: Political Bodies  Bronwyn Carlson, Tristan Kennedy, and Andrew Farrell 28. Deep Consciousness and Reclaiming the Old Ways: Aboriginal Women Leading a Paradigm Shift  Joselynn Baltra-​Ulloa 29. Berdache to Two-​Spirit and Beyond  Micha E. Davies-​Cole and Margaret Robinson 30. American Indian Leadership: On Indigenous Geographies of Gender and Thrivance  Andrew J. Jolivétte

391

399 415

434 450

464

viii   Contents

31. Gender, Epistemic Violence, and Indigenous Resistance  Nikki M. Moodie

483

32. Decolonizing Australian Settler-​Colonial Masculinity  Jacob Prehn

500

Index 

517

Preface

In the mid-​twentieth century, J. Milton Yinger and George Simpson were leading figures in the sociology of race relations. In 1957 they edited a volume of the Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science devoted to the current and future social lives of American Indians. This was a remarkable volume, but for no other reason than it was the most comprehensive review of the social conditions of American Indians since the publication of the Meriam Report almost 30 years earlier (1928). This volume contained papers by scholars from a variety of disciplines, none of whom were Indigenous. These articles were guided by a preoccupation with assimilation, acculturation, integration, and, above all, the question of when American Indians would cease to exist as a distinctive group in American society. As the anthropologist Evon Z. Vogel would proclaim, “By the mid-​twentieth century it has become apparent to social scientists studying the American Indian that the Indian population of the United States is markedly increasing and that the rate of basic acculturation to white American ways of life is incredibly slower than our earlier assumptions led us to believe” (1957, p. 137). Yinger and Simpson would conclude in their paper, titled “The Integration of Americans of Indian Descent,” that although Indian cultures, as self-​contained systems, will probably disappear eventually, even though many Indians continue to live in separate communities with some distinctive cultural patterns, integration into the life of the larger society can still take place. In a reprise of this volume in the Annals 21 years later, with a different set of authors, some Native, Yinger and Simpson tamped down their expectations for integration but continued to underscore the assimilation of “Americans of Indian Descent.” The ascendance of American Indian studies after 1968 signaled a struggle over the narrative about the future of American Indians. Native scholars were few in number and faced enormous barriers in their effort to be heard. Over time, the number of Native scholars has grown. They have been joined by Indigenous scholars from other parts of the world in a common cause to valorize the place of Native Peoples for a global audience. This volume represents a remarkable turn in scholarship about Indigenous Peoples. It is a compendium of scholarship about Indigenous Peoples, by Indigenous people—​ a first no doubt. It embraces a global vision of indigeneity, moving beyond the silo of American Indian studies of the 1970s, to a recognition of the common struggles of Indigenous Peoples around the globe as they recover from their encounter with colonialism. Notably, the concepts of integration and assimilation have been replaced by notions of endurance and resilience. Scholarship about Indigenous Peoples has traveled

x   Preface a remarkable journey over the past 75 years, from narratives of dispossession and disappearance to the essays contained in this handbook. Without question, this collection represents a path for new scholarship about Indigenous Peoples for the rest of this century, and beyond. These chapters underscore endurance and resilience, and hint at resurgence and ascendance—​themes that Yinger and Simpson never could have imagined. C. Matthew Snipp Stanford University Indigenous futures are places of hope and the realization of the aspirations of our tīpuna (ancestors) and our mokopuna (our grandchildren and our grandchildren’s grandchildren). In this volume we see the strength of Indigenous scholars to confront the manifold injuries of the past, the ongoing impact of these harms on our present and to respond with Indigenous solutions that critically engage, analyze, and offer ways forward. There is a recognition that as a starting point there is the need to position the right of Indigenous sovereignty. This volume spans the scholarship of both established Indigenous researchers as well as emerging researchers. Power, and the exercise of power, is critical to the discipline of sociology. It is apparent in this collection in the way that the authors articulate the manifestations of power in the everyday life of our communities. Among other things, Indigenous sociologists and scholars are well placed to interrogate the issues arising from the reproduction of both privilege and disadvantage particularly as they relate to Indigenous Peoples. This does not mean a return to a deficit lens but in the hands of these authors it demonstrates a profound honesty alongside an evidence base and intellectual vitality that supports practices of restoration, resurgence, and flourishing. It is the text of our future. Tracey McIntosh (Ngāi Tūhoe)

About the Editors

Angela A. Gonzales, PhD, is an associate professor in the School of Social Transformation at Arizona State University. Drawing upon interdisciplinary scholarship, her research cuts across and integrates knowledge and practice across the fields of sociology, Indigenous studies, and public health, with a focus on understanding and addressing the underlying causes of health inequities in health determinants, health status, and healthcare access between Indigenous and non-​Indigenous populations. Angela is an enrolled member of the Hopi Tribe from the Village of Shungopavi (Spider clan) and the inaugural Chair of the American Sociological Association’s Section on the Sociology of Indigenous Peoples and Native Nations. Robert Henry, PhD, is Métis from Prince Albert, Saskatchewan and an assistant professor in the Department of Indigenous Studies at the University of Saskatchewan. He currently holds a Tier II Canada Research Chair in Indigenous Justice and Wellbeing, and is the nominated principal investigator and Executive Director of the nātawihowin and mamawiikikayaahk Research, Training and Mentorship Networks (SK-NEIHR). Dr. Henry’s research areas include Indigenous street gangs and gang theories, Indigenous masculinities/identities, Indigenous urban research, Indigenous and critical research methodologies, youth mental health and visual/digital research methods. Tahu Kukutai (Ngāti Tiipa, Ngāti Māhanga, Ngāti Kinohaku, Te Aupōuri) is a professor of demography at Te Ngira: Institute for Population Research, The University of Waikato. Tahu specializes in Māori and Indigenous demographic research and has written extensively on issues of Māori population change and identity, official statistics, and ethnic classification. Tahu is a founding member of the Māori Data Sovereignty Network Te Mana Raraunga and the Global Indigenous Data Alliance. Maggie Walter (PhD, FASSA) is Palawa (Tasmanian Aboriginal) and Distinguished Professor of Sociology (Emerita) at the University of Tasmania. A previous Pro-​Vice Chancellor, Aboriginal Leadership (2014–​2020), Professor Walter’s research centers on challenging, empirically and theoretically, standard social science explanations for Indigenous inequality. In May 2021, Maggie was appointed a commissioner with the Victorian Yoorrook Justice Commission, inquiring into systemic injustices experienced by First Peoples since colonization.

Contributors

Randall Akee, Native Hawaiian; Department of Public Policy and American Indian Studies, University of California, Los Angeles Ian Anderson, Palawa; Student and University Experience, The Australian National University Joselynn Baltra-​Ulloa, Mapuche; Department of Social Work, University of Tasmania Bindi Bennett, Gamilaraay; Department of Social Work, University of the Sunshine Coast Arapera Blank-​Penetito, Ngāti Hauā, Ngāti Porou, Ngāti Tamaterā; School of Social Sciences, University of Auckland Makayla-​May Brinckley, Wiradjuri; Department of Epidemiology and Population Health, Australian National University Lilly Brown, Gumbaynggirr; Indigenous Studies, School of Culture and Communication, University of Melbourne Bronwyn Carlson, Aboriginal on D’harawal Country; Department of Indigenous Studies, Macquarie University Donna Cormack, Ngāi Tahu, Kāti Māmoe; Department of Public Health, University of Otago Micha E. Davies-​Cole, Mi’kmaq; Department of Sociology and Social Anthropology, Dalhousie University Andrew Farrell, Wodi; Department of Indigenous Studies, Macquarie University Michael A. Guerzoni, Palawa; School of Social Sciences, University of Tasmania Kimberly R. Huyser, Navajo; Department of Sociology, The University of British Columbia Michelle M. Jacob, Yakama; Department of Education Studies, University of Oregon Andrew J. Jolivétte, Opelousa/​Atakapa-​Ishak; Department of Ethnic Studies, UC San Diego Tristan Kennedy, Noongar; Department of Indigenous Studies, Macquarie University Judy Kertész, Lumbee; Department of History, North Carolina State University

xiv   Contributors Paula Toko King, Te Rarawa, Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Whātua, Ngāti Maniapoto; Department of Public Health, University of Otago Simon Lambert, Tūhoe and Ngāti Ruapani; Department of Indigenous Studies, University of Saskatchewan Sofia Locklear, Lumbee; Department of Information and Media Studies, University of Western Ontario Raymond Lovett, Wongaibon/​ Ngiyampaa; Department of Epidemiology and Population Health, Australian National University Tennille Larzelere Marley, White Mountain Apache; Department of American Indian Studies, Arizona State University Nikki M. Moodie, Gomeroi; Department of Indigenous Studies, The University of Melbourne Huw Peacock, Palawa; Department of Digital Media, University of Tasmania Jacob Prehn, Worimi; School of Social Sciences, University of Tasmania Allison Ramirez, Tohono O’odham Nation; Department of Sociology, University of California, Los Angeles   Alex RedCorn, Osage; Department of Educational Leadership, Kansas State University Margaret Robinson, Lennox Island First Nation; Department of English; Sociology and Social Anthropology, Dalhousie University Theresa Rocha Beardall, Oneida; Department of Sociology, University of Washington Yvonne P. Sherwood, Spokane and Coeur d’Alene; Sociology and Feminist Studies, University of California, Santa Cruz Desi Small-Rodriguez, Northern Cheyenne; Department of Sociology and American Indian Studies, University of California, Los Angeles Juan Tauri, Ngāti Porou; School of Social Science, University of Auckland Melissa Watkinson-​Schutten, Chickasaw and Choctaw; Department of Public Policy, University of Washington Vanessa Watts, Anishinaabe and Mohawk; Department of Indigenous Studies and Sociology, McMaster University Robert Webb, Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Te Ata; School of Social Sciences, University of Auckland Matthew Wynyard, Ngāti Maniapoto, Ngāpuhi; School of People, Environment, and Planning, Massey University

Chapter 1

I n t rodu ction Holding the Discipline of Sociology to Account Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales

Introduction It is time for the discipline of sociology to be called to account for how it understands, recognizes, and represents Indigenous Peoples in majority colonizer-​settler nation-​ states. This accountability is required by Indigenous scholars, students, communities, First Peoples and First Nations, and indeed all citizens of nation-​states whose genesis is the colonization of the lands of Indigenous Peoples, and from which the state now draws its wealth and identity (Walter, 2014). Indeed, it might be asked whether what sociology, as practiced globally, but particularly in Anglo-​colonized nations such as Australia, Canada, the United States, and Aotearoa New Zealand, offers is still useful or relevant? This question from a dedicated group of Indigenous sociologists is difficult to ask, but it is genuine. Our intention is not to outrage or offend. Rather, our questioning reflects the discomfort we four editors are experiencing as we complete the final processes of this Oxford Handbook of Indigenous Sociology. Our unease has grown as we have shepherded this project from concept to manuscript. Yet we did not begin naively. We always wanted this Handbook to challenge the sociological status quo of how Indigenous sociology is done. Our key ambition was to critically assert the Indigenous sociological voice, demonstrating Indigenous sociology as a distinct paradigm. By bringing together leading and emerging Indigenous scholars, we sought to provide an authoritative survey of contemporary Indigenous sociological thinking. Did we succeed? Yes, we strongly believe we did. The strength, breadth, and depth of the Indigenous sociological voice demonstrated in this Handbook disrupts and challenges the deficiencies of existing sociology about Indigenous Peoples and societies.

2    Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales Success is not in contention. Our dilemma is that we perhaps succeeded too well. The composite achievements of the Handbook also exposed the poverty of our own thoughts and understanding of Indigenous sociology, and sociology, as a discipline. We expand on these unsettling realizations in this introductory chapter. We begin with our reasoning around our central premise, Indigenous lifeworlds, our organizational structure of class, race, and gender, and the geographic breadth of the Indigenous sociology included in this Handbook. We also include an overview of the standard Indigenous critique of sociology that informed much of our original thinking. In retrospect, this critique sounds superficial and, if we are honest, a bit introspective. But it does encompass the long-​standing and heartfelt complaints of many Indigenous sociologists regarding the failures of the discipline. More critically, this established critique reinforces our gradual recognition that while the complaints are valid, they miss the central disciplinary defect: they concentrate on the symptoms, not the cause. We now finally comprehend that sociology’s irreconcilable flaw is the disciplines’ studied and deeply embedded blind spot to colonization and colonialism. This absence is especially evident in Anglo-​colonized settler states such as our own, acknowledging that First Nations in Canada were and are also subject to French colonialism, but also exists more broadly. What is the use, we ask, of a field of study whose stated task is to empirically and theoretically explain how societies work, but which fails to examine colonization as the genesis and ongoing foundation of the structure and function of its own society? It is from this perspective that we ask the question: Should sociology be cancelled?

Our Central Premise: The Indigenous Lifeworld This Handbook is limited in its geographic scope. It does not, for example, include chapters by Indigenous sociologists from Africa or Asia, nor from Nordic countries. This is a deliberate decision, and again it is a challenge to common understandings of Indigenous sociology. We can make no claim that our Handbook represents Indigenous Peoples. Indigenous peoplehood is a meta category covering an estimated 476 million people living across all the inhabited continents on the planet (International Labour Organization, 2020). The lifeworlds of those Peoples and the societies in which they live are hugely variable. As such, a pan-​Indigenous volume could only produce a hodgepodge of unaligned sociological writings with no unifying spine. Yet this is what is often expected. So, we were disappointed, but not surprised, that several of our non-​ Indigenous reviewers thought we should take a pan-​Indigenous approach. Thankfully, our publisher agreed that such an ambition was not only impossible but of no intrinsic sociological value. We do, of course, encourage Indigenous sociologists from Africa, Asia, South America, the Middle East, and elsewhere to assert their own sociological voice. To respect the variability of Indigenous lived experience while also providing sociological coherence, this Handbook’s focus is Indigenous Peoples with a similar lived

Introduction   3 reality. This criterion translates in this Handbook to Indigenous Peoples living primarily in Anglo-​colonized settler states, commonly known as the CANZUS countries of Canada, Australia, Aotearoa New Zealand, and the United States. The Indigenous Peoples of these nation-​states are very different, culturally and historically, but they share a singular similarity of societal positioning. The unifying thesis is that this similarity emerges from the shared experience of Anglo-​colonization, historically and contemporaneously, that is the physical and socio-​structural genesis of each of these settler-​colonial nations (Walter & Russo Carroll, 2021). This framework is strengthened by the four editors being Indigenous scholars from these four Anglo-​colonized nation-​ states, and the Handbook chapters starkly expose the distinct Indigenous peoplehood as well as the shared experience of societal disregard. We capture this notion of different Indigenous Peoples with similar lived societal realities through our core premise of Indigenous lifeworlds (Walter & Suina, 2018). The Indigenous lifeworld theoretical frame builds on the notion that Indigenous sociology makes visible what is meaningful in the Indigenous social world (Porsanger, 2004). Like all new constructs, it reflects a social reality that is known but not previously fully articulated. Explained in greater detail in c­ hapter 1, the central proposition is that our way of being is always contextual; inseparable from the social, cultural, and physical world in which we exist. For Indigenous Peoples living in Anglo-​colonized settler nation-​states that contextuality encompasses the social, political, historical, and cultural embodied realities of Indigenous lives framed through dual intersubjectivities: • Within peoplehood and the ways of knowing, being and doing of those Peoples, inclusive of traditional and ongoing culture, belief systems, practices, identity and ways of understanding the world and our place within it; and • As colonized, dispossessed, marginalized Peoples whose everyday life is framed through, and directly impacted by, our historical and ongoing relationship and interactions with the colonizing nation state. The intersections and intertwining of these two intersubjectivities define the lifeworld similarities of the Indigenous Peoples and societies represented in this Handbook. From very different geographic locations, our unique peoplehood exists within and is entangled within, the in-​common socioeconomic and sociocultural and political disparities framed through ongoing conflicted relationships with the nation-​states that now govern (and largely possess) our traditional lands (Walter & Suina, 2018).

Sociology and the Lifeworld Our overarching ambition in this Handbook was, and is, to initiate a reinvention of Indigenous sociology. Our starting point is to situate Indigenous sociology as sociology by Indigenous sociologists. This is not to claim that non-​Indigenous sociologists cannot

4    Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales participate; they can. Rather, we are asserting the Indigenous sociological voice as the authority on who we are as Indigenous Peoples and how we “be” Indigenous Peoples, within our own sociocultural worlds and as Indigenous subjects within our respective nation-​states. Thus, the authors of each chapter are Indigenous, from multiple First Peoples across the CANZUS countries. This positioning is indicated within the volume by the inclusion of each author’s tribal/​First Nation affiliation in their byline. These protocols are increasingly used by Indigenous scholars, globally, to indicate to readers their Indigenous positioning, as well as to observe the cultural practice of stating your family and tribal connections when meeting other Indigenous Peoples or when entering the country/​land of others. The tribal affiliation of in-​text cited Indigenous scholars is also included. This protocol is less common, but also increasingly used within Indigenous-​authored books and articles. What is new is that many of our authors have extended this convention to include the racial identity and geographic location of the cited non-​Indigenous scholars. The purpose is to make clear that all sociologists are embedded in their own social reality. There is no universal sociology, no writing that emerges from some objective, neutral space. As per lifeworld theory, an individual scholar’s way of being is always inseparable from the social, cultural, historical, and physical world in which they exist. When labeled by national and racial affiliation, the vast majority of these cited non-​Indigenous sociologists are White and from what Connell (2007) refers to as the metropole: Europe and North America. Naming their racial and geographic location is not to diminish. We respect many of those we cite. Rather, our purpose is to disrupt the common but largely unstated assumption of our discipline that Indigenous sociology comes from a particular place, while mainstream sociology, especially the sociological canon, is largely universal: placeless and raceless.

The Structure of the Handbook Sociology is concerned with how a society is organized and how this is operationalized within social structures, hierarchies, and social and cultural mores. Indigenous sociology, as outlined, uses its core axis of making visible Indigenous worldviews, perspectives, values, and lived experience within this central concern. Our first four chapters therefore provide the theoretical substance of giving voice to what is meaningful in the Indigenous lifeworld. From here, the Handbook’s organizational structure attempts to meld sociology’s traditional approach to explaining the organizational structures of societies through an Indigenous lens. This melding is not always fully successful, but that is part of the point. To reinforce Indigenous sociology as a paradigm in its own right, we deliberately chose our organizational structure to revolve around the social forces that have long underpinned the discipline of sociology; class, gender, and race. Our purpose in selecting these facets of social sense-​making was to demonstrate the distinctive pattern

Introduction   5 of how these sociological categories operate when framed from an Indigenous lifeworld perspective. Each subsection is preceded by a chapter that theoretically unpacks how class, gender, and race intersect and interact with the Indigenous lifeworld. This deceptively simple structure also demonstrates the breadth of Indigenous sociology. Firmly based in the discipline, this sociology moves away from traditional frameworks to center Indigenous scholarly perspectives and, in the process, produce an authoritative survey of Indigenous sociological thinking. All our authors use a distinctively Indigenous methodological approach in their work and their scholarship, which travels well beyond the trope of disadvantage.

The Standard (and Largely Superficial) Indigenous Critique of Sociology Our approach, central premise, organizational structure, and layout were conceived as a way of centering the Indigenous in Indigenous sociology. In doing so we attempted to not only do sociology through an Indigenous lens, but also to present a stark alternative to the standard way Indigenous sociology is practiced within our nation-​states. The mainstream practice of Indigenous sociology is similar in its approach and presentation across the four CANZUS states. Unsurprisingly, there is a similarity of Indigenous complaint about the discipline’s practices and processes. This section outlines some of these well-​worn critiques. A central critique is that Indigenous issues do not seem to fit within sociological frames of societal inquiry. As outlined in c­ hapter 1, there is little Indigenous presence within mainstream sociological texts or teaching curriculum. Even within the large and established race-​related sociological literature, there is a surprisingly small space for sociology relating to Indigenous Peoples—​even within the scholarship emanating from the CANZUS countries. Yet it is not that Indigenous sociologists have not been researching and writing from our own scholarly perspectives. We have. But although our number is growing, we remain a minority within the discipline, a rare oddity, curious but seemingly not of real relevance to the serious business of the national or international agenda of the discipline. Low numbers of Indigenous sociologists combine with other sociocultural factors to exacerbate the lack of Indigenous voice and visibility. For example, in settler colonial states, non-​Indigenous scholarship “about” Indigenous Peoples has tended to be dominated by anthropologists and historians, with most non-​Indigenous sociologists largely avoiding the field. When queried, this lacuna is sometimes articulated as a faux sense of respect for Indigenous scholarly self-​determination. Less generously, such avoidance feels almost like a professional courtesy to anthropology, or perhaps more cynically a cartel-​like behavior, where there is agreement among the

6    Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales big players of how disciplinary topics can be carved up. The result is an ongoing and uncomfortable reluctance by sociologists to engage with Indigenous issues, or to actively recognize Indigenous realities within their own fields of scholarship. Rather, Indigenous sociology, as expanded on in c­ hapters 1 and 2, tends to be limited to a relatively simplistic, descriptive inclusion of what we refer to as the 5Ds: Indigenous disadvantage, disparity, deprivation, dysfunction, and difference (Walter, 2018). Pathologized and paternalistic approaches to Indigenous Peoples are the object of the non-​Indigenous sociological gaze. While this work often has a sympathetic tone, the focus is almost always the shared positioning of Indigenous Peoples as the most socioeconomically disadvantaged, politically marginalized, incarcerated, and least healthy subpopulation of whichever nation-​state the study is located within. More damagingly, the focus of inquiry is primarily about the what, describing over and over again this chronic disadvantage, giving off the whiff of poverty voyeurism. Why Indigenous Peoples are so positioned at the bottom of the social hierarchy across all measures of status is less examined. And when it is, the focus is almost always on Indigenous Peoples themselves. The overarching sociological narrative, again regardless of country of literature origin, is of Indigenous Peoples as a problem—​one to be studied and solved by others. As subject matter, not the inquirer. More insidiously, reluctance to engage with Indigenous issues is partnered with the permanent peripheral positioning of Indigenous scholarship. The traditionally Eurocentric structures of our sociological associations and disciplinary infrastructure contributes to what appears to be an unknowing of what to do, or of how to position Indigenous sociology and Indigenous sociologists. Indigenous sociology is perpetually understood as niche sociology. As such, our work has tended to be assigned to the “special streams” or subsumed within other categories of the “other” such as “ethnicity,” disconnected from where the “real” sociology is happening. For example, sociology conferences in Canada, just as they do in Australia, nowadays tend to include some symbolic gesture such as bringing in an Elder for the Welcome and/​or a dancing group as part of the opening ceremony. The most recent symbolic gesture in Canada is that of land acknowledgments to recognize Indigenous territories. And then nothing. Apart from a few brave souls speaking to nearly empty rooms at the difficult time slots given to the few Indigenous papers, the rest of the conference is ostensibly an Indigenous-​free zone. This Indigenous critique of sociology coalesces around the perceived objectification, marginalization, and exclusion and of Indigenous Peoples and Indigenous sociology/​sociologists. The end result is that many Indigenous sociologists, including ourselves, tend to avoid national and international sociological conferences. Indigenous sociologists, including some of the editors, have also, at various times, made efforts to change the disciplines damaging practices. We have edited special issues, made impassioned pleas during keynotes, and advocated with national executives. But largely to no avail. There might be a small movement, but, before long, how Indigenous sociology is positioned and placed reverts to the standard trope. For example, an Australian 2022 Social Sciences report on data (not named here deliberately) completely omitted reference to Indigenous Peoples, data, or Indigenous concerns relating to data, despite the

Introduction   7 global significance of Indigenous data sovereignty as an Indigenous-​led field of research and site of activism (Kukutai & Taylor, 2016; Walter et al., 2020). When the absence was pointed out, an “oversight” was blamed and edits hurriedly inserted. In this instance, as with most other similar “absences,” the emotional and advocacy burden of making the Indigenous visible fell to Indigenous scholars. Exhaustingly, the next version of the report is just as likely to contain the same Indigenous exclusion.

The Case for Accountability In assembling this Handbook, we have been starkly confronted with a fact we already knew but had not fully realized. Disciplinary failures relating to Indigenous Peoples are not random; they are patterned and regular. Across our four nation-​states, the discipline’s objectifying, marginalizing, and excluding practices are comparable. In each country, deficit positioning, peripheral placement, and omission from disciplinary reports, curriculum, and sociological inquiries are persistent and repeated. In each country, the disciplinary focus is limited largely to the what of Indigenous disparity and is seemingly uninterested in the why. In each country, critiques by Indigenous scholars are met with similar bewilderment by non-​Indigenous leaders and heartfelt declarations of good intent. Yet the cross-​national similarities and temporal persistence indicate that the patterns are structural, not individual, errors. Or, as Mills (1959) would argue, the beleaguered position of Indigenous sociology is a public issue, not a personal trouble. Rather than rail about unbending personalities, blinkered thinking, or disciplinary gormlessness, we needed to look more closely at the why. The why, we concluded, involves the social structures inherent to Anglo-​colonization. Here we are not referring to colonization as a historic event but as an ongoing process in settler nations, which is embedded within social structures that actively work to impede and/​or erase Indigenous Peoples from the land (Dorries et al., 2019; Glenn, 2015; Wolfe, 2006). As American sociologist of Japanese descent Evelyn Nakano Glenn (2015, p. 54) argues, settler colonialism is a “distinct transnational formation whose political and economic projects have shaped and continue to shape race relations” in nation-​states established through dispossession. Glenn’s theorization includes all non-​White populations, but Indigenous Peoples form a distinct category for whom colonization, then and now, has distinctive outcomes. Glenn (2015) further posits that Anglo-​colonization is recognizable by its undergirding set of narratives, logics, and epistemologies. White Australian scholar Patrick Wolfe (2006) draws on similar theorizing when he describes invasion not as an event, but as a long-​lasting, ongoing societal structure. The structural nature of colonization is further explained by Yellowknives Dene scholar Glen Coulthard (2014) when he describes settler colonialism is a form of “structured dispossession,” whereby a set of hierarchical social relations operate to continue the dispossession of Indigenous Peoples (see the chapter by Matthew Wynyard in this volume for greater explication). This is because, as Glenn (2015) argues, the defining

8    Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales characteristic of settler colonialism is the pursuit of land for a settler population to exploit via cultivation and the extraction of resources. These arguments are neatly summarized by Cherokee author Thomas King when he asks the perennial, but penetrating, question: “What do Whites want?” His answer, one that resonates across all four CANZUS settler-​colonial states, is that they want the land. Dispossession requires the Indigenous ownership of lands be erased, with the simplest solution being Indigenous elimination. The illegitimacy and brutality of land theft, however, is extremely unpalatable as a story of national genesis. To manage the cognitive dissonance between the acts Euro-​ Americans/​ Canadians/​ ustralian/​ New Zealanders perpetrated, and continue to perpetrate, to maintain dispossession and the need for state valor, each of the CANZUS states have crafted a similar and much-​tended national narrative. In this account, it was the industry, the fortitude, and the intrepidness of colonizing settlers overcoming adversity that tamed the land to build the great nation of (inset settler state country name here) (King, 2013; Walter & Russo Carroll 2021). The continued presence of the Indigene, however, remains as a constant niggling irritant in the pursued hegemony of this narrative. To reinforce the prideful accounts, the Indigene is largely omitted from the national narrative. Glenn (2015: 67) points to this obscuring when she writes that in the United States, “Redness has been made to disappear, such that contemporary Native Americans have become largely invisible in white consciousness.” Adding to this denial of Indigenous presence, Alfred and Corntassel (2005) state that contemporary settlers continue the colonial legacy through the ongoing erasure of Indigenous histories and geographies that are foundational to Indigenous identities. Disappearing the Native is a multifaceted enterprise. To bolster veracity, a counternarrative of the undeservingness of said Indigenous Peoples of (again, insert name of settler nation-​state here) as being deficit, without fortitude or industry, and, most critically, without a contemporary valid claim to land is promulgated. This discussion brings us back to the discipline of sociology. Sociology, like Western academic disciples, is embedded in the infrastructure of contemporary colonization. To marginalize, to exclude, to objectify—​this is the discipline’s observance of this institutional place. Exhortations by Indigenous sociologists to “see” Indigenous Peoples are an existential threat. Preserving the structural status quo, in the face of such threats, means practicing what Jamaican American sociologist C. W. Mills (1997: 19) refers to as the epistemology of ignorance, which involves “misunderstanding, misrepresentation, evasion, and self-​ deception on matters related to race.” From this perspective, those regular invitations for keynote presentations or papers for special editions are not attempts by the discipline to change. Rather, they are mechanisms to allow tension release so that the discipline can convince itself it is addressing “Indigenous issues” while maintaining existing relations of power. In short, the invisibilizing of Indigenous Peoples and Indigenous sociology is not about us, but about them. This inability to see Indigenous Peoples or Indigenous sociology outside of a limited, static, pejorative, and peripheral paradigm allows the discipline and its dominant practitioners to neatly sidestep the fact that they practice on stolen lands and that they are the daily inheritors and beneficiaries of the socioeconomic and cultural privilege that emanates from continued dispossession. It also enables them to ignore the manifold ways in which the discipline has played a part in the past and contemporary

Introduction   9 dispossession of the Indigenous owners of the lands they now claim (Walter 2014). The re-​visibilizing of Indigenous Peoples and the recognition that the nation state is built on, and dependent upon, the continuation of colonization and dispossession would completely alter how sociology in Anglo-​colonized countries (and elsewhere) is done. But we aware that such a disciplinary turn is unlikely. The discipline has much invested in backing up the delusional narrative of the nation-​state in which its practices are founded on settler grit and determination in a wild, untamed land. To do otherwise would likely lead to the discipline’s censure. Yet we can all remember when sociology truly was the discipline of radical social change that was unafraid to speak back to power. Moreover, the discipline’s timidity on Indigenous issues has a cost—​to all of us. That cost is the very validity of the discipline. As we asked at the beginning of this chapter, what is the use of a field of study whose stated task is to empirically and theoretically explain how societies work, but which fails to examine colonization as the genesis and ongoing foundation of the structure and function of its own society? How can any examination of Australian, Aotearoa New Zealand, Canadian, or American society, on whatever social issue, be valid if it refuses to recognize the structural reality of that society? A blinkered analysis, one that ignores the colonizing foundations and current realities of the society is a sham analysis. The continuation of the manufactured invisibility of Indigenous Peoples might serve to maintain an illusion of who and what the discipline and their society are. But it is a chimera. And a discipline whose approach is based on a societal illusion, especially one where the justification for its very existence is the scientific observation and explanation of that same society, is no discipline at all.

Conclusion We conclude this chapter with a brief discussion of what sociology can do to hold itself accountable to Indigenous scholars, students, Peoples, and First Nations. We enter this discussion with two important caveats. One, we make no claim to speak for all Indigenous sociologists; we speak only for ourselves, although we suspect that the vast majority of Indigenous sociologists will agree with our arguments. Two, we want to make clear that it is not our job (as Indigenous Peoples/​scholars) to determine for the discipline what it needs to do to be accountable. Indeed, most Indigenous sociologists are bone-​weary with being repeatedly asked by universities and disciplinary organizations about what they “can do.” Rather, what is the discipline prepared to do? We contend that there is only one real question that the discipline needs to answer to begin the process of accountability. That question is: Is sociology prepared to acknowledge and situate colonization, historically and contemporaneously, as the social foundation of societies in nation-​states such as Australia, Canada, the United States, and Aotearoa New Zealand?

10    Maggie Walter, Tahu Kukutai, Robert Henry, and Angela A. Gonzales If the answer is no, then the discipline, in these countries at least, has outlived its relevance and usefulness. If the answer is yes, then the discipline (not Indigenous scholars) needs to determine how this acknowledgment will be conceptualized within its own rationales. Just as critically, the sociology needs to operationalize this acknowledgment in how it understands these societies, and its own place within that understanding, and how this is reflected across the strands of its societal presence—​within research and scholarship, within curriculum, and within its own institutional structures.

References Alfred, T., & Corntassel, J. (2005). Being indigenous: Resurgences against contemporary colonialism. Government and Opposition, 40, 597–​614. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​ j.1477-​7053.2005.00166.x. Connell, R. (2007). Southern theory: The global dynamics of knowledge in social science. Cambridge: Polity Press. Coulthard, S. (2014). Red skins, White masks: Rejecting the colonial politics of recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dorries, H., Henry, R., Hugill, D., McCreary, T., & Tomiak, J. (Eds.). (2019). Settler city limits: Indigenous resurgence and colonial violence in the urban prairie West. Winnipeg: Univ. of Manitoba Press. Glenn, E. N. (2015). Settler colonialism as structure: A framework for comparative ethnicity U.S. race and gender formation. Sociology of Race and Ethnicity, 1(1), 54–​74. International Labour Organization. (2020). Fact sheet: Implementing the ILO Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention No, 169: Towards an inclusive, sustainable and just future. Geneva: International Labour Organization. https://​www.ilo.org/​glo​bal/​top​ ics/​ind​igen​ous-​tri​bal/​publi​cati​ons/​WCMS​_​735​676/​lang-​-​en/​index.htm King, T. (2013). The inconvenient Indian: The curious account of Native Americans in North America. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Kukutai, T. and Taylor, J. (eds). (2016). Indigenous Data Sovereignty: Towards an Agenda. CAEPR Research Monograph, 2016/​34. Canberra: ANU Press. Mills. C. W. (1959). The sociological imagination. New York: Oxford University Press. Mills, C. W. (1997). The racial contract. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Porsanger, J. (2004). An essay about Indigenous methodology. Nordlit, 15. http://​munin.uit.no/​ bitstr​eam/​han​dle/​10037/​906/​arti​cle.pdf..?seque​nce=​1. Walter, M. (2014). The race bind: Denying Aboriginal rights in Australia. In J. Green (Ed.), Indivisible: Indigenous human rights. Winnipeg: Fernwood. Walter, M. (2018). The voice of Indigenous data: Beyond the markers of disadvantage. Griffith Review, 60. https://​www.gri​ffit​hrev​iew.com/​artic​les/​voice-​ind​igen​ous-​data-​bey​ond-​disad​ vant​age/​. Walter, M., Lovett, R., Maher, B., Williamson, B., Prehn, J., Bodkin-​Andrews, G., & Lee, V. (2020, October 28). Indigenous data sovereignty in the era of big data and open data. Australian Journal of Social Issues. https://​doi.org/​10.1002/​ajs4.141. Walter, M., & Russo Carroll, S. (2021). Indigenous data sovereignty, governance and the link to Indigenous policy. In M. Walter, T. Kukutai, S. Carroll, and D. Lonebear-​Rodriguez (Eds.),

Introduction   11 Indigenous data sovereignty and policy. London: Routledge. https://​doi.org/​10.4324/​978042​ 9273​957 Walter, M., & Suina, M. (2018). Indigenous data, indigenous methodologies and Indigenous data sovereignty. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 22(3), 233–​243. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​13645​579.2018.1531​228. Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–​409.

Chapter 2

C oncep tua l i z i ng and Theori z i ng t h e In digenous L i feworl d Maggie Walter

Introduction Sociology is the scientific analysis of society aimed at identifying and exploring the patterned regularities of social life. At the center of the discipline is a concern with the way a society is organized and how this is operationalized within its social structure, social hierarchies, and social and cultural mores (Merriam-​Webster, n.d.). This disciplinary focus can be traced to sociology’s origin tasks of interpreting the severe social disruptions occurring in Western Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries. The French and Industrial Revolutions and the rise a new political order in the Americas impelled founding theorists to explain the rapid overturning of long-​established patterns of social life. These social ructions included the abandonment of the feudal way of life, the associated large-​scale population movements from rural to urban areas, the mass poverty afflicting these uprooted populations, and a rising criminalization of these new poor. For a relative few, these changes provided previously unavailable opportunities for wealth and social advancement, with a consequent growth in the middle class (Habibis & Walter, 2014). The rapidity of change was a significant social risk, especially to social and economic elites. Scholars of the time therefore sought order and predictability in the seeming social chaos. White Frenchman Auguste Comte (1798–​1857) is the scholar credited with first using the term “sociology”; as his famous dictum argues, positivist methodology allows us to know in order to predict; to predict in order to control (Comte, 1865). The period of early disciplinary development and Euro-​industrialization coincided with, and was directly linked to, the height of Anglo colonization. The new British social order needed to disperse the unwanted criminalized poor alongside easy access

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    13 to new cheap sources of the raw materials to feed burgeoning factories. Both were secured through colonization. In 1788, a decade before Comte was born, the first British colonizing fleet, carrying around 1,500 convicts, arrived in Botany Bay, New South Wales. By 1844, when Comte first published his treatise on positivism, Anglo colonization had advanced exponentially. Colonial endeavors during this period include the formal colonization of the Māori lands of Aotearoa New Zealand (Pool, 2015), the passing of an act of British Parliament to merge the colonies of Upper Canada and Lower Canada (Wikipedia, 2021a), the annexing of much of the western United States by the descendants of earlier British colonizers under the doctrine of Manifest Destiny (Deloria, 1969), and the expansion of the colonies in Australia to the new separate colonies of Van Diemen’s land (later Tasmania), Queensland, and Western Australia (Clark, 2006). Thus, the processes of Euro-​industrialization, the development of the discipline of sociology, and rapid Anglo colonization emerge from similar societal and historical roots. Yet few sociologists from these times, and, as we argue throughout this book, current adherents of the discipline, had (or have) anything to say about the impact of colonization on societies or the impact of colonization on Indigenous Peoples. Both subjects are almost completely absent from sociological theorizing, then and now. Exceptions such as White French sociologist Émile Durkheim’s (1976) representation of the Aranda People as exhibiting the most basic, elementary forms of religion was more a convenient exemplar of primitivity than an engagement. White Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville’s theorizing of the development of democracy in the United States is more relatable. Recognizing the potential of democracy to create a meritocratic, liberal society, de Tocqueville also observed that the promised social equality did not apply equally, with Native Americans and African Americans subject to widespread inequities within societies that claimed a meritocratic foundation (de Tocqueville, 2000). Ignoring colonization and its impacts in any analysis of society or its patterns of regulated social life is not a possibility for Indigenous sociologists. Colonization is inscribed into the lived realities of Indigenous Peoples, now and then, and remains the primary source of the massive societal disruption of Indigenous social life across the Anglosphere. Indeed, it is a key contention of this book that the sociological avoidance of the social force of colonization—​in both those nation-​states that were the genesis of colonization, such as Britain, or the Anglo-​colonized nation-​states, such as Canada, Australia, Aotearoa New Zealand, or the United States—​is a fatal disciplinary flaw. The key method we use to disrupt the sociological status quo in relation to colonization is via a conceptualization of the Indigenous lifeworld. This chapter lays the foundation work of this method via an examination of distinctive Indigenous lived realities, demonstrating that the Indigenous lifeworld encompasses the intertwined intersubjectivities of Indigenous peoplehood and the colonized marginalized Peoples. The scholarship of major sociological theorists is used to support this endeavor. The work of social philosophers on the Western concept of the lifeworld is also deployed. However, it is critical to note that this scholarship is reframed from an Indigenous perspective. As a sociologist I do not reject the discipline’s canon but rather apply

14   Maggie Walter established sociological insights to who we, as Indigenous Peoples, are and how we “be” as Indigenous Peoples, within our own sociocultural worlds, and also as Indigenous subjects within our respective nation-​states. To this end, all named scholars are identified by racial grouping and nationality as a way of situating their scholarship, both geographically and via their relationship to colonialism. But first a disclaimer. This conceptual and theoretical journey is limited in its Indigenous scope. It does not, for example, include Indigenous Peoples from African or Asian contexts. This is a deliberate decision. Indigenous peoplehood is a meta category covering more than 370 million people living across the planet’s inhabited continents (United Nations, 2007). The lived realities of those Peoples are hugely variable, and any attempt to deduce a pan-​Indigenous lifeworld is impossible and pointless. The concept, by definition, is bounded by place, history, and society. Indeed, a presumption that the Indigenous lifeworld can be singularly explained is a colonized and colonizing concept. This section, instead, focuses on Indigenous Peoples with a similar lifeworld: the Indigenous Peoples whose traditional lands are now Anglo-​colonized First World nation-​states.

Colonized Nation-​States and the Lifeworld I am Palawa (Tasmanian Aboriginal) descended from Woretemoeteyenner, an Aboriginal woman from Lutruwita (Tasmania) and an English sealer who came to the Australian colonies as a 16 year old. In Lutruwita my ancestral story is not unique. Nearly all the current Tasmanian Aboriginal population descend from women abducted as workers and concubines by those hunting the fur seal pelts used as the drive belt of industrialization’s machinery. These children of rape and slavery were the only survivors of the brutal, violent, and rapid dispossession of the Palawa from our homelands of over 40,000 years by British colonists in the early 1800s (Walter & Daniels, 2019). Similar stories abound globally. Many, many of us are essentially the (unwanted) byproducts of colonization. Colonization, was, and is, therefore a defining aspect of contemporary Indigenous and non-​Indigenous lived reality in the resultant nation-​states, such as Canada, Australia, Aotearoa New Zealand, and the United States (CANZUS) (Meyer, 2012). But while the source is the same, the impacts are not two sides of the same phenomenon. For the non-​Indigenous population, especially those of Anglo/​Western European descent, colonization is a mechanism of societal transfer. It is the driver that allowed and continues to allow them to construct, in the lands of the dispossessed Indigenous Peoples, a society that was and is organized and operationalized to reflect the social life, social hierarchies, social institutions, and social and cultural mores of their countries of origin (Tuhiwai Smith, 1999). For the dominant societal group, all that has changed is the added benefit of opportunities aligned with Indigenous dispossession and the scenery.

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    15 As an example, as an Aboriginal academic, working in an Australian higher education institution, I often feel that I could just as easily be employed at the University of Surrey, England. The sociological focus—​the theoretical and empirical underpinnings of our undergraduate teaching, our research interests and ambitions—​seems to be almost completely devoid of any real understanding that we, in Australia, are situated in a society founded, through violence, on the lands of Peoples who have occupied the continent for millennia (Walter & Butler, 2013). Our School of Sociology only moved from a British to an Australian undergraduate text in the last decade, and my earlier queries of how students from Tasmania could learn about race via case studies of riots in Brixton, England, were met with bemusement, or with hostility if my critique was deemed too caustic. As White Australian scholar Raewyn Connell (2007), has so ably argued, the sociology of the metropole (Western Europe and North American) has long been considered by its scholars and their colonial counterparts as universally applicable.

Lifeworlds, Social Structure, and Social Construction The term “lifeworld” emerges from Western philosophy’s attempts to understand the subjectivity of lived reality and the complexity of meaning entangled within and through human existence. The critical idea is of the inseparability of human beings and the world they live in. Human experience, it is argued, is the result of co-​constitution via the subjective involvement of an individual in a world that is already meaningful. Human experience is “born of the world, directed to the world, and must be understood with the world as background” (Dahlberg & Dahlberg, 2020, p. 460). White German philosopher Edmund Husserl’s (1859–​1938) phenomenological approach theorized that the taken for grantedness of our embodied realities is revealed not as verifiable truths but as a reflection of social and cultural conditions (Husserl, 1970). As conscious beings, humans incorporate the way in which phenomena (events, objects, ideas, emotions) appear to us in our everyday life as reality. We focus on what we perceive, rather than how we are perceiving. Husserl further argued that to identify the distinctive qualities of experiential phenomenon, researchers needed to suspend presuppositions and judgments so that a clear and unblinkered view of the lifeworld could emerge. Another key figure, White German philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889–​ 1976) took a more interpretive approach, concentrating on what it means to live in and among the world, positioning the individual’s understanding of the world as both interpretive and relational (Heidegger, 1998). From this perspective, what we experience, how we experience, and the meaning we associate with experience is always situated in context (Brooks, 2015). Thus, a core lifeworld function is the transmission of social and cultural meanings and understandings across time. As White German philosopher Jurgen Habermas states, the lifeworld “preserves and transmits the interpretive work

16   Maggie Walter of preceding generations. It forms the symbolic space . . . within which cultural tradition, social integration, and personal identity are sustained and reproduced” (cited in Thompson, 1983, p. 285). Lifeworld’s central proposition is that our way of being is always contextual; it is inseparable from the social, cultural, and physical world in which we exist (Harrington, 2006). Shaped by sociocultural relational positioning and societal practices, we, as people and as Peoples, use our embodied phenomena to interpret and make meaning of everyday lived reality. Sociology does not tend to use the term lifeworld, but the discipline has always questioned taken-​for-​granted understandings of social life and connections between social phenomena. The concept of social structure, for example, incorporates the idea that societies organize themselves along enduring patterns, largely invisible to its members, that shape social realities (Giddens, 2001). Relatedly, the idea of social construction, via White American sociologists Berger and Luckmann (1966), queries the idea of common-​sense knowledge about reality. Analysis centers on the processes by which people come to perceive what is “real” to them as real (Giddens, 2001). White French writer Durkheim similarly termed the highly constraining aspects of social life that shape everyday lived reality as social facts. He posited that these remain largely invisible because their intrinsic belief systems, moral codes, and social mores exist in the social structure not the individual (Van Krieken et al., 2010). German and Jewish, but British-​based, Karl Marx similarly argued that it is not individual consciousness which determines how we see the world, stating that “men make their own history but they do not make it . . . under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past” (Marx, 1852). More latterly, White Frenchman Pierre Bourdieu (1984) used the concept of habitus, whereby an individual or group’s position in three-​dimensional social space (consisting of social, cultural, and economic capital positions) explains how people from similar positions tend to also share a similar worldview. This shared view, especially among groups with the highest levels of social, cultural, and economic capital, leads to a “synthetic unity” (Bourdieu, 1984), a presumption that their worldview is the worldview.

Explaining the Indigenous Lifeworld The vast majority of lifeworlds literature, while theoretically informative, is not readily translatable to Indigenous lived realities. The term “human” is used extensively, but it is clear, although not overtly stated, that the human referred to is presumed to be a White, middle-​class, 20th-​century European male. In the original works of Husserl and Heidegger or in the plethora of contemporary scholarship that now uses the concept, there is little or no consideration of race as a factor in meaning-​making, let alone indigeneity. A literature search finds only several Australian housing studies, by the same mostly non-​Indigenous authors, who use the concept as a way of delineating the differing lifeworlds of Aboriginal tenants and their non-​Indigenous service providers as a key

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    17 source of tension and misunderstanding (see Habibis et al., 2013; Moran et al., 2016). Within this, the authors posit a Habermas-​inspired definition of “[h]‌ow Aboriginal people see the world, the socially acquired shared cultural systems of meaning and everyday understanding including values and lifestyle” (Moran et al., 2016, p. 3). This definition has value but is simplistic. It fails White American sociologist C. Wright Mills’s test that we cannot understand our social worlds unless we are able to grasp the societally embedded intersections between biography and history; a facet absent from this lifeworld description. Defining this intersection as the sociological imagination, Mills (1959, pp. 6–​7) argued that sociologists attempting such an endeavor need to ask three sorts of questions: What is the structure of this particular society as a whole? Where does this society stand in human history? What varieties of men and women now prevail in this society in this period, and what varieties are coming to prevail? Mills’s questions, asked in Anglo-​colonized societies, draw very different responses when asked from an Indigenous as opposed to the normative non-​Indigenous perspective. Not surprisingly, describing a society’s structural components, particular forms and social order, and how they relate to each other differs enormously depending on if you are part of a social group that has reaped and continues to reap the benefits of colonization, or if you are from the Peoples whose near total dispossession is the very foundation of that society. Similarly, an individual’s or group’s take on what is changing in your society, the features of the current historical period, and how social changes are usually made will be at odds if you see that history beginning in the last two hundred years or so, or if your view of your society’s place in history as counted in millennia. Finally, asking what type of men and women prevail, how these are societally shaped, and what is the meaning of “human nature” in this society will largely depend on how your group is positioned within this society—​as displaced Anglo/​Europeans in a new land, or as the displaced Peoples of an ancient land. In CANZUS countries, the Indigenous impact of Anglo colonization is usually framed around inequality. The Indigenous positioning in each of these nations aligns with the lived realities of White Canadian sociologist Noel Dyck’s (1985) definition of the Fourth World as those who are Indigenous but have had their sovereignty appropriated, are minorities within their traditional lands, are culturally stigmatized as well as economically and politically marginalized, and are struggling for social justice. This positioning is accurate, but the contemporary Indigenous lifeworld is much more than marginalization. Anglo-​colonization and its outcomes is a specific, recognizable form of colonialism—​in its origins, its enactment, and its contemporary form and legacies. As White Australian scholar Patrick Wolfe (1999) terms it, colonization is a structure, not an event. Asian American writer Evelyn Nakano Glenn (2015, p. 54) furthers this claim, arguing that Anglo colonization is “a distinct transnational formation whose political and economic projects have shaped and continue to shape race relations in first world nations that were established through settler colonialism.” More critically, Anglo colonization is recognizable by its undergirding set of narratives, logics, and epistemologies (Glenn, 2015). These, in turn, underpin a particular and ongoing set of power relations between the dominant Euro-​descended majority and the colonized Indigenous group.

18   Maggie Walter This relationship is starkly different from the uneven relations between this majority and other population minorities. Palawa sociologist Maggie Walter (2021) names this power intersection set as the “race bind,” a term signifying the Indigenous-​specific bind of being caught between the “lived consequences of highly unequal race relations and the public and political disavowal of the very existence of race-​based inequity.” While Walter discusses the Australian settler-​ colonial nation-​state, the concept has resonance across the Anglo-​colonization sphere. It summarizes what is essentially a racial narrative paradox designed to neutralize the nation-​state’s genesis in Indigenous dispossession via a set of narratives, epistemologies, logics, and grammars. These narratives, epistemologies, logics, and grammars form an inhibiting frame around the contemporary Indigenous lifeworld. Walter (2021) identifies four race-​bind contradictions. The first, the individual racially located deficit, is a version of the moral and cultural differences model of racism (Bobo, 1997). With this simultaneous application of individualized but also racialized logic, the Indigenous position as the most disadvantaged subpopulation in the nation-​ state is refashioned as personal, but distinctly Indigenous, as poor personal behavioral choices and failures. The unbroken link between the processes of colonization and the embedded social-​structural realities of Indigenous lives are erased. The second contradiction is the national pride/​national silence. Here the steadfast settler-​colonial state narrative of egalitarianism is contradicted by an equally steadfast refusal to engage with the nation’s genesis. In this discourse, any referrals to the brutality and injustices of colonization are cast as irrelevant and their very mention an unfair impost on modern-​day non-​Indigenous populations. Next is the aligned racism denial/​racial antipathy contradiction. Manifested in an undercurrent of resentment toward Indigenous Peoples, who by their very presence diminish the nation-​state’s claims to legitimacy, coexists with what Bonilla-​Silva (2010) would label “a sincerely held fiction” that the colonized nation-​state is not racist. Within this view, even overt acts of racism are denied publicly and politically with shouty outrage. The fourth contradiction, reconciliation but no change, is a proclaimed commitment to reconciliation paired with an unwillingness to alter existing dynamics of race relations of power. As an example, the four CANZUS countries were the only countries to vote against the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (United Nations, 2007). Together, these contradictions buttress each other with the incongruencies inherent in the constructs muting alternative narratives, allowing a public denial of Indigenous marginalization without disturbing the embedded racial hierarchy of Indigenous disadvantage and Euro-​settler privilege. These narratives, epistemologies, and logics constrain Indigenous Peoples in these places, but do not define us. Indigenous Peoples living within Anglo-​colonized nation-​ states are also who we have always been, the Peoples of our countries and lands. The “history” and the “biography” intersection that Mills exhorts us to grasp are our Indigenous histories and our Indigenous biographies. We carry both through colonization as we carry them throughout our peoplehood. In the words of renowned Kalkadoon Aboriginal activist Charles Perkins, whose words are now transcribed on

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    19 the wall of the Australian National Museum, “We know we cannot live in the past but the past lives in us.” As Indigenous Peoples in the 21st century, our embedded lived realities, and the social and cultural positioning in which they occur, are not the same as those of our pre-​colonization ancestors. But while colonization has changed our lifeworld forever, we are also more than the sum of Dyck’s Fourth World categories. As Indigenous Peoples we retain our thousands of years of deep history of our lands, culture, traditions and ways of knowing, and being. These distinguish and shape our lived realities and the meanings embedded in their associated epistemologies, narratives, and logics also frame the Indigenous lifeworld. Sami scholar Jelena Porsanger (2004) provides a useful premise for conceptualizing the Indigenous lifeworld. An Indigenous frame, she argues, makes visible what is meaningful in the Indigenous social world via its axis of Indigenous worldviews, perspectives, values, and lived experience. Applying this frame to understanding the Indigenous lifeworld changes the way we perceive the way society is organized and how this is operationalized, its social hierarchies, and its social and cultural mores. Largely happening under the notice of the dominant society, Indigenous Peoples live our lives as Indigenous Peoples. This everyday lived reality is negotiated and understood within distinctive Indigenous circumstances, cultures, and worldviews. These vary across First Nations and urban, regional, or remote settings, but all reflect Indigenous ways of being. The shape and timing of life events, for example, such as achieving adulthood, family formation, or elder status, have distinctive Indigenous patterns. As Quandamooka scholar Karen Martin (2005) points out, the Aboriginal life course is not linear but circular. The passage through childhood is not just about a physical growing up, but also about engaging with the world in ever-​increasing circles of relatedness, not just to family and community, but also to land, waters, skies, animals, plants, and spirits. Martin also observes that to be an elder is not just to be older, but to have “grown up” in the law (p. 6). Similarly, community life, with its interactions, obligations, and norms, is central to, and characteristic of, everyday Indigenous experience and, critically, not extinguished by urban living. For example, data from the Longitudinal Study of Indigenous Children finds that children’s time spent with community elders is positively associated with parents’ rating of their own parental skills, regardless of where the families live (Walter, 2017). The underpinning rationale of the Western lifeworld concept, therefore, has salience for Indigenous lived reality but is not directly applicable. As White Australian writer Jan Lüdert (2010, p. 5) states, “a more precise understanding is necessary to analyze contingent Indigenous realities and their concomitant resistance.” Any conceptualization of the Indigenous lifeworld must incorporate specific Indigenous social and cultural life circumstances, along with our shared ongoing conflicted relationships with the nation-​ states that now govern (and largely possess) our traditional lands (Walter & Suina, 2018). The Indigenous lifeworld is framed through dual intersubjectivities. These are: 1. Intersubjectivity within peoplehood and the ways of being and doing of those Peoples, inclusive of traditional and ongoing culture, belief systems, practices, identity, and ways of understanding the world and our place within it.

20   Maggie Walter 2. Intersubjectivity as colonized, dispossessed marginalized Peoples whose everyday life is framed through and directly impacted by our historical and ongoing relationship and interactions with the colonizing nation-​state. Thus, for Indigenous Peoples such as Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, for Māori, for Native Americans and First Nations, Métis and Inuit, and others, our identity, traditions, belief systems, and everyday practices are geographically and culturally unique. We are distinct peoples. However, our shared positioning as dispossessed, politically marginalized Peoples, experiencing intergenerational and embedded social, economic, and health inequalities and the similarity of our relationships with our colonizing nation-​states, means we share common lifeworld lived realities. This different but also similar contradiction is apparent in the cited example of the positive significant impact on Indigenous parenting skills self-​assessment of the time their children spend with elders. Such elder/​child interactions dually exist within a lifeworld where the embedded positive meaning associated with such continuing cultural practices remains (Intersubjectivity 1), despite the fact that the majority of Indigenous children now live in urban environments in predominantly nuclear family households (Intersubjectivity 2).

The Palawa Lifeworld I empirically support my conceptualization of the Indigenous lifeworld via a mapping of the Palawa lifeworld in Lutruwita across the two intersubjectivities. I first outline a brief history of the Palawa from deep time to the present. The Palawa have lived on and cared for Lutruwita (Tasmania) for at least 45,000 years, and probably much, much longer. Research on pre-​colonization Lutruwita is scarce, but recent work demonstrates that our living patterns varied over the millennia, moving from West to East as the climate varied, with major occupations in coastal areas (Jones et al., 2019). The flooding of the land bridge between Lutruwita/​Tasmania and mainland Australia during the retreat of the last ice age saw the Palawa existing as a discrete and separated population for approximately 12,000 years. Connected by kinship and territory, our ancestors moved around the country in family/​hearth clans as dictated by seasons and cultural traditions, meeting at different sites throughout the year. For example, for the North East nation, the egging season (swans and ducks) saw different bands congregate around the lagoons and estuaries during the winter months. In spring and summer new multiple food sources, including seals and kangaroo, wallaby and possum, were harvested. In the autumn, the chick offspring of the annually migrating mutton bird provided a rich food source in preparation for winter, just as they do today. There are no reliable numbers, but records indicate that in 1800 the Palawa population was between 4,000 and 10,000, spread across nine nations, speaking 6–​12 languages (Ryan, 2013). British colonization began in 1803, with the first recorded killing of Aboriginal People just six months after the establishment of the Risdon Cove site. Simultaneously

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    21 kidnapped to work in the sealing trade, being brutally and relentlessly driven from traditional homelands and hunting grounds, and exposed for the first time to European diseases, the Palawa population plummeted (Reynolds, 2004; Ryan, 2013). The pace of colonization was extreme. What began with two small, struggling settlements supporting penal colonies in 1803–​1804, became, by the 1820s, a large-​scale settler colony fueling an intense demand for “freehold” land from new arrivals. By the mid-​ 1820s the fierce war between the Palawa trying to protect land and people and the colonizers trying to clear the land of Aboriginal people saw the declaration and ruthless enforcement of martial law. By 1830, the less than 500 survivors were forcibly exiled to a purpose-​built “mission” at Wybalenna on Flinders Island. Aided by disease, poor food, and damp, dirty, and close-​quarter housing, the population withered further. By 1847, only 47 of the Wybalenna captives remained. This dispirited group was again forcibly removed to even more unsuitable conditions at Putalina, or Oyster Cove. Truganina’s death in 1876, the last among this group, was marked by the colony as a regrettable, but closing, note to the Aboriginal Peoples of Tasmania (Ryan, 2013)—​a historical footnote of the fate of human obstacles to the interests of empire. Even then colonization continued its onslaught. Despite the clear and visible evidence of descendants, the very existence of Palawa was officially denied by the Tasmanian and Australian governments until the mid-​1980s. In 2020, we number more than 20,000 people, mostly descending from three main families. Our population distribution is still concentrated in the regions where the matriarchs of these families settled during the mid-​1800s. My own Briggs family predominates in the North West of the state. Across the North and the Bass Strait Islands live another large set of families also descended from the offspring of abducted Aboriginal women and sealers. In the South, below Hobart, live the descendants of Fanny Cochrane Smith, who was brought up at Wybalenna by her mother, Tarenootairrer (Ryan, 2013).

The Dual Palawa Lifeworld Intersubjectivities The dual lifeworld intersubjectivities within peoplehood and as colonized Peoples enclose the embodied lived reality of Palawa lives today. Our intersubjectivity within peoplehood reflects, as it has always done, Indigenous ways of being and doing, inclusive of traditional and ongoing culture, belief systems, practices, identity, and ways of understanding the world and our place within it. For the Palawa, the rapid decimation of our population, the suppression of language, culture, and our traditional way of life on Wybalenna, and the denial of our identity into contemporary times impacts our peoplehood. These attacks did not annihilate us as intended, but our peoplehood is not unfettered. Rather, it is bracketed inside the reality of being a colonized, dispossessed people where our capacity to express who we are is framed by our historical and ongoing

22   Maggie Walter interactions with the colonizing nation-​state. This relationship of colonial power and continued oppression ripples through every facet of Palawa life. The visibility of the contemporary lifeworld of Palawa emerges from two sources of knowledge: us, the Palawa, and our Country. These sources tell our story and echo our ontology—​what it means to be Palawa and what is meaningful for Palawa. The contemporary colonized Palawa reality also emerges from People and Country. But here our story is intertwined, in ways that are frequently very difficult to untangle even theoretically, with the reality of being a socioculturally, economically, and politically marginalized people. Country provides a mechanism for elucidating both intersubjectivities. Traversing the terrain makes apparent the survival, and now the thriving, of Palawa peoplehood, but also the continuing constraints and costs of colonization.

Intersubjectivity Within Peoplehood In mid-​2020, Lutruwita is mid-​pandemic and mid-​lockdown. Although we have not had any COVID-​19 cases for months, we are restricted to our island. My husband and I take the opportunity to spend a couple of weeks of leave traveling around Lutruwita. On our way out of Hobart, we cross the area of Kutalayna, where archaeologists have unearthed internationally significant artifacts indicating ongoing human habitation for up to 40,000 years; one of the oldest known places of human habitation in the Southern Hemisphere (Thompson, 2020). Traveling quickly up the east coast of Lutruwita, we cross the lands of the Oyster Bay nation and skirt the lands of the Ben Lomond People. Finally, at Larapuna/​Bay of Fires, so named because of the many hearth fires observed by colony ships as they journeyed between Hobart Town and New South Wales (Walter & Daniels, 2019), we enter the North East nation, our matriarch Woretemoeteyenner’s traditional country. These lands are predominantly dry, open forested country and dominated by Wukalina/​Mt. William. With the land fired regularly to keep the marsupial lawns open, the plains below provide good hunting country and there are abundant kangaroos, wallabies, possums, and wombats. Bounded on two sides by the sea, seals, abalone, crayfish, and other shellfish are plentiful and the tea tree stands provide a plentiful supply of spear wood, then and now. My family shares these links to Country with most other Tasmanian Aborigines via our shared descent from the survivor offspring of nine women and their sealer abductors (Mollison & Everitt, 1978). Of these Palawa mothers, four, including Woretemoeteyenner, were the daughters of the local bungana (leader) Mannalargenna. These women were also the keepers of knowledge, maintaining traditional customs and practices throughout their captivity (Plomley, 1987). Today, our community celebrates these mothers and our patriarch, Mannalargenna, through an annual sharing of our traditional foods, singing, dancing, art, and culture. All are welcome. The site of this celebration is Little Musselroe Point. Flanked by the large plains behind the rolling white sand dunes that mark the coast, the beach is breathtaking. Clean, unmarked, nearly pure

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    23 white sand surrounds twin bays of glittering water. Cape Barren geese, prized along with swan for their meat, cross our path as we drive the dirt road. When last here in January we had our grandchildren with us. I reflect how glad I am that we practiced culture together, collecting bull kelp from among the other seaweeds for fashioning carrier baskets. Wet bull kelp is highly malleable, but dry it is hard, tough, waterproof, and light—​perfect for easy carrying. The crafting of such goods was women’s responsibility. Woretemoeteyenner would have made many such carriers along with the intricate woven grass baskets unique to our people. We spent a wonderful afternoon working the kelp into reasonable, if amateurish, versions of carriers, and the now dried efforts sit proudly along a windowsill in our home. Traveling along Lutruwita’s north coast we note the kerosene plant, perfect for making fires with drills. Also, a skeletonized forester kangaroo, obviously road kill. Its sharp pointed jawbone pushed holes in the Maireener shells to make traditional necklaces. Into the lands of the North East nation is Launceston. On the banks of Kanamaluka/​ Tamar River it is the site of the northern colonial settlement post, the failure of the original Yorktown, further up river. Now home to a significant Aboriginal population and the base for those living on Cape Barren and Flinders Islands, Launceston hosts the Aboriginal Elders Council of Tasmania and other Aboriginal organizations, providing services to community. After a few days respite we travel onward, past Dunorlan. In 1841, following a petition to the colonial government, Woretemoeteyenner was released into the care of her daughter Dalrymple Briggs, the only Palawa ever so released. She spent her last six years taking her grandchildren food gathering in the hills behind (Plomley, 1991). By week two we have traveled through the lush farmlands of the far North West. It was from here that the last known free Palawa family was located in 1842. The children were sent to the Orphan School in Hobart. One of those children was William Lanne, now recorded as the last surviving traditional Palawa man (Turnbull, 2018). Heading down the west coast we turn down the dusty road to Preminghana, a site of roughly 5.5 square kilometers and one of the nine sites handed back to the Aboriginal community in 1995 via the Aboriginal Lands Act (1995). The titles are vested with the Aboriginal Land Council of Tasmania (Parliament of Tasmania 2000). It is wildly beautiful with a sweeping coast framed by a mountain descending straight to the sea. This site is significant for the large number of petroglyphs carved into a cliff face. Now managed by the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre, signage welcomes visitors in palawa kani, the Aboriginal language of Lutruwita, which has been reconstructed since 1990 via a rigorous community developed program (Tasmanian Aboriginal Corporation, n.d.b). Further down the west coast we pass the towns of Zeehan and Queenstown. This is wild county with a colonial history of aggressive mining and is now in decline, with many areas quickly returning to dense bush. It is also the site of strong Aboriginal presence. The Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area occupying the bottom half of this coast is internationally recognized under four natural and three cultural values and the whole area is deemed an Aboriginal cultural landscape (Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment, 2016). Skirting this area, our travels take us

24   Maggie Walter through the fading and decaying colonial townships of Hamilton and Ouse. Set up to resemble traditional English villages, these towns now seem increasingly out of place, jarring in the broad sweep of the Lutruwita plains, mountains, and the remnants of Aboriginal fired marsupial plains. Coming back toward Hobart brings the looming presence of a mountain overlooking the city into view. Named by the colonial authorities as Mount Wellington after the British Duke of Wellington, the mountain was dual-​named Kunanyi in 2014, restoring the name by which it was known for many thousands of years. There are now 16 sites around Tasmania where the dual-​naming process has been completed (Tasmanian Aboriginal Corporation, n.d.a).

Intersubjectivity Within Colonization The ongoing structure of colonization is also observable in Country and People. The everyday reality of Palawa People reflects the continuing processes of colonization. The Aboriginal population in Tasmania, making up just under five percent of the total, is socioeconomically and demographically disadvantaged. Like Anglo-​ colonized Indigenous Peoples across the globe, we are younger, poorer, sicker, and less educated. Figures from the latest Australian Census show that our median age is 23 years, compared to 42 years for the non-​Indigenous population; our median weekly personal income is lower ($473 compared to $573); we are nearly twice as likely to be unemployed (12.8% compared to 7.0%); nearly half (45%) of us are home renters rather than owner-​ occupiers, compared to just 27% of non-​Indigenous Tasmanians; and just 5.5 percent of us hold an educational qualification of bachelor’s degree or higher, compared to 16 percent for the non-​Indigenous population (Australia Bureau of Statistics, 2016). Our journey through Country reflects this lived reality of being a colonized People. The main route out of Hobart passes a large statue of William Crowther, a medical officer at the Hobart General Hospital and premier of the colony for 10 months in 1879. But Crowther is better known for his desecration and mutilation of the body of William Lanne in 1869, breaking into the mortuary and removing and skinning Lanne’s skull, just hours after his death. Crowther’s statue makes no mention of Lanne, instead referring to his “[z]‌ealous political and professional service in this colony.” Numerous requests by the Aboriginal community for the statue’s removal have been made, without effect. In 1990, Lanne’s skull was located by the Aboriginal community at the University of Edinburgh (Turnbull, 2018). Two blocks further down is the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG), where Palawa woman Truganini’s skeleton was put on public display until 1949 and held by the museum until 1976. After a prolonged and bitter battle, her remains were finally released to the Aboriginal community for cremation, as per her final wishes. A little further on is the site of the 2019 University of Tasmania public apology to Palawa for past wrongdoings, which includes involvement in the disinterment of Palawa remains. The university was the first Tasmanian institution to formally apologize, with long-​delayed formal apologies being delivered by the Royal Society and TMAG in 2021.

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    25 Driving into South East nation’s country, we travel along the Brighton Bypass toward the archaeologically valuable riverside site at Kutalayna. Deemed an obstacle to road works, in 2012, despite the intensive political and protest campaign led by the Tasmanian Aboriginal Corporation, the site was irretrievably damaged by the pylons dug to support a bridge. Ironically, a bit further back, the bypass route was carefully plotted to avoid several colonial era buildings. Our journey sees us passing through town after town with names directly transplanted from England, such as Swansea and Orford. Up the east coast we enter Woretemoeteyenner’s North East nation. At Larapuna/​Eddystone Point, another small piece of land handback, we drive by a reed-​filled wetland, a home for numerous native hens and black swans. Culturally, swan eggs signify trust, and Mannalargenna gave swan eggs to George Augusts Robinson to indicate that he believed colonial government assurances that if the Palawa went to the Bass Strait Islands they could live unmolested according to their traditional ways and later return to Lutruwita (Plomley, 1966). Such promises, of course, were never meant to be honored. From the northeastern corner of Lutruwita, Little Musselroe Bay, we can see Cape Barren Island, the current home of many Palawa. The island was returned in 2005 but was operated as an Aboriginal Reserve from 1881 until 1951, despite the stated position of the Tasmanian government that the Palawa were extinct. During the 20th century, many Aboriginal children from here were removed from their families by state authorities. Beyond Cape Barren we can just see Mt. Strzelecki on Flinders Island. Behind lies Wybalenna with its ruins of the church deemed so necessary by our people’s captors. The graves of many of our people are here, including that of Mannalargenna. But these likely hold no bones. Most were desecrated for their anthropologically valuable contents, from the mid-​1800s right up to the mid-​20th century, to be sold into the “collections” of European museums and institutions. Driving along the North West coast we pass the edge of the Central Highlands. Here, just a few days ago, the new dual-​naming signage for yingina/​Great Lake had been vandalized, with the Aboriginal name painted over with a racist slur (The Mercury, 2020). Yet in Lutruwita, evidence that this is Aboriginal country is everywhere. The midden lines ripple through the banks of the sand dunes. Oyster and werrina shells, larger than any found today, are abundant among the bushes back from the winds indicating where our people cooked and ate. Driven on, walked upon, built upon, and bulldozed flat without thought or recognition, the country bears physical witness of our peoplehood. The current silence in these places bears witness to our position as a colonized people. Yet the deep Aboriginal history of Lutruwita remains a fraught topic. At the first mention in non-​Indigenous social spaces, you can feel the discomfort rising exponentially, usually followed by censure through awkward silence, or direct hostility. Even those who see themselves as allies find talk of colonial and contemporary injustices uncomfortable. But truth-​telling is the prerequisite of any meaningful dialogue between those who are the dispossessed survivors of attempted genocide and those who reaped the benefit of those acts. Such truth-​telling seems no closer in 2021 than it was in 1920, despite recent talk from the Tasmania State government of the possibility of truth-​telling and treaty.

26   Maggie Walter Rather, the formal history of Lutruwita, even now, almost always still begins, abruptly, with the arrival of the first European settlers. Mentions of the Aboriginal Peoples of this place remains notional, tending to get the Aborigines over and done with in the first few pages or exhibits. At the northwestern point of Tasmania is Cape Grim. Here the Cape Grim Baseline Air Pollution Station (CGBAPS) measures pollutants in the air that is blown across the Indian Ocean and uncontaminated by point sources. Cape Grim is also known for an 1828 massacre, when at least 30 Palawa men, women, and children were shot by shepherds and their bodies thrown to the rocks below (McFarlane, 2006). More recently, in 1994, the Tasmanian Aboriginal community buried the repatriated skull of William Lanne here in a ceremony spoken entirely in palawa kani, the reconstructed Tasmanian Aboriginal language. As we turn down the west coast, we are in an area dubbed the Western Tasmanian Aboriginal Cultural Landscape. Given national heritage protection in 2010, the site is one of intense political and legal contestation. In 2012 about 37 kilometers of four-​ wheel-​drive tracks were closed to stop damage to the over 100 individually registered Aboriginal heritage sites within 500 meters of the track. Since then, the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre has had to fight legal battles with successive state governments to keep the tracks closed. Outraged non-​Indigenous local four-​wheel drivers have been publicly supported to be returned access to these tracks, arguing that four-​wheel driving in the area is their “heritage” (Wahlquist, 2017). Here also is Preminghana, home to petroglyphs estimated to be 3,000–​8,000 years old. But these petroglyphs are incomplete. In the late 1960s the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery sawed off carvings from their ancient rock homes for display in the museum. After nearly 50 years of Palawa demands, in late 2019 the Board of Trustees finally determined that these be returned once the “necessary arrangements and approvals are in place.” How long this will take is uncertain (Grant & Hosier, 2019).

Conclusion The lifeworld of the Indigenous Peoples whose lands and lives have been and continue to be Anglo-​colonized are vibrant, active worlds, awash with traditional and contemporary cultural meaning. But this lived reality is encumbered. No matter how strong our Indigenous knowledge systems, our practice of our cultural identity, or our care for Country, this lived reality remains embedded in our position as disenfranchised, marginalized lived reality as colonized Indigenous Peoples. Regardless, our lands and our Peoples remain colonized, and this cannot be undone. Engaging with the concept of our distinctive ontological realities, not separate spheres but as dual and intermingled subjectivities allows us, Indigenous Peoples, to resist colonizing processes and fight inequality while simultaneously insisting on our rights to live our lives as the Indigenous Peoples of our lands.

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    27 The discipline of sociology, however, even or especially that being practiced in Anglo-​colonized nation-​states, remains aloof from, and unengaged with, the Indigenous lifeworld. It might be argued that because the vast majority of sociologists in colonized nation-​states are not Indigenous and primarily, racially, White, the Indigenous aspect of their society does not have resonance with them. I have heard this explanation, but it is just a pat response. Such lack of Indigenous engagement also requires a sociological practice that cannot, and will not, provide any real understanding of the social world around them. And if sociology cannot do that, then what is its point? Indigenous lifeworld avoidance ignores Mills’s (1959) core tenet of the sociological imagination: to grasp the societally embedded intersections between biography and history. In colonized nation-​states, biography and history have unique and ongoing life-​trajectory-​altering dimensions, for Indigenous as well as non-​Indigenous populations. To ignore this essential sociological juncture is a failure to act sociologically. Such sociological practice also avoids fully answering Mills’s essential sociological questions: What is the structure of this society, where does it stand in human history, and what varieties of people prevail? Mills’s questions all invoke the central role of colonization, contemporaneously, in shaping society, its specific colonial place in human history, and why some social groupings, culture and mores prevail over and dominate others. Why would sociological practitioners avoid what might be deemed the basic disciplinary function? I look to the work of African American Sociologist C. W. Mills (1997, pp. 18–​19) for an explanation. Mills argues that being racially White means practicing an “epistemology of ignorance.” This epistemology of ignorance is a self-​ deluding device that precludes self-​transparency and a genuine understanding of social realities and the White world that they themselves both create and sustain. As such, the practice involves “misunderstanding, misrepresentation, evasion, and self-​ deception on matters related to race.” From this theoretical stance, it makes sense that many CANZUS nation sociology departments largely act as if they were sociology departments based in the United Kingdom. This nonsensical positioning allows sociology to be practiced within a bubble, removed from the lived realities of their nation-​ states. But to practice your discipline as if the lands on which you practice are not lands that have been forcibly occupied, to view the society that is your disciplinary focus as somehow completely divorced from its origins and the core structures of colonization, and to pretend that Indigenous Peoples and their lifeworlds are marginal to understanding that society, requires the application of a group epistemology of ignorance on an industrial scale.

References Australia Bureau of Statistics. (2016). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Population—​ Tasmania. https://​www.abs.gov.au/​ausst​ats/​[email protected]/​Loo​kup/​by%20Subj​ect/​2071.0~2016 ~Main%20F​ e atu ​res~Abo​r igi​nal%20and%20Tor​ res%20Str​ ait%20I​ slan​ der%20Pop​ u lat​ ion%20-​%20T​asma​nia~10006

28   Maggie Walter Berger, P. L., & Luckmann, T. (1966). The social construction of reality: A treatise in the sociology of knowledge. Garden City, NY: Anchor Books. Bobo L. D. (1997). Race, public opinion, and the social sphere. Public Opinion Quarterly, 61(1), 1–​15. Bonilla-​Silva, Eduardo. (2010). Racism without racists: Colour-​blind racism and the persistence of racial inequality in the United States. 3rd ed. Lanham, MD: Rowman &Littlefield. Bourdieu, P. (1984). Distinction: A social critique of the judgement of taste (R. Nice, Trans.). London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Brooks, J. (2015, August). Learning from the “lifeworld.” The Psychologist, 28. https://​thep​sych​ olog​ist.bps.org.uk/​vol​ume-​28/​aug​ust-​2015/​learn​ing-​lifewo​rld Clark, C. M. H. (2006). A Short History of Australia. Melbourne: Penguin Books. Comte, A. (1865). A General View of Positivism (J. H. Bridges, Trans.). London: Trubner and Co. (Reissued by Cambridge University Press, 2009) Connell, R. (2007). Southern theory: The global dynamics of knowledge in social science. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin. Dahlberg, H., & Dahlberg K. (2020). Open and reflective lifeworld research: A third way. Qualitative Inquiry, 26(5), 458–​464. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​10778​0041​9836​696 de Tocqueville, A. (2000). Democracy in America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Deloria, V., Jr. (1969). Custer died for your sins: An Indian manifesto. New York: Macmillan. Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment. (2016) Tasmanian World Heritage Area Management Plan. Hobart: DPIPWE. https://​dpi​pwe.tas.gov.au/​conse​rvat​ ion/​tasman​ian-​wil​dern​ess-​world-​herit​age-​area-​(twwha)/​twwha-​man​agem​ent-​plan Durkheim, E. (1976). The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life. London: George Allen and Unwin. (Original work published 1912) Dyck, N. (1985). Indigenous Peoples and the nation-​state: “Fourth world” politics in Canada, Australia, and Norway. St. Johns, NL: Institute of Social and Economic Research. Grant, C., & Hosier, P. (2019, December 12). Sacred Aboriginal petroglyphs to be returned by Tasmania Museum and Art Gallery. ABC News.https://​www.abc.net.au/​news/​2019-​12-​12/​ tasma​nia-​abo​rigi​nal-​petr​ogly​phs-​to-​be-​retur​ned-​by-​tmag/​11793​568 Giddens, A. (2001). Sociology. London: Polity Press. Glenn, E. N. (2015). Settler colonialism as structure: A framework for comparative studies of US race and gender formation. Sociology of Race and Ethnicity, 1(1), 54–​74. Habibis, D., Memmott, P., Phillips, R., Go-​Sam, C., Keys, C., & Moran, M. (2013). Housing conditionality, Indigenous lifeworlds and policy outcomes: Towards a model for culturally responsive housing provision. AHURI Final Report no. 212. Melbourne: Australian Housing and Urban Research Institute Limited. https://​www.ahuri.edu.au/​resea​rch/​final-​repo​rts/​212 Habibis, D., & Walter, M. (2014). Social inequality: Discourses, realities and directions (2nd ed.). Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Harrington, A. (2006). Lifeworld. Theory, Culture & Society, 23(2–​3), 341–​343. http://​journ​als .sage​pub.com/​doi/​pdf/​10.1177/​026​3276​4060​2300​259 Heidegger, M. (1998) Being and Time (J. Macquarie & E. Robinson, Trans.). Oxford: Blackwell. (Original work published 1927) Husserl, Edmund. (1970). The crisis of European sciences and transcendental phenomenology. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. (Original work published 1954) Jones, P. J., Williamson, G., Bowman, D., & Lefroy. E. C. (2019). Mapping Tasmania’s cultural landscapes: Using habitat suitability modelling of archaeological sites as a landscape history tool. Journal of Biogeography, 46(11), 2570–​2582. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​jbi.13684

Conceptualizing and Theorizing the Indigenous Lifeworld    29 Lüdert, J. (2010). Habermas revisited: Indigenous lifeworld(s) today. Indigenous Policy Journal, 21(4), 1–​7. Martin, K. (2005). Childhood, lifehood and relatedness: Aboriginal ways of being, knowing and doing. In J. Phillips & J. Lampert, Eds.), Introductory Indigenous studies in education (pp. 27–​40). Frenchs Forest, NSW: Pearson. Marx, K. (1852). The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. World History Commons. https://​worl​dhis​tory​comm​ons.org/​karl-​marx-​eig​htee​nth-​bruma​ire-​louis-​bonapa​rte McFarlane, I. (2006). The Cape Grim massacre. In A. Alexander (Ed.), The companion to Tasmanian history. https://​www.utas.edu.au/​libr​ary/​com​pani​on_​t​o_​ta​sman​ian_​hist​ory/​C/​ Cape%20G​rim%20M​assa​cre.htm The Mercury. (2020, September 21). Vandal against the dual naming of Tasmanian locations damages signs. https://​www.the​merc​ury.com.au/​news/​north-​west-​coast//​news-​story/​ daf9a​2583​788f​5992​f1d3​6161​c497​680 Merriam-​Webster. (n.d.) Sociology. Retrieved October 10, 2012, from https://​www.merr​iam -​webs​ter.com/​dic​tion​ary/​sociol​ogy Meyer, W. H. (2012). Indigenous rights, global governance, and state sovereignty. Human Rights Review, 13(3), 327–​347. Mills. C. W. (1959). The sociological imagination. New York: Oxford University Press. Mills, C. W. (1997). The racial contract. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Mollison, B., & Everitt, C. (1978). The Tasmanian Aborigines and their descendants (chronology, genealogies and social data). Hobart: University of Tasmania. Moran, M., Memmott, P., Habibis, D., Birdsall-​Jones, C., Fantin, S., & Phillips R. (2016). Indigenous lifeworlds, conditionality and housing outcomes. AHURI Final Report no. 260. Melbourne: Australian Housing and Urban Research Institute Limited. https://​www.ahuri .edu.au/​resea​rch/​final-​repo​rts/​260 Parliament of Tasmania. (2000). Legislative Council Select Committee: Aboriginal Lands Report. https://​www.par​liam​ent.tas.gov.au/​ctee/​old_​ct​ees/​repo​rts/​abrep​ort.pdf Plomley, N. J. B. (1966). Friendly mission: The Tasmanian journals and papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829–​1834. Hobart: Tasmanian Historical Research Association. Plomley, N. J. B. (1987). Weep in silence: A history of the Flinders Island Aboriginal settlement, with the Flinders Island journal of George Augustus Robinson, 1835–​1839. Hobart: Blubber Head Press. Plomley, N. J. B. (1991). The Westlake Papers: Records of interviews in Tasmania by Ernest Westlake, 1908–​1910. Occasional Paper no. 4. Launceston: Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery. Pool, I. (2015). Colonization and development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900: The seeds of Rangiatea. Amsterdam: Springer. Porsanger, J. (2004). An essay about Indigenous methodology. Tromsø: Arctic University of Norway. http://​munin.uit.no/​bitstr​eam/​han​dle/​10037/​906/​arti​cle.pdf.?seque​nce=​1 Reynolds, H. (2004). Fate of a free people. Camberwell, Victoria: Penguin. Ryan, L. (2013). The Tasmanian Aborigines. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Tasmanian Aboriginal Corporation (TAC). (n.d.a). Aboriginal and dual names of places in Lutruwita (Tasmania). Hobart: TAC. http://​tac​inc.com.au/​offic​ial-​abo​rigi​nal-​and-​dual-​names Tasmanian Aboriginal Corporation (TAC). (n.d.b). Palawa kani. Hobart: TAC. http://​tac​inc .com.au/​progr​ams/​pal​awa-​kani/​ Thompson, J. B. (1983). Rationality and social rationalization: An assessment of Habermas’s theory of communicative action. Sociology, 17(2), 278–​294.

30   Maggie Walter Thompson, A. (2020, November 20). The day the dozers came for kutalayna. SBS. https://​www .sbs.com.au/​top​ics/​voi​ces/​cult​ure/​arti​cle/​2020/​11/​03/​day-​doz​ers-​came-​kutala​yna Tuhiwai Smith, L. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. Dunedin: Zed Books. Turnbull, P. (2018). Science, museums and collecting the Indigenous dead in colonial Australia. London: Palgrave Macmillan. United Nations General Assembly. (2007). United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. A/​RES/​61/​295. https://​www.un.org/​deve​lopm​ent/​desa/​indige​nous​peop​ les/​decl​arat​ion-​on-​the-​rig​hts-​of-​ind​igen​ous-​peop​les.html Van Krieken, R., Habibis, D., Smith, P., Hutchins, B., Marton, G., & Maton. K. (2010). Sociology. Frenchs Forest, NSW: Pearson Australia. Wahlquist, C. (2017, September 17). Indigenous groups decry Tasmania off-​road vehicle plan: “This is destruction.” The Guardian. https://​www.theg​uard​ian.com/​austra​lia-​news/​2017/​ sep/​12/​ind​igen​ous-​gro​ups-​decry-​tasma​nia-​off-​road-​vehi​cle-​plan-​this-​is-​dest​ruct​ion Walter, M. (2017). Doing Indigenous family. In M. Walter, K. L. Martin, & G. Bodkin-​Andrews (Eds.), Indigenous children growing up strong: A longitudinal study of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander families (pp. 123–153). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Walter, M. (2021, in press). The racial burden of disregard: Aboriginal life in Darwin. Canadian Review of Sociology. Walter, M., & Butler, K. (2013). Teaching race to teach indigeneity. Journal of Sociology. 49(4), 397–​410. Walter, M., & Daniels, L. (2019). Woretemoeteryenner (c. 1795–​1847). In Australian Dictionary of Biography. Canberra: National Centre of Biography. http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biogra​phy/​ wor​etem​oete​ryen​ner-​29701 Walter M, & Suina, M. (2018). Indigenous data, Indigenous methodologies and Indigenous data sovereignty. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 22(3), 233–​243. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​13645​579.2018.1531​228 Wikipedia. (2021a). Province of Canada. https://​en.wikipe​dia.org/​wiki/​Pro​vinc​e_​of​_​Can​ada Wolfe, P. (1999). Settler colonialism and the transformation of anthropology: The politics and the poetry of an ethnographic event. London: Cassell.

Chapter 3

Al l of Ou r Re l at i ons Indigenous Sociology and Indigenous Lifeworlds Tahu Kukutai

Introduction This groundbreaking anthology—​the first of its kind—​comprises an extraordinarily rich collection of Indigenous sociological scholarship. Underpinning the diverse contributions is a common, often unstated, standpoint: Indigenous sociology is best placed to comprehend the lifeworlds of Indigenous Peoples. As Maggie Walter details in her opening chapter, Indigenous lifeworlds are structured by a legacy of dispossession and ongoing colonialism, and by enduring peoplehood rooted in culture, knowledge systems, and ways of being. Neither polar opposites, nor mutually constituted, these dual intersubjectivities interact to shape Indigenous lives in ways that Western sociology has remained stubbornly blind to. This chapter offers a perspective on what makes Indigenous sociology distinctive, and why it is important. It is less concerned with ‘ “speaking back” or “up” to the sociological discipline and canon than with situating Indigenous sociology on its own terms. These terms, I argue, are inherently relational. Whether relationships between Indigenous and Western knowledge systems, humans and the natural world, researchers and communities, or colonizing nation-​states and Indigenous nations, Indigenous sociology is animated by connection. Being Indigenous to Aotearoa New Zealand, the term that best embodies this relationality is the Māori concept of whakapapa. Often used as a synonym for genealogy (a noun), whakapapa is also a verb that means to place in layers (Mika, 2014). I explore the multiple meanings of whakapapa—​and its relevance for relational sociology—​in the context of a genealogical project with a hapū (subtribe) that I descend from. The chapter concludes by looking from the inside out to briefly consider the implications of Indigenous sociology for Western sociology. This is far from what White Australian sociologist Raewyn Connell (2018) calls “extraversion”—​a longing gazing

32   Tahu Kukutai toward the Global North. Rather, it is a prompt for fellow sociologists to consider how they might begin to disrupt the knowledge hierarchies that maintain the marginalization of Indigenous Peoples and scholarship within the discipline.

Sociology and Imperialism As with all social sciences, sociology and imperialism are inextricably intertwined. Sociology is “part of the global economy of knowledge that grew out of the imperial traffic in knowledge” (Connell, 2018, p. 400). Nevertheless, most sociological studies fail to make these connections, or to engage meaningfully with the implications. Steinmetz (2014) notes that in countries like France and Britain, sociologists’ amnesia about their discipline’s engagement in the colonial empires set in almost immediately at the end of the colonial era, as public opinion and common sense turned against colonialism and empire. . . . Current sociological research on empires, colonies, and postcolonialism is therefore emerging without much awareness of sociology’s own theoretical and empirical work in this area. (p. 78)

This “forgetting” is convenient—​it erases the stain of imperialism from sociology’s own genealogy, while obviating the need to engage with ways of thinking and doing sociology that diverge from the disciplinary foundations lain by white forefathers. Tied to this is the implicit assumption that sociological knowledge is universal. Claims to abstract knowledge that is applicable across time and place may be eschewed by Indigenous sociologists and those from the Global South, but also have ongoing legitimacy within the discipline. Proponents are wedded, sometimes quite strongly, to the view that “one social science can work for all” (Connell, 2018, p. 404). Portuguese decolonial scholar Boaventura de Sousa Santos (2018) calls this the “zero-​point perspective”—​the point of view that assumes having no point of view. Those engaged in seeing do not question, or even acknowledge, the position from which they see, speak, and know. This zero-​ point perspective serves to perpetuate a form of abstract universalism that both claims to produce “a knowledge which is detached from all spatio-​temporal determination and claims to be eternal” and “is emptied of body and content, and of its location within the cartography of global power from which it produces knowledge” (Grosfugel, 2012, p. 90). This may not be deliberate in intent, but it is nevertheless consequential. Entangled with claims of universalism are processes of exclusion and the marginalization of Indigenous knowledges and ways of knowing (Smith, 1999). The term epistemicide has been used to describe the erasure of marginalized voices, including Indigenous ones, from global sites of institutional knowledge formation and dissemination (de Sousa Santos, 2014). The view that “West is best” is not a relic of the past. Indigenous sociologists, and Indigenous sociology, remain on the margins of sociological research. In scholarship generated in the colonial settler states, Indigenous Peoples

All of Our Relations    33 tend to be viewed primarily as case studies for testing or illustrating theories of phenomena deemed sociologically important to a Western audience—​including, for example, theories of ethnic boundaries, collective action, and deviancy. When featured, Indigenous Peoples tend to be socially situated as an “at risk” population, a social issue, or a problem in need of a (non-​Indigenous) solution. Social statistics play a large part in consolidating the narrative of the problem Indigene. Walter (2016) calls this the 5D Indigenous data—​data that focus on difference, disparity, disadvantage, dysfunction, and deprivation. More often than not, Indigenous Peoples are simply excluded from the literature as irrelevant. There are myriad ways to evidence this invisibility. Take, for example, the Annual Review of Sociology (ARS), the premier disciplinary journal covering significant developments in the field. Established in 1975, it reviews major theoretical and methodological developments as well as current research in the major subfields. Given the domination of United States scholarship, one might ask what the journal has to offer for understanding the sociology of American Indians, the first people of that land. The answer is: very little. A search of ARS from 1975 to 2022 shows just one paper with “American Indian” in either the title or keywords—​a paper by Oklahoma Nation of Cherokee sociologist C. Matthew Snipp (1992). Snipp is one of only two American Indian sociologists to have published papers in ARS—​the other is Chickasaw Nation sociologist Rebecca Sandefur (2008), whose review explored access to civil justice and race, class, and gender inequality. A search on the term “Indigenous” in article titles or keywords returns no papers. In the last decade, Indigenous Peoples only appear in passing in ARS papers relating to mortality and life expectancy (Crimmins & Zhang, 2019), Latin American regional social movements (Inclán, 2018), and settler colonies and internal colonialism (Steinmetz, 2014). As the second-​highest-​ranking sociology journal anywhere in the world, ARS is extremely selective—​most sociologists will never publish their work in it. Nevertheless, even accounting for processes of selectivity, the absence of Indigenous topics sends a clear message: that the work of Indigenous sociologists and topics of relevance to Indigenous Peoples are literally beyond the pale. Moreover, if Indigenous sociologists want to be publishable, they have to frame their scholarship within Western ontologies and demonstrate a methodological approach that shows a clear separation from the topic at hand in order to retain objectivity and therefore credibility.

Indigenous Sociology The insistence on separation as the only legitimate pathway to sociological knowledge runs deeply through the discipline. One only has to consider the relationship between structure and agency that goes to the heart of the sociological endeavor. Amid the great variety of sociological theories and methodologies, one of the discipline’s defining features is the focus on how social processes shape human lives. Workaday assumptions

34   Tahu Kukutai about social life, and one’s place in it, are held up, shaken, and upended under the sociological gaze. The ability to see and make sense of the connections between broad social forces and personal experience is what white American sociologist C. Wright Mills (1959) called “the sociological imagination.” For Mills, and many of those that followed, this form of seeing requires a separation of personal circumstances to take stock of the broader context, and the societal values, norms, and structures at play. From an Indigenous standpoint (Nakata, 2007), a number of problems arise from this separation. Lifeworld’s central proposition is that our way of being is always contextual—​it is inseparable from the social, cultural, and physical world in which we exist (Walter & Suina, 2019). Seen in this way, it makes no sense to insist that separation from our own Indigenous contexts will enable us to see ourselves with greater clarity and sociological insight. This leads to larger questions about taken-​for-​granted underlying concepts in sociology. For example, what does agency mean from an Indigenous standpoint? Given that Indigenous relationality includes genealogical connections and responsibilities to Mother Earth—​responsibilities that are increasingly recognized in nation-​state laws1—​how does sociology begin to make sense of these more-​than-​ human connections? Are they central to Indigenous sociology? Or are they deemed beyond scope? These questions are important for Indigenous sociology, and are directly addressed in chapters throughout this volume (see, for example, Watts’s chapter), but have warranted little serious consideration within mainstream sociological discussion and debate. It is important to note that relational Indigenous sociology bears little resemblance to the Indigenous sociologies of the post-​independence movements of the 1960s. Born of a particular era, and seeking to break from the brutal vestiges of colonialism, theorists of the time offered a highly particularistic approach to sociology. In rejecting the universalistic claims of Northern sociology, Patel (2021) argues that post-​independence theorists reinscribed the “racist/​ethnic/​patriarchal perceptions of their regions/​nation-​states” and became “trapped in the universals constituted by their own culturist-​nationalist positions” (p. 377). A relational approach to Indigenous sociology averts insularity and essentialism in that it: •​ promotes flexibility in theoretical and methodological approaches; • centers Indigenous knowledges and perspectives but also allows for the incorporation of other knowledges that help make sense of Indigenous lifeworlds; • takes seriously the intergenerational impacts of colonialism on Indigenous identities, institutions, and life chances in ways that counter and challenge discourses about “model” or “modal” Indigenes; and •​ addresses the complex forces that enable collective Indigenous ways of knowing and being to persist simultaneously with the well-​documented intrapopulation 1  See, for example, the Law of the Rights of Mother Earth in Bolivia, which has granted a limited form of legal personhood to natural environment, and the recognition of the Whanganui River as a legal entity in Aotearoa NZ in the Te Awa Tupua (Whanganui River Claims Settlement) Bill.

All of Our Relations    35 heterogeneity in Indigenous identity, language, and culture. (Kukutai & Pool, 2014; McIntosh, 2005) Like most of the contributors in this book, I do not seek a turning away from sociology. Analytical tools such as race, class, and gender are still useful and important, even if they remain conceptually rooted within Western approaches. Here it is helpful to distinguish between the sociology of Indigenous Peoples and issues, on the one hand, and Indigenous sociology, on the other. While the former can help to illuminate aspects of Indigenous lifeworlds, it need not actively seek to disrupt existing power arrangements. By contrast, Indigenous sociology is fundamentally premised on a commitment to transformation (Kidman, 2018). This defining feature shapes the types of sociological questions asked, the methodologies used, the solutions proffered, and the knowledge systems that are deployed. In Aotearoa NZ, there is a growing appreciation that working at the research interface of Indigenous and Western knowledge and disciplines is a strength, rather than a contradiction (Ruru & Nikora, 2021). In my own sociological and demographic research, I am willing and able to deploy multiple knowledge systems and methods. At times one may dominate the other; at other times they will be in balance. Regardless, my standpoint remains firmly embedded in my identity as a wahine Māori (Māori woman), and with that comes layers of genealogical connection and responsibility.

Indigenous Sociology in Practice: A Whakapapa Approach Having surveyed key precepts of a relational Indigenous sociology, this section describes its application in the context of an historical genealogical project undertaken with Ngāti Tiipa, a Māori hapū in Aotearoa NZ. Hapū are the building blocks of Māori society—​they form the basis of larger groupings known as iwi (tribes), and are made up of multiple extended families, or whānau. In pre-​European times, hapū were the most significant political unit and controlled a defined portion of wider tribal territory. The Ngāti Tiipa territory is just south of Auckland, the country’s largest city, in the area known as “te pūaha o Waikato,” where the Waikato River meets the Tasman Sea. Counting our Tūpuna2 is a project that seeks to reconstitute the tūpuna (ancestor) population of Ngāti Tiipa, using a novel “by whānau, for whānau” (by family, for family) methodology. Tiipa was a male ancestor who lived around the mid-​17th century and was connected, through kinship, to many of the hapū along the Waikato River, as well as iwi in adjacent areas. The people who today identify as Ngāti Tiipa are mostly the descendants of Kura, one of Tiipa’s five daughters, and her husband, Tapaue. Tapaue’s 2 

This project is funded by the Marsden Fund (UOW1605).

36   Tahu Kukutai Table 3.1 Generations from Author to Eponymous Tūpuna (Ancestor) Tūpuna

Birth–​Death

Tiipa

est. 1650s

T10

est. 1680s

T9

est. 1700

T8

est. 1740s

T7

est. 1780s–​1840s

T6

est. 1800–​1840s

T5

est. 1830s–​1860s

T4

1850s–​1910s

T3

1880s–​1940s

T2

1910s–​1990s

T1

1940s to present

Author

1970s to present

Note. Dates are estimated (est.) in some cases, and rounded to nearest decade.

grandfather Mahuta was the older brother of Tiipa’s father, Paoa, the founding ancestor of the Ngāti Paoa tribe. These genealogical connections have been elsewhere described in detail so are not repeated here (see Kukutai et al., 2021). I am a descendant of Tiipa, as are most of the Counting our Tūpuna research team. My relationship to Tiipa, and the generations of tūpuna that connect us, are shown in Table 3.1. Since this information is not mine alone to share, but necessarily entails my siblings, father, grandfather, and other relations, I have not shown tūpuna names. Estimated birth dates, as well as known birth and death dates, are rounded to the nearest decade.

Whakapapa as a Framework for Knowing Like other Indigenous Peoples, Māori have long and rich oral traditions of retaining and transmitting genealogical knowledge, situating human relationships, both living and past, in a broader constellation of connections with lands, water, celestial bodies, and nonhuman species (Mahuika & Kukutai, 2021; Roberts, 2013). “Whakapapa” is the Māori concept that encompasses all of these relations, and provides a metaphysical framework for placing oneself in the world. Mika (2014, p. 53) distinguishes between the “calculative” meaning of whakapapa and its more poetic renderings. For the former, whakapapa is often interpreted narrowly to mean genealogy or to layer upon layer, in a physical sense. More evocative meanings can be derived from the word’s two components

All of Our Relations    37 where whaka means “to become” or “be embraced towards,” and papa is short for the earth mother Papatuānuku. Thus, whakapapa might mean to be brought into the earth mother’s embrace (Mika, 2014). Tau (2001, p. 8) describes whakapapa as the “paradigm of the Māori world view. Time, space, emotions, plants and animals are all understood by way of whakapapa.” Whakapapa thus goes beyond human genealogies to include the origins of all things (see, for example, Roberts, 2013, on nonhuman whakapapa). Despite the disruptions of historical colonization and ongoing colonialism, genealogical knowledge has survived and continues to be passed intergenerationally through stories, waiata (songs), and other forms of oral tradition, as well as written texts. Māori genealogical traditions predate the arrival of Māori tūpuna and permanent settlement in Aotearoa NZ (Jones & Biggs, 2005). The genealogies of the Ngāti Porou tribe, for instance, connect living descendants to the famous demigod Māui-​Tikitiki-​a-​Taranga, who, along with other feats, is credited with fishing up the North Island. Other tribal traditions trace genealogies to the Polynesian explorer Kupe, who is widely regarded as the first person to have discovered Aotearoa, around 900, and then further back to the atua or gods. Māori are not unique in having complex knowledge systems based on oral tradition and the intergenerational transmission of genealogies—​this is a shared feature of many Indigenous cultures. While Western anthropologists have long sought to document and make sense of Indigenous kinship systems, there has been relatively little recognition of Indigenous knowledge as empirical knowledge. There are some exceptions. Diane Barwick, a white Canadian-​born anthropologist who conducted most of her fieldwork with Aboriginal communities in Victoria, found that most of the older adults she worked with in the 1960s had a genealogical knowledge that was “extraordinarily vast” and could “reconstruct the complete history of their own families and, indeed, most of the cognate stocks of the same home region, dating back to the founding couples born in the 1850s or earlier” (as cited in Smith et al., 2008, p. 542). In Aotearoa NZ, Pākehā (white settler) historian John Robertson (1956) observed that “an entirely reliable chronology extending back several centuries” could be based on genealogies from the Tainui tribal confederation and “from the nature of the demonstration, the genealogies concerned are shown to be a true record” (p. 46). I note this not to subject Indigenous genealogical knowledge to external validation by settler scholars, but to make the point that when it comes to family reconstitution—​a field that valorizes measurement and accuracy—​ there are real limits to what external experts can offer Indigenous communities.

Developing a Relational Methodology Family reconstitution methods, involving the application of statistical analysis to large multigenerational, longitudinal data sets, have been used for decades to study historical patterns of fertility, mortality, and the composition of households, families, and kin groups (Hammel, 2001). Family reconstitution is quintessential “desktop demography”—​population research conducted from the distance of the desktop using data

38   Tahu Kukutai collected by others (Petit, 2013). Through linking records of demographic events—​ typically births, deaths, and marriage—​family reconstitution methods permit the recreation of individual and family life histories, thereby allowing insights into the demographic past. Much is now known, for example, about household and family structure in preindustrial Sweden (Lundh, 1995), family formation patterns of Catholics colonists in Quebec (Dillon et al., 2018), and fertility in 17th-​and 18th-​century England (Wrigley & Schofield, 1981). For many Indigenous Peoples, the devastating impacts of colonization on their demographic regimes has few parallels—​in many cases, it imperiled their collective survival (Pool, 2015; Snipp, 1989, 2003; Stannard, 1989; Thornton, 1989). However, to date, family constitution methods have had little to offer with respect to illuminating Indigenous demographic pasts. This absence not only results in major knowledge gaps concerning, for example, historical patterns of Indigenous family formation and structure, and precolonial gender relations, it also serves to maintain the narrow focus of historical demography on Western Europe and the settler populations of North America. The lack of research in this field also means that longitudinal data sets reconstituting Indigenous populations are rare (for an exception in Australia, see Smith et al., 2008). In Aotearoa NZ, there are no population registers or data sources that enable the full constitution of hapū and iwi from the historical past to the present. To do so requires one to assemble such a database from scratch. This has been a key goal of the Counting our Tūpuna project. Designed as a multiphase project, the first phase of the project attempts to identify and link all Ngāti Tiipa tūpuna born between around 1800 and 1900. The 19th century was one of massive disruption and uncertainty, involving widespread theft of Māori land, battles with the colonial government, demographic “swamping” by settlers, increased mortality through the transmission of new diseases, and the suppression of Māori political institutions, culture, and ways of being (Belich, 1996). European settlement in Aotearoa NZ began in the early 1800s but increased rapidly after the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi) between Māori chiefs and representatives of Queen Victoria in 1840. In 1840, Māori outnumbered Pākehā about 40 to one. By 1860, the groups had reached parity and Pākehā dominance was ensured by sizeable inflows of British migrants until the mid-​1870s. After 1874, Māori were less than one-​tenth of the national population, and this remained the case for a century (Pool & Kukutai, 2018). The Maori population reached its lowest point in 1896, with that census recording less than half of the estimated 1840 population.3 The first years of Counting our Tūpuna have focused on data repatriation and triangulation, with the research team digitizing information from nominal census lists; state and church archives; Māori Land Court records; colonial maps, birth, death, and marriage records; historical newspapers; and information provided by whānau. Regular wānanga are held at the various Ngāti Tiipa marae (customary Māori meeting places),

3 

In the 2018 census, the Māori descent population was just short of 900,000 and comprised 19% of the national usually resident population.

All of Our Relations    39 in which information is shared and discussed. In the historical and ethnographic literature, wānanga are often defined as traditional houses of learning. In contemporary usage, wānanga have been described as “seminars,” a “series of discussions,” a “thought space,” and “meeting places” (Simmonds, 2014). The Ngāti Tiipa wānanga are a combination of all of these things. They are open to all Ngāti Tiipa descendants and provide a space for the sharing of stories about hapū and iwi histories, places and sites of cultural significance, ancestors’ feats, the origins and meanings of people and place names, and stories of the everyday. At the wānanga, the process of collective remembering and learning is as valuable as the knowledge that it creates. Information is continuously added to and updated on the tūpuna database, and components shared on printouts that whānau take home. Early on in the project the whānau agreed that genealogical information should not be shared on social media (e.g., Facebook), or uploaded to genealogy websites. At the time of writing, nearly 800 tūpuna had been identified and entered into a tūpuna database in preparation for a process of whānau validation. In conventional population reconstitution, the experts are population scientists trained in the methods of large-​scale data linkage and demographic analysis. There is little, if any, engagement with the living descendants of the families and communities. For Māori, such an approach is untenable. Ngāi Tahu tribal leader Sir Tipene O’Regan, who led one of Aotearoa NZ’s most important contemporary treaty claims, articulates this position well: “[M]‌y past is not a dead thing to be examined on the postmortem bench of science without my consent and without an effective recognition that I and my whakapapa are alive and kicking” (cited in Mahuika, 2019, p. 9). The methodological approach taken here has been to situate the whānau of Ngāti Tiipa as the experts on themselves, while acknowledging the significant variation within and between whānau in terms of whakapapa traditions and knowledge. Returning to Table 7.1, the generations T5–​T9 are the ones that whānau often find the most challenging to identify. They are less likely than the ones preceding them to feature in published tribal genealogies (e.g., Jones & Biggs, 2005), but are far enough removed from living descendants for them to potentially have little or sparse information. This is also the period in which colonization impacts were most severe and disrupted the oral intergenerational transmission of whakapapa. By focusing on these generations we are able to both incorporate whānau knowledge, but also share with them information that provides a tangible link to their tūpuna. Many of those employed on the project are my relatives, including my father, who is an elder with deep genealogical knowledge and expertise. It goes without saying that university research systems are not calibrated to recognize and readily allow for working with whānau, even when their collective knowledge, connections, and expertise is crucial to the viability of the research.

Ngāti Tiipa Mātauranga In Aotearoa NZ, Indigenous knowledge systems and ways of knowing are referred to as mātauranga Māori (Mercier & Jackson, 2019). Debates about the value of mātauranga

40   Tahu Kukutai Māori and its place in the science system are well traversed (Stewart, 2019). Increasingly, efforts are being made to incorporate mātauranga into areas as diverse as biosecurity, estuarine protection, regenerative agriculture, and commercialization of plants with known healing properties. Some of what is defined as mātauranga is recognizable as empirical science—​for example, celestial navigational methods—​for which the peoples of the Pacific are well known. Other forms of mātauranga bear little resemblance to Western scientific modes of analysis—​for example, pūrakau (mythological traditions) that convey knowledge about the nature of the world, and the place of humans in it. It is these forms that Western science struggles most to accept and comprehend as legitimate. The mātauranga of Ngāti Tiipa whānau, in all its varied forms, has been crucial for making sense of the repatriated data. Interviews with elders were undertaken to preserve their oral histories and to place the information collected within wider whānau narratives. This captured precious stories about Ngāti Tiipa “survivance” (Vizenor, 2008), and the ways in which identities have endured through, for example, naming practices, relationships with the ancestral river, and the taniwha (supernatural guardians) that live there, and the transmission of oral traditions (Kukutai et al., 2021). Ngāti Tiipa mātauranga has also enabled us to repurpose colonial data sources for our own purposes. One of the key data sources is an 1844 enumeration undertaken by the missionary Robert Maunsell. The timing of the census is fortuitous—​it comes within a few years of the 1840 treaty, which foreshadowed systematic colonization, but predates the confiscation of tribal lands following the invasion of colonial troops in 1863. The Ngāti Tiipa census includes the names of 216 men, women, and children, including the tribe’s rangatira (chief) Kukutai, who, with his eldest son, Ngapaka, signed the treaty on behalf of Ngāti Tiipa. The enumeration has numerous errors, including name misspellings and incorrectly specified relationships between husbands and wives, and mothers and children. However, in the right hands, and with the right knowledge, it is a rich source of ancestral information.

Agency Revealed Through Mana Motuhake The historical sources also reveal the individual and collective agency exercised by Ngāti Tiipa tūpuna in a period of tumultuous change. For Māori, the concept that best describes autonomy is mana motuhake. As Jackson (2018) writes, mana is the “very Māori expression of the very human desire to be free and to make one’s own decisions in one’s land” (p. 6). Inherent in the notion of mana motuhake is the concept of mana whenua, that is, to hold territorial rights associated with long-​term occupation. Although biased toward accounts of men of mana or authority—​those deemed worthy of attention by authorities—​colonial sources also reveal stories of tūpuna who were everyday agents of change. Their acts of self-​determination included the retention of customary burial and exhumation practices, blocking government attempts to survey tribal lands for roading and settlement, and challenges to government policy. Far from being passive recipients of colonial government decision-​making, Ngāti

All of Our Relations    41 Tiipa tūpuna actively negotiated complex land laws and saw, very clearly, the racist underpinnings of the colonial structures established to quench settler land hunger and supplant Māori institutions. Ngāti Tiipa lands were included in the 1.2 million acres of Waikato land confiscated under the New Zealand Settlements Act of 1863. Just over 45,000 acres known as the Opuatia block was subsequently returned to Ngāti Tiipa in the Compensation Court established under the Act. A letter from one Ngāti Tiipa tūpuna to the editor of a settler newspaper in 1895 illustrates the ongoing assertion of mana motuhake, and is worth replicating here in detail: Sir. This is my question to you: Can the Government break the law? We native owners of Opuatia have found Europeans who agree to lease our land, and the rent and all agreements have been arranged between us and these Pakehas. We wish to deal with our land according to law, but the Minister of Lands says: No, he won’t agree to private dealings. Now this is my question: Is the Minister stronger than the law? We Maoris always thought Ministers were appointed to carry out the law . . . the Government block the way, like a great stone in the road, and say, “You Maoris must sell your land for 5s an acre.” They will give us 5s an acre, but give Pakehas in the other Island, Waipounamu, £5 to £10 an acre. And yes they talk of one law for both races. Let there be one law for both races, and let the Minister obey the law. (Karaka Te Aho, 1895)

Tūpuna Lifeworlds In the preceding section, I argued that an important feature of Indigenous sociology is its capacity to generate and address questions of relevance for the sociology of Indigenous Peoples and Indigenous lifeworlds. Counting our Tūpuna surfaces sociological questions related to fertility, mortality, family formation and gender relations, but, more importantly, it also enables us to explore questions that matter to whānau. These include questions about the structures and patterns of ancestral naming, trajectories of land succession and alienation, and collective identities. The intergenerational transmission of ancestral names through the various whānau lines is a striking feature of the tūpuna in the Ngāti Tiipa database. Many of these names are still carried by living descendants, including members of the research team. The proliferation of consanguineous marriages—​marriages between relatives—​was also commonplace. This is an important finding that has not been well covered in the literature, which has mostly focused on high rates of intermarriage with the settler population. In one of the few studies of Māori marriage patterns, Biggs (1960) proposed that there was no clear distinction between “marriageable” and “nonmarriageable” kin outside the brother/​sister and parent/​child categories. While there seems to have been some disapproval of first-​cousin marriages, Biggs thought there was some ambiguity about how rigid this was. While formal analysis of Ngāti Tiipa whakapapa relationships has not yet been undertaken, the tūpuna database clearly shows that what, in Western terms, would be classed as first-​and second-​cousin marriages were fairly commonplace in the 19th century.

42   Tahu Kukutai Intermarriage with the settler population appears to have occurred only in a minority of cases. And, when it did, it did not preclude descendants from taking leadership roles within the hapū. In a well-​known case of intermarriage involving a female tūpuna, one of her sons became a prominent leader within Ngāti Tiipa, as did one of his sons. Both were esteemed orators and experts in hapū and tribal knowledge. Very few of the Ngāti Tiipa marriages are recorded in the government’s civil registration system. This is not surprising. In the 19th century, Māori customary marriage still prevailed, with very few obtaining formal registration according to colonial law (Biggs, 1960). The consent of the whānau involved mattered more than legal recognition. The database also provides rich insights into gender relations. The use of Land Court records show that sons and daughters inherited land in equal shares. In cases where both parents were Ngāti Tiipa descendants and had ownership in the Opuatia block, the children succeeding to the land shares took the first name of the deceased parent as their surname for the purposes of land succession. In cases where the succession was from a mother or aunt, her first name became the surname. This means that the same person can appear in Land Court records with numerous names, highlighting the importance of mātauranga about naming practices. Coming to this work as an outsider would likely lead to many misturns, including conflating the identities of individuals from different generations but with the same tūpuna name, as well as the relationships between them. Knowledge of demographic processes—​including the biological limits to fecundity and plausible life expectancies based on prior studies employing indirect estimation techniques—​ has also been useful for differentiating tūpuna with the same names and overlapping life spans.

Hapū Data Sovereignty As Smith (1999) deftly argued in her seminal text Decolonizing Methodologies, with relationality comes accountability. As the main investigator on Counting our Tūpuna, I am accountable to the whānau of Ngāti Tiipa. This is a privilege, but also requires clear lines of accountability grounded in kawa (protocols) and tikanga (rules) that are fit for purpose. Western concepts of personal data privacy, protection, and control are insufficient for data that are inherently collective in nature. Integral to the project has been the development, with whānau, of kawa and tikanga to guide access and use of information, drawing on principles of Māori and Indigenous data sovereignty (Kukutai & Taylor, 2016; Te Mana Raraunga, 2018). Although publicly funded, the data collected for the project, the tūpuna database, and the resulting intellectual property belongs collectively to Ngāti Tiipa. It is not an open data set for reuse by other researchers, and in this regard it goes against the rising tide of “open data” (for an Indigenous data sovereignty critique of the open data movement, see Rainie et al., 2019). All of the data, along with the tūpuna database, are being deposited in a web-​based digital archive controlled by Ngāti Tiipa kaitiaki or guardians for the benefit of current and future generations.

All of Our Relations    43

Making Space for Indigenous Sociology Indigenous lifeworlds are complex spaces that Indigenous sociologists live and breathe, as an inescapable part of who we are. Most of us work within mainstream institutions where we are few in number, and where there is little understanding of what Indigenous sociology is, let alone an appreciation of its value to the wider discipline (Kidman, 2018). Here, I am particularly interested in what Indigenous sociology means for the transformation and decolonization of sociology. Because decolonization requires a fundamental shift in power structures, it cannot be left to Indigenous sociologists alone to advocate for action. As Connell (2018) rightly notes, decolonizing sociology involves more than words and symbolic support. Rather, it requires “rethinking the composition of sociology’s workforce and changing the conditions in which it produces and circulates knowledge” (p. 405). This means those in positions of power need to actively give some of theirs up, and make space for Indigenous scholars and scholarship—​in institutional leadership, hiring, and promotion practices; in classrooms and curriculums; in postgraduate recruitment decisions; and in the ways they do sociology. This calls for more than tinkering around the edges and plugging Indigenous content into Western frameworks. It speaks to a fundamental shift in the ideas and knowledges that are privileged and valued. Tuck & Yang’s (2012) seminal work on decolonization is instructive: Decolonize (a verb) and decolonization (a noun) cannot easily be grafted onto pre-​ existing discourses/​frameworks, even if they are critical, even if they are anti-​racist, even if they are justice frameworks. The easy absorption, adoption, and transposing of decolonization is yet another form of settler appropriation. (p. 3)

While Indigenous experiences of dispossession and marginalization may resonate with other groups experiencing systemic disadvantage, it is important not to conflate them. Bhambra’s (2014) critique of the erasure of black sociologists from the US canon makes this point well, noting that “understandings of equality and desegregation within social science epistemologies” are of less salience to Native American scholarship, where “pre-​existing sovereignty, nationhood, and treaty rights” are more central (p. 474). Suffice to say that Indigenous sociology provides opportunities for the discipline to think and do differently. As the diverse contributions in this volume show, it opens up new ways of thinking about the social forces of race, gender, and stratification that sociologists care so deeply about.

References Belich, J. (1996). Making peoples: A history of the New Zealanders from Polynesian settlement to the end of the nineteenth century. Auckland: Penguin.

44   Tahu Kukutai Bhambra, G. K. (2014). A sociological dilemma: Race, segregation and US sociology. Current Sociology Monograph, 62(4), 472–​492. Biggs, B. (1960). Māori marriage: An essay in reconstruction. Wellington: The Polynesian Society. Connell, R. (2018). Decolonizing sociology. Contemporary Sociology, 47(4), 399–​407. https://​ doi.org/​10.1177%2F0​0943​0611​8779​811 Crimmins, E. & Zhang, Y. S. (2019). Aging populations, mortality, and life expectancy. Annual Review of Sociology, 45, 69–​89. https://​doi.org/​10.1146/​annu​rev-​soc-​073​117-​041​351 de Sousa Santos, B. (2014). Epistemologies of the South: Justice against epistemicide. Abingdon, UK: Routledge. de Sousa Santos, B. (2018). The end of the cognitive empire: The coming of age of the epistemologies of the South. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Dillon, L., Amorevieta-​Gentil, M., Caron, M., Lewis, C., Guay-​Giroux, A., Desjardins, B. & Gagnon, A. (2018). The Programme de recherche en démographie historique: Past, present and future developments in family reconstitution. The History of the Family, 23(1), 20–​53. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​10816​02X.2016.1222​501 Grosfoguel, R. (2012). Decolonizing Western uni-​versalisms: Decolonial pluri-​versalism from Aimé Césaire to the Zapatistas. Transmodernity, 1(3), 88–​104. Hammel, E. (2001). Demographic techniques: Family reconstitution. In N. Smelser & P. Baltes (Eds.), International encyclopedia of the social & behavioral sciences (pp. 3456–​3461). Amsterdam: Elsevier. Inclán, M. (2018). Latin America, a continent in movement but where to? A review of social movements’ studies in the region. Annual Review of Sociology, 44(1), 535–​551. Jackson, M. (2018). In the end “the hope of decolonisation.” In E. A. McKinley & L. T. Smith (eds.), Handbook of Indigenous education (pp. 1–​11). Singapore: Springer. Jones, P., & Biggs, B. (2005). Nga iwi o Tainui: The traditional history of the Tainui people. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Karaka Te Aho, N. (1895, July). To the editor. New Zealand Herald, 32(9872), 15. Kidman, J. (2018). Keynote address: Comparatively speaking: Notes on decolonizing research. International Education Journal: Comparative Perspectives, 17(4), 1–​10. Kukutai, T., Mahuika, N., Kani, H., Ewe, D., & Kukutai, K. (2021). Survivance as narrative identity: Voices from a Ngāti Tiipa oral history project. MAI Journal, 9(3), 309–​320. doi 10.20507/​ MAIJournal.2020.9.3.11 Kukutai, T. H., & Pool, I. (2014). From common colonization to internal segmentation: Rethinking Indigenous demography in New Zealand. In F. Trovato & A. Romaniuk (Eds.), Aboriginal populations: Social, demographic, and epidemiological perspectives (pp. 441–​468). Edmonton: University of Alberta Press. Kukutai, T., & Taylor, J. (Eds.) (2016). Indigenous data sovereignty: Toward an agenda. Canberra: ANU Press. Lundh, C. (1995). Households and families in pre-​industrial Sweden. Continuity and Change, 10(1), 33–​68. Mahuika, N. (2019). A brief history of whakapapa: Māori approaches to genealogy. Genealogy, 3 (2), 32. https://​doi.org/​10.3390/​genea​logy​3020​032 Mahuika, N., & Kukutai, T. (2021). Indigenous perspectives on genealogical research. Genealogy, 5(3), 63. https://​doi.org/​10.3390/​genea​logy​5030​063 McIntosh, T. (2005). Maori identities: Fixed, forced and fluid. In J. Liu, T. McCreanor, T. McIntosh, & T. Teaiwa (Eds.), New Zealand identities: Departures and destinations (pp. 38–​ 51). Wellington: Victoria University Press.

All of Our Relations    45 Mercier, O., & Jackson, A. (2019). Mātauranga and science—​Introduction. New Zealand Science Review, 75(4), 63–​64. Mika, C. (2014). The enowning of thought and whakapapa: Heidegger’s fourfold. Review of Contemporary Philosophy, 13, 48–​60. Mills, C. W. (1959). The sociological imagination. New York: Oxford University Press. Nakata, M. (2007). Disciplining the savages: Savaging the disciplines. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Patel, S. (2021). Sociology’s encounter with the decolonial: The problematique of indigenous vs that of coloniality, extraversion and colonial modernity. Current Sociology, 69(3), 372–​388. Petit, V. (2013). Counting populations, understanding societies: Towards an interpretative demography. Dordrecht, the Netherlands: Springer. Pool, I. (2015). Colonization and development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900: The seeds of Rangiatea. Cham, Switzerland: Springer. Pool, I., & Kukutai, T. (2018). Taupori Māori –​Māori population change. Te Ara –​The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. http://​www.TeAra.govt.nz/​en/​taup​ori-​maori-​maori-​pop​ulat​ ion-​cha​nge/​media Rainie, S., Kukutai, T., Walter, M., Figueroa-​Rodriguez, O., Walker, J., & Axelsson, P. (2019). Issues in open data: Indigenous data sovereignty. In T. Davies, S. Walker, M. Rubinstein, & F. Perini (Eds.), The state of open data: Histories and horizons (pp. 300–​319). Cape Town and Ottawa: African Minds and International Development Research Centre. https://​doi.org/​10.5281/​zen​odo.2677​801 Roberts, M. (2013). Ways of seeing: Whakapapa. Sites, 10(1), 93–​120. Robertson, J. (1956). Genealogies as a basis for Maori chronology. Journal of the Polynesian Society, 65(1), 45–​54. Ruru, J., & Nikora, L. (Eds.) (2021). Ngā kete mātauranga: Māori scholars at the research interface. Dunedin: University of Otago. Sandefur, R. (2008). Access to civil justice and race, class, and gender inequality. Annual Review of Sociology, 34(1), 339–​358. Smith, L., McCalman, J., Anderson, I., Smith, S., Evans, J., McCarthy, G., & Beer, J. (2008). Fractional identities: The political arithmetic of Aboriginal Victorians. Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 38(4): 533–​551. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous peoples. London: Zed Books. Snipp, C. M. (1989). American Indians: The first of this land . New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Snipp, C. M. (1992). Sociological perspectives on American Indians. Annual Review of Sociology, 18(1), 351–​371. Snipp, C. M. (2003). Racial measurement in the American census: Past practices and implications for the future. Annual Review of Sociology, 29(1), 563–​588. Stannard, D. (1989). Before the horror: The population of Hawai‘i on the eve of Western contact. Honolulu: Social Science Research Institute, University of Hawai‘i. Steinmetz, G. (2014). The sociology of empires, colonies, and postcolonialism. Annual Review of Sociology, 40(1), 77–​103. Stewart, G. (2019). Mātauranga and pūtaiao: The question of “Māori science.” New Zealand Science Review, 75(4), 65–​68. Tau, T. (2001). In defence of oral history: Whakapapa as a case study. Te Karaka, 17, 8–​9, 18–​19. Te Mana Raraunga. (2018). Principles of Māori data sovereignty. https://​www.tem​anar​arau​nga .maori.nz/​ Thornton, R. (1989). American Indian holocaust and survival: A population history since 1492. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

46   Tahu Kukutai Tuck, E., & Yang, W. (2012). Decolonization is not a metaphor. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, 1, 1–​40. Vizenor, G. R. (Ed.) (2008). Survivance: Narratives of native presence. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Walter, M. (2016). Data politics and Indigenous representation in Australian statistics. In T. Kukutai and J. Taylor (Eds.), Indigenous data sovereignty: Towards an agenda (pp. 79–​98). Canberra: ANU Press. Walter, M., & Suina, M. (2019). Indigenous data, indigenous methodologies and indigenous data sovereignty. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 22(3), 233–​243. Wrigley, E., & Schofield, R. (1981). The population history of England 1541-​1871. A reconstruction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 4

Beyond t h e “Abyssal L i ne ” Knowledge, Power, and Justice in a Datafied World Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King

Introduction Indigenous Peoples have long understood the fundamental ways that colonialism and imperialism disrupt knowledge relations and systems (Jackson, 2015; Smith, 2021; Tsosie, 2017). For Māori, this disruption involves the imposition of imported colonial institutions and practices, based on heteropatriarchal, white supremacist, racist, Anglo-​ Eurocentric beliefs and logics (hooks, 1984; Jackson, 2015; Pihama, 2018). These deliberate and ongoing processes of denial of Indigenous Peoples’ intellectual traditions and knowledge practices (Jackson, 2015) are part of the broader denial of the full humanity of Indigenous Peoples that is central to the colonial project. In this chapter, we explore how, as José Medina (2013) writes, “epistemic relations are screwed up” (p. 27) for Māori in an increasingly datafied world, where data science is frequently promoted for its purported ability to generate knowledge and insights to guide decision-​making (Thylstrup et al., 2019). We consider how unjust epistemic relations manifest for mokopuna Māori 1 in ways that sustain colonial epistemic practices, with significant material impacts for lived realities. We ask about the possibilities for Indigenous epistemic justice within the “zone of nonbeing” (Fanon, 1967) or beyond the “abyssal line” (de Sousa Santos, 2018). In considering justice, we draw on Indigenous (Unangax̂) scholar Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang’s (2016) writing about the limits of prevailing understandings of justice, noting that “justice is a colonial temporality, always desired and deferred, and delimited by the timeframes of modern colonizing states as well as the self-​historicizing, self-​perpetuating futurities of their nations” (p. 6). In this sense, our intent is not to attempt to obtain justice from a nation-​state that is unjust by

48    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King its very existence, but to think through and into a just alternative knowledge present and future for our mokopuna.

Imperialism, Colonialism, and Knowledge Injustices Imperial, colonial logics presume a fundamental epistemic superiority in relation to Indigenous Peoples (Jackson, 2015; Smith, 2021; Tsosie, 2017). This presumption is embodied in oppressive knowledge practices, relations, and institutions. Indigenous thinkers have theorized the manifold ways that Anglo-​ European knowledge is positioned as universal and objective (Jackson, 2015; Smith, 2021), characteristics assumed to be markers of superior forms of knowledge production (de Sousa Santos, 2018). In contrast, Indigenous knowledges are (re)presented as being less than relative to Anglo-​European knowledge (Jackson, 2015; Smith, 2021) and less scientific, despite, as Sandra Harding (2017) argues, the centrality of the extraction of Indigenous knowledges to “the advance of ‘European’ science” (p. 626). Colonial hierarchies of knowledge continue to manifest as injustices in relation to knowers and ways of knowing in contemporary contexts (de Sousa Santos, 2018; Jackson, 2015; Medina, 2013; Smith et al., 2016; Smith, 2021; Tsosie, 2012, 2017). Epistemic injustice has been conceptualized as including those forms of unfair treatment that relate to issues of knowledge, understanding, and participation in communicative practices. These issues include a wide range of topics concerning wrongful treatment and unjust structures in meaning-​making and knowledge producing practices, such as the following: exclusion and silencing; invisibility and inaudibility (or distorted presence or representation); having one’s meanings or contributions systematically distorted, misheard, or misrepresented; having diminished status or standing in communicative practices; unfair differentials in authority and/​or epistemic agency; being unfairly distrusted; receiving no or minimal update; being co-​opted or instrumentalized; being marginalized as a result of dysfunctional dynamics . . . (Kidd et al., 2017, p. 1)

Gaile Pohlhaus Jr. (2017) notes that “an epistemic injustice not only wrongs a knower as a knower, but also is a wrong that a knower perpetrates as a knower and that an epistemic institution causes in its capacity as an epistemic institution” (p. 14). In the 2007 text Epistemic Injustice: Power and the Ethics of Knowing, Miranda Fricker (2007) outlines two forms of epistemic injustice. The first, “testimonial injustice,” occurs “when prejudice causes a hearer to give a deflated level of credibility to a speaker’s word” (p. 1). That is, because of social hierarchies and perceived social group membership, some

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     49 people are seen to be less credible, and are positioned as “objects” rather than “subjects” in knowledge relations (Dübgen, 2016, p. 2). The second form is “hermeneutical injustice,” which “occurs at a prior stage, when a gap in collective interpretive resources puts someone at an unfair disadvantage when it comes to making sense of their social experiences” (Fricker, 2007, p. 1). While influential, Fricker’s theorization has received some critique for its apparent focus on injustice at the level of individuals, rather than as systemic and structural (Dübgen, 2016; Medina, 2013). The need to extend understandings of knowledge injustices to give greater consideration to how these manifest in a range of social contexts has been identified (Dübgen, 2016), including in colonial contexts and for Indigenous Peoples specifically (Koggel, 2018). For example, Koggel (2018) notes in relation to the notion of “hermeneutical injustice” that “it is not that Indigenous peoples cannot make sense of their social experiences, but that collective interpretative resources they call on make little or no sense to non-​Indigenous Canadians” (p. 241). Writers such as de Sousa Santos (2018) make more explicit the links between colonialism and knowledge production. In theorizing “cognitive justice” and the epistemologies of the North and South, de Sousa Santos puts forward a conceptualization that centers the notion of the “abyssal line”: The epistemologies of the North are premised upon an abyssal line separating metropolitan societies and forms of sociability from colonial societies and forms of sociability, in the terms of which whatever is valid, normal, or ethical on the metropolitan side of the line does not apply on the colonial side of the line. As this abyssal line is as basic as it is invisible, it allows for false universalisms that are based on the social experience of metropolitan societies and aimed at reproducing and justifying the normative dualism metropolis/​colony. Being on the other, colonial, side of the abyssal line amounts to being prevented by dominant knowledge from representing the world as one’s own and in one’s own terms. (p. 6)

The abyssal line is the means by which the “Eurocentric epistemological North” (de Sousa Santos, 2018) reinforces and reproduces the “white supremacist capitalist patriarchy” (hooks, 1984) and the “modern/​colonial capitalist/​patriarchal world-​system” (Grosfoguel, 2002). The epistemologies of the North lie on one side of the abyssal line, and everything else on the other. Under this premise, the North is considered as the origin of “valid knowledge,” whereby “the only valid understanding of the world is the Western understanding of the world” (de Sousa Santos, 2018, p. 6). The abyssal line connects with Fanon’s concept of the “zone of nonbeing,” referred to by de Sousa Santos as the “ontological dimension of the abyssal line” (p. 20). Indigenous Peoples are relegated to the colonial side of the abyssal line, always to be known about, and objectified as a “Thing” to be extracted from, or as an exotic “Other” to be gazed at (Smith, 2021). Māori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2021) has highlighted how Indigenous Peoples and Indigenous knowledges are continuously discovered, extracted, exploited, and commodified by colonizers in the same way that our natural

50    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King environments are. This objectification speaks to “thing-​ification,” described by Aimé Césaire (1972) as the expression of colonization: My turn to state an equation: colonization =​“thing-​ification.” I hear the storm. They talk to me about progress, about “ ‘achievements,” “diseases cured,” improved standards of living. I am talking about societies drained of their essence, cultures trampled underfoot, institutions undermined, lands confiscated, religions smashed, magnificent artistic creations destroyed, extraordinary possibilities wiped out. (p. 6)

Thus, known about and/​or considered a passive recipient of knowledge, Indigenous Peoples are not considered as knowers or knowledge-​generators by those on the metropolitan side of the abyssal line, but already, and always, the object to be known. In the discussion that follows, we suggest three important considerations for the reader. Firstly, in attempting to illuminate various unjust and harmful epistemic practices and relations, we are not calling for inclusion into unjust epistemic structures on the metropolitan side of the abyssal line. Instead, we aspire to a completely new structure outside of what Yellowknives Dene scholar Glen Coulthard (2014) describes as the “politics of recognition.” As de Sousa Santos (2018) notes: [T]‌he struggle for cognitive justice will never succeed if it is based only on the idea of a more equitable distribution of scientific knowledge. Beyond the fact that such a distribution is impossible under the conditions of global capitalism, scientific knowledge has intrinsic limits concerning the kind of interventions it furthers in the real world. (p. 189)

Secondly, it is critical to remember that there have always been resistant knowledge practices under colonialism, as part of broader Indigenous resistance and (re)assertions of self-​determination. As Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg scholar, writer, and artist Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (2017) tells us: [W]‌e need to join together in a rebellion of love, persistence, commitment, and profound caring and create constellations of coresistance, working together toward a radical alternative present based on deep reciprocity and the gorgeous generative refusal of colonial recognition. (p. 9)

Thirdly, as the Zapatistas remind us, multiple worlds, and thus multiple knowledges, coexist, and always will (Muñoz Ramírez, 2008). Regarding the Indigenous informed concept of the pluriverse, Amaya Querejazu (2016) notes: [T]‌he pluriverse implies the existence of many worlds somehow interconnected. . . . It entails a vision where the earth is a whole living being always emerging, encouraging the discovery and the imagination of different forms of planetarization in which human beings, along with other beings can coexist enriching each other . . . we need to consider that the pluriverse is not something that needs to be created, it is something that needs to be recognized. (pp. 3–​4)

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     51

Knowledge Production in Contemporary Data Environments In many sites globally, social and knowledge relations are increasingly datafied (Dencik & Kaun, 2020; van Dijck, 2014). Datafication has been defined as “the quantification of social interactions and their transformation into digital data” (Richterich, 2018, p. 1). Contemporary knowledge practices and relations increasingly involve the generation—​both passive and active—​of large amounts of data, stored for long periods of time or indefinitely. Data are also increasingly transferred between government agencies, organizations, and corporations, and linked together to generate larger data sets or big data (van Dijck, 2014). According to Dencik and Kaun (2020), an “ability to generate and aggregate large datasets has been an important aspect of changes in public administration” (p. 3). There have also been shifts in the types of data activities undertaken, including increased automation and use of predictive analytics, artificial intelligence, and machine learning approaches (Dencik & Kaun, 2020; Dencik et al., 2019; Ricaurte, 2019). In New Zealand, these tendencies toward data sharing, data linkage, and data-​driven decision-​making are typified in the Integrated Data Infrastructure (IDI) maintained by the official statistical agency, Stats NZ. The IDI includes a number of data sets sourced from different, mostly governmental, agencies, as well as from surveys. Data are “de-​ identified” and linked through a spine, and available to researchers on application (Stats NZ, 2020). The IDI is an example of the broader trend toward heavy investment, both ideologically and in terms of funding and infrastructure, in an approach to knowledge generation that reifies belief in the ability of large data sets to provide new insights, or a form of “dataism” (van Dijck, 2014). This shifting data environment, facilitated by technologies that allow for the mass accumulation and processing of large amounts of data, may differ in terms of the scale of the activities, but embodies consistencies in that “datafied knowledge production involves similar contingencies, limitations and complexities to previous forms of knowledge production” (Thylstrup et al., 2019, p. 1). D’Ignazio and Klein (2020), in talking about data feminism, note that inequitable power relations are generally not recognized or explored in data science, as the people “who wield power are disproportionately elite, straight, white, able-​bodied, cisgender men from the Global North” (p. 8). Knowledge production and validation practices within New Zealand remain, therefore, situated within capitalist, neoliberal, and colonial practices in terms of what has been termed a “culture of collecting”: The culture of collecting runs deep. . . . It runs through the idea of nature as a large untapped resource, a free one that requires no respect and no payment. But more than that, it is a supermarket put there for our collecting purposes. . . . Collectors have always extended beyond the personal to commercial interests and also state interests. From the establishment of states, there has been the collecting of data for

52    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King the naming and claiming of our identities and the naming and collecting of our histories. Collecting has been institutionalised. (Smith, 2007, pp. 66–​67)

In the current datafied environment, in spite of claims about the potential for democratization of knowledge through expanded digital capabilities, the tendency is for epistemic hierarchies to be reinforced rather than dismantled (Kukutai et al., 2020). Beliefs about what data are, and what data science can do, often remain linked to positivist assumptions of objectivity and universalism. While there is more data available, it may also be further dehistoricized and decontextualized, reinforcing a nonrelational reductive approach that centers the neoliberal individual (or even parts of the individual) as the logical focus of analysis.

Knowledge Hierarchies and Epistemic Justice in Datafied Contexts Epistemic relations play out in particular ways for mokopuna within this contemporary datafied environment. Mokopuna are overrepresented in many government data sets, both because of age (with more data available about younger cohorts), but also due to long-​standing patterns of oversurveillance of Māori and increased interactions of state agencies with Māori. Yet, while disproportionately included in data sets, mokopuna are epistemically excluded (Go, 2020) in fundamental ways in a sort of double epistemic exclusion, whereby the epistemic agency of mokopuna is dismissed by virtue of them being both Māori and children. Within colonial knowledge hierarchies, Indigenous Peoples were (and are) characterized as childlike, represented as lacking rationality or reason (Ahenakew et al., 2014; Go, 2020). The dismissal of Indigenous credibility has relied on this representation of children as unreliable knowers. As Go (2020) notes: Like global difference itself, the series of oppositions regarding objectivity, reason, and abstraction were a critical component of empire’s operations. The very rationale for colonial rule—​or for that matter, for denying the vote to African Americans or women in the metropole—​was that non-​white peoples were incapable of Reason. Ostensibly, they were too ignorant, childlike, irrational, and emotional. (p. 84; emphasis added)

Mills and Lefrancois (2018) argue that the concept and use of the child as a metaphor itself “performs important political agendas inherent to the colonial project, racism, epistemicide, the medicalization of madness and disability, and the subjugating notions of development that underpins each” (p. 519). The child as a metaphor aims to denigrate,

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     53 and thus mutually reinforces and reproduces the idea that children, Indigenous Peoples, and other social groups that experience systemic oppression and marginalization are “irrational, incompetent, unintelligent, animistic, in need of (parental) guidance, (economically) unproductive, and epistemically void” (p. 519). What does this mean, therefore, for a “child” in terms of their capacity to be seen as a knower within current data systems and relations? For Indigenous children who further experience marginalization and structural oppression, such as mokopuna, the effects of being on the colonial side of the abyssal line are multiplicative. Beale (1970) and King (1988), in their respective conceptualizations of double and multiple jeopardy, illustrate how such effects occur when experiential realities are impacted by multiple axes, systems, and structures of privilege, power, and oppression. Our research has highlighted a lack of recognition of children’s abilities to participate and contribute to decision-​ making (King, 2020). Dillen (2006) points out that this results from adult-​centric perspectives of children and young people as “weak and vulnerable not-​yet-​adults” (p. 240). Adults’ attitudes toward children’s competencies and capacities, and their failure to value their views and experiences, thus act as a barrier to authentic and meaningful participation in knowledge practices (King, 2020). Wyness et al. (2004) highlight this notion of incompetence as being “one side of a binary opposition,” whereby the status of children is “measured against a model of the competent adult, the fully rational and ontologically established social participant” (p. 85). Dillen (2006) discusses “adultism” as the driving factor, where “adultism” refers to a “moral prohibition to see adults and children as two radically different kinds of people, and to refuse children certain basic rights because they are not-​yet-​adults” (p. 241). In parallel, for Indigenous Peoples, there is a refusal or inability to hear, in what Byrd and Rothberg (2011) discuss as forms of “non-​reception” and “partial and distorted reception” (pp. 5–​6). Māori scholar Cherryl Waerea-​i-​te-​rangi Smith (2007) reiterates this inability of the colonizers to hear the voices of Indigenous Peoples. She states how colonization imprints various behaviours and ways of perceiving that have gone largely unquestioned in the world, both causing environmental and cultural destruction and posing solutions to them. They ignore issues as basic as understanding the importance of silence, of listening, of leaving certain areas untouched because they have stories and rights of their own, of respecting what belongs to others, and of understanding that there is a place for continuity. Indigenous peoples continue to give voice to such simple and clear messages, but they still go unheard. As a consequence, both colonisation and globalisation propose the idea that the way to solve the world’s current problems will be through more of the same. (p. 73)

Within a datafied world, children are known about via “a proliferating range of digitized surveillance practices that record details of their lives. . . . As a result, children have become increasingly datafied” (Lupton & Williamson, 2017, p. 781). Although surveillance of children is not new, capability and capacity for such surveillance practices

54    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King have changed significantly (Mascheroni 2020), with vast amounts of data collated on children. Mokopuna thereby come to be known about through the assumptions and inferences made using reductionist data systems and processes of algorithmic knowledge reinforced by the belief that data is objective, impartial, and values-​neutral. Their information is “rendered into a form of biocapital, a digital data mode of commercially exploiting human embodiment” (Lupton & Williamson 2017, p. 787) to be extracted from as a resource. Palawa scholar Maggie Walter (2018) highlights the “Indigenous data paradox,” a phenomenon whereby Indigenous peoples “have both too much and too little data.” She notes that there is data in abundance from official statistics and linked administrative data sets about Indigenous Peoples, described as “ ‘5D Data’: data that focus on Difference, Disparity, Disadvantage, Dysfunction and Deprivation” (Walter, 2018). In contrast, for Indigenous Peoples wanting meaningful information that supports meeting goals for self-​determination, there is “a data desert. There are no data that engage more than cursorily with our lifeworlds” (Walter 2018). For mokopuna, the Indigenous data paradox and the abyssal line are foregrounded in the ways that mokopuna are rendered both hypervisible yet invisible at the same time. Examples of this can be found within the NZ child welfare and education systems, discussed briefly in the following sections.

Child Welfare Fong (2020) observes that “[c]‌hild maltreatment investigations . . . are a central means through which the state comes to learn about intimate family life, especially among poor families and families of color” (p. 630). Within the New Zealand context, Pākehā scholar Emily Keddell (2019) outlines the issues impacting on children and their families regarding state use of administrative data, algorithms, and predictive tools. For instance, algorithmic use of skewed data (in that administrative data does not reflect the true incidence of child abuse within the population) results in “distorted feedback loops” that can reinforce bias and inequities. She highlights: Both bias and arbitrariness—​equally destructive to notions of fairness—​become “baked in” to administrative data that predictor and outcome variables, and feedback loops over time, are drawn from. This results in consistently over-​assigning risk to some people while understating it for others in algorithmic computations in child protection and assigning risks to individuals that may have little to do with their individual true “risk” level. (p. 10)

The work of Keddell (2019) and Redden et al. (2020) reinforces that, driven by neoliberal logics that are reductionist and individualize societal issues, use of big administrative data in child welfare “must not be viewed as neutral, but instead as highly contingent on

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     55 political and economic contexts” (Redden et al., 2020, 521). As Lupton and Williamson (2017) point out: [D]‌ata are never entirely impartial, neutral or objective. Their generation and interpretation always involve particular viewpoints, ideological frameworks, forms of disciplinary expertise, as well as the values, assumptions and biases of those who collect and analyse them. (p. 789)

Research in New Zealand examining perceptions around children’s risk in relation to the ethnicity of families has found that Māori whānau were perceived by child welfare practitioners to be at higher risk than Pākehā families in the exact same situations. The findings suggested that racialized/​ethnic bias and “a ‘colour blind’ approach to practice” (Keddell & Hyslop 2019, p. 409) may well be contributing to ethnic inequities. Such factors lead to mokopuna and their whānau being hypervisible in the child welfare system. Keddell (2019) cautions that individual and collective rights to be free from discrimination “become threatened as the algorithm itself becomes skewed, leading to inaccurate risk predictions drawing on spurious correlations” (p. 1). Big administrative data sets “essentially ‘go easier’ on some people compared to others” (p. 11) because “risk” is missed for privileged populations less likely to come into contact with the same administrative systems, while Indigenous Peoples and other social groups who experience marginalization and structural oppression are over-​identified in terms of “risk.” At the same time, mokopuna and their whānau are invisibilized. Keddell highlights how “hierarchies of knowledge implicit in algorithmically produced forms of knowledge . . . are [viewed as] objectively correct and uncontestable” (p. 15), while the perspectives and experiential knowledge of mokopuna and their whānau are consigned to being lesser than. Yet Lupton and Williamson (2017) point out: [C]‌hildren surveillance data assemblages by no means speak solely for themselves. Rather, they consist of a range of embedded forms of knowledge and expertise, norms and values that originate with their designers and are encoded in the data the tools provide. . . . In many approaches to the datafication and dataveillance of children, the embodied and subjective voices of children are displaced. (p. 790)

Not only does the abyssal line allow for the marginalization and silencing of mokopuna, including their knowledges and narratives, it also acts as a convenient premise for the state. It allows the state to escape the mirror reflections highlighting its own objectionable behaviors and actions. For instance, a series of inquiries have been undertaken into the state removal of mokopuna (Chief Ombudsman, 2020; Office of the Children’s Commissioner, 2020a, 2020b; Waitangi Tribunal, 2021; Whānau Ora Commissioning Agency, 2020). The Chief Ombudsmen’s report found that decisions around state-​ sanctioned removal “were being made late and without expert advice or independent scrutiny, and, most concerning, without whānau involvement” (p. 5). The Waitangi

56    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King Tribunal report, He Pāharakeke, He Rito Whakakīkinga Whāruarua,2 has since recommended the government stop intruding and allow Māori to reclaim their tino rangatiratanga (absolute sovereignty) over their space (Waitangi Tribunal, 2021).

Education Within the context of the NZ education system, the “Equity Index” (the Index) provides another example of the hypervisibility of mokopuna and their whānau. The Ministry of Education (the Ministry) currently uses socioeconomic deciles3 to allocate financial resource to schools but is moving toward use of the Index. The Index is described as a “key tool that could be used in the education sector to help mitigate socio-​economic disadvantage and improve equity of education outcomes” (Ministry of Education, 2019). It is touted as something that “better target[s]‌equity funding and other resourcing to schools and services than the current decile system . . . [as] it is based on the circumstances of individual children and young people, rather than of the neighbourhoods they live in” (Ministry of Education, 2019). Using data from the IDI, the Index is based upon the assumption that specific characteristics of children and their parents are predictive of their educational outcomes. Children identified by the government as being “at-​risk” of poorer educational outcomes are identified via the matching of enrolled schoolchildren against variables that are described by the Ministry as “the full basket of factors in a child’s life.” Examples of variables from this “full basket” include a “mother’s age at her first child” or the “number of home changes” a child has had (Ministry of Education, 2019). Variables appear to be based upon what is available from the IDI administrative data, however much data is missing, including health-​and disability-​related data (Stats NZ Data Ethics Advisory Group, 2019). As Lupton and Williamson (2017) observe: Rather than engaging children in their right to involvement in decisions about important matters that affect their lives, many analytics systems appear to distribute decision-​making to automated, proprietary systems where children have little opportunity for involvement in the handling or use of their personal data. The collection, processing and dissemination of children’s data may be intrusive, as they are used to inform decision-​making by others that might have a significant impact on children’s own lives. (p. 12)

The approach to the Index is reductionist and individualistic. Unsurprisingly, the Index was “previously presented as a ‘Risk Index’ in 2017. . . . [It] used a risk-​focused method of identifying the proportion of students at each school who were among the 25% most disadvantaged children” (Ministry of Education, 2019). In official documents, the Ministry attempts to provide reassurance that a name change from that of “Risk Index” to “Equity Index” reflects the fact that the index is not intended to “predict” the chance that a child will not achieve in education. The aim of the Equity Index is to highlight whether there

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     57 are socio-​economic factors present in the lives of groups of children that require the education system to be structured and resourced in a way that gives all children an equitable chance of success. (Ministry of Education, 2019)

Māori scholar Caleb Moses (2020) notes, however, that “[i]‌f children are missing out on a good education because they move house too often, then policy measures that enable longer household tenure should be considered as part of an effective education strategy” (p. 91). Addressing the pervasive and entrenched systemic issues that drive inequitable educational outcomes is likely to be more useful. Concerns have been noted around the lack of consultation with Iwi Māori, lack of consultation with New Zealand children around the Index indicators, and an “overall lack of transparency” with regard to the Index and its underlying algorithm (Stats NZ Data Ethics Advisory Group, 2019). Keddell (2019) points out the ability for mokopuna and whānau to “understand and participate in the decisions made about them is difficult when they have not consented to data linkage, and the function of the algorithm is obscured by its complexity” (p. 1). The views and experiential knowledge of mokopuna are also invisibilized. A report published by the Children’s Commissioner has described the multiple ways mokopuna have experienced racism in the education system (Office of the Children’s Commissioner, 2018). Research has shown that Māori students experiencing or witnessing racism against Māori by teachers or students, as well as other adults and authority figures, is a common phenomenon within the education setting (Webber, 2015). Māori students in tertiary education have also reported experiences of racism (Mayeda et al., 2014). Thus, mokopuna and their experiences of racism within the education system are relegated to the other side of the abyssal line, and their rights to participate in decisions that impact upon their education are displaced by an algorithm.

A Just Alternative Knowledge for the Present and Future I believe our responsibility as Indigenous peoples is to work alongside our Ancestors and those not yet born to continually give birth to an Indigenous present that generates Indigenous freedom. (Simpson, 2017, p. 25)

What might a just alternative knowledge and data present and future look like for mokopuna? As Grosfoguel (2012) highlights, there are “as many solutions as ethic-​ epistemic-​political projects exist in the world” (p. 101): How to solve the problems of patriarchy, capitalism, imperialism and coloniality should be open to the diverse local imperial/​colonial histories, diverse epistemic

58    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King perspectives and diverse contexts faced by resistance movements. The important thing is that we are all struggling for a more egalitarian, democratic, transmodern world beyond capitalism, patriarchy, imperialism and coloniality. (pp. 101–​102)

However, as Simpson (2016) states, “I’m interested in alternatives, I’m interested in building new worlds” (p. 31). In the consideration of alternatives, Escobar (2020) draws our attention to the notion that “another possible is possible” (p. 1) through questioning the belief of a single objective reality: It is precisely because other possibles have been turned into “impossibles” that we find it so difficult to imagine other realities. (p. 3) It is, in the final analysis, a matter of making the unthinkable thinkable, and the thinkable believable and possible. (p. 6)

When thinking about the means by which we can achieve a just alternative knowledge and data present and future for Indigenous Peoples, there is the danger of “fall[ing] easily into image mirroring, a temptation much akin to the dualistic, binary structure of Western imagination” (de Sousa Santos, 2018, 5). Thus, ways forward are unlikely to lie within approaches that aim to “make better for Indigenous peoples” the hegemonic power, knowledge, and data structures of the “European/​Euro-​North-​American capitalist/​patriarchal modern/​colonial world-​system” described by Grosfoguel (2012). Tools that are borne out of, and continually reproduced in, an entrenched cycle of white supremacy, racism, heteropatriarchy, capitalism, imperialism, and coloniality are unlikely to be the tools that address issues of importance to Indigenous Peoples. When it comes to calling for justice from international human rights instruments, for instance, it should be acknowledged that this is a contested space for Indigenous Peoples (Jackson, 1992; Mikaere, 2011; Takitimu, 2015; Te Aho, 2007). After all, though touted as universal, international human rights are almost universally based on Western beliefs and values, to the marginalization, disregarding, and othering of the beliefs and values of Indigenous and other peoples who experience structural oppressions. Thus, it is important for any discussion around human rights to acknowledge the discourses that occur within Indigenous and other spaces. As Mignolo (2011) points out, the concept of “human rights” presupposes that “human” is a universal category accepted by all and that as such the concept of human does justice to everyone. However, the concept of human used in general conversations . . . is a concept that leaves outside of “humanity” a quite large portion of the global population. (p. 157)

Césaire (1972) observes the development of international human rights, driven by the “very humanistic, very Christian bourgeois of the twentieth century” (p. 3), was not, in fact, a response to “the crime against man” but rather, it was “the crime against the white man . . . and the fact that he applied to Europe colonialist procedures” (p. 3). Māori law expert Dayle Takitimu (2015) reiterates these points, highlighting how the patriarchal,

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     59 white supremacist, racist, imperialistic, and colonial Doctrine of (Christian) Discovery was the foundation for the “establishment of the League of Nations, and its successor the United Nations” (p. 23). Māori legal scholar Charters (2017) however, purports a “use it or lose it” rationale. They argue it is important to use international human rights instruments as a means of amplifying their “compliance pull on states over time, even when they may be resistant to the norms or the norms are not binding” (p. 138). They also note the sensitivity of member states to negative perceptions of the international audience regarding any noncompliance to international norms. This tendency toward wanting to preserve one’s reputation contributes to member states’ embedding of human rights norms in domestic legislation (Charters, 2017). Clearly there are limitations around rights-​based arguments for Indigenous Peoples. However, we suggest, alongside others, that once Indigenous sovereign rights are acknowledged and recognized, the application of international human rights instruments may be still be of use in relation to what they have to offer to Indigenous sovereign rights-​based arguments (Jackson, 1992; King et al., 2018; Mikaere, 2011), including in relation to epistemic justice.

Refusal As a “form of undoing” (Schultz et al., 2018), we can call for an end to the colonial, racist, paternalistic, objectifying, othering, and marginalizing knowledge and data practices that cause harm to mokopuna, their whānau, and their communities (Tuck, 2009). As researchers and writers in this space, we can refuse to participate in furthering these practices. We can examine how our own work decenters mokopuna expert knowledges and actively step back, move aside, and commit to thinking with and alongside mokopuna. In addition, we can call for a refusal of the broader colonial, capitalist, neoliberal, and extractive logics that lead to epistemically unjust practices in the first place. Tuck and Yang (2014) draw attention to the concept of “desire” as a means of refusal. Within the context of desire, refusal is “not just a no” but instead is a “generative stance” by which the space is then opened for “other r-​words—​for resistance, reclaiming, recovery, reciprocity, repatriation, regeneration” (p. 244). Our refusal of colonial, capitalist, neoliberal, and extractive epistemic logics and practices leads to alternatives, including (re)connection to other knowledges and a (re)balancing of knowledge relations.

Radical Resurgence Indigenous resurgence is described by Simpson (2017) as an “emergent and regenerative process” in which Indigenous Peoples work to “center Indigenous practices and thoughts in our lives as everyday acts of resistance, and grow those actions and processes into a mass mobilization” (p. 24). Indigenous resurgence, in its most radical form, is nation building, not nation-​state building, but nation building . . . [through] centring, amplifying, animating, and

60    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King actualizing the processes of grounded normativity as flight paths or fugitive escapes from the violences of settler colonialism. This resurgence creates profoundly different ways of thinking, organizing, and being because the Indigenous processes that give birth to our collective resurgence are fundamentally nonhierarchical, nonexploitative, nonextractivist, and nonauthoritarian. (Simpson, 2016, pp. 22–​23)

Resurgence drives Indigenous alternatives that are “rooted in Indigenous intelligence” (Simpson 2016, 32). Resurgence is radical and it is restorative. Aligned with the concepts of restoration and relationality that Simpson discusses, Māori scholar and theorist Moana Jackson (2020) talks about the process of whaka-​tika, which is grounded in tikanga and based on restoration of balance. Tikanga is described as a values system about what “ought to be” that helped us sustain relationships, and whaka-​tika or restore them when they were damaged. It is a relational law based on an ethic of restoration that seeks balance in all relationships, including the primal relationship of love for and with Papatūānuku. Because she is the Mother, we did not live under the law but rather lived with it, just as we lived with her. (Jackson, 2020, p. 140)

Whaka-​tika relates to wholeness of people within our relationships and connections with other people, but also our relationships with other beings, our surrounding environments, and within the pluriverse and cosmos, which, situated and contingent, is connected backward and forward across the “Zapatistas time/​space of a world in which many worlds will coexist” (Fregoso, 2014, p. 594). It is the colonial denial and marginalization of the pluriverse that is a (re)produced absence and a refusal to see, hear, and feel the multiple coexisting worlds and knowledges, but they are always there, waiting for us (Rew, 2020). In order to build whaka-​papa (new relationships, ways of being and knowing in relation to knowledges and data), there must be whaka-​tika—​restoration of balance. Tikanga provides us with the ways forward in order to restore wholeness when cognitive knowledge and data injustices occur. We argue that mokopuna and other Indigenous children must be included in processes of radical Indigenous resurgence and whaka-​tika.

An Ending and a Beginning In Indigenous ontologies, “children have responsibilities to the community, and hold special gifts that are to be nurtured and shared” (Blackstock et al., 2020, p. 4). As highlighted by Māori leader and scholar Rose Pere, the Māori word “tamariki” reflects this ontological view. The word is “derived from Tama-​te-​ra the central sun, the divine spark; ariki refers to senior most status, and riki on its own can mean smaller version.

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     61 Tamariki is the Māori word used for children. Children are the greatest legacy the world community has” (Pere, 1997, p. 4). There is no one voice of Indigenous children, each have a distinct essence and their own perspectives and experiential knowledges. Each have their own stories and narratives. To assume otherwise risks essentializing and constraining them. Supporting mokopuna and other Indigenous children in processes of radical Indigenous resurgence and whaka-​tika in ways that expand on their intrinsic values and modes of expression can support them to navigate their own processes of self-​ determination and sovereignty. Māori scholars highlight how “[k]‌ nowledge sharing and knowledge reciprocity value[s] the collective responsibility for knowledge as it journeys and shifts shape and form” (Smith et al., 2019): Knowledge sharing honours the connection between the people who helped produce the knowledge and the diverse forms into which knowledge can be transformed. Knowledge is considered part of the relational world and an important dimension of transforming colonial conditions and informing decolonizing futures. (p. 3)

Through refusal of epistemic hierarchies (re)produced in the current context of “big data” and datafication, via radical resurgence and by means of whaka-​tika, we open ourselves to all the possibilities for Indigenous epistemic justice in the “zone of nonbeing” (Fanon, 1967) or beyond the “abyssal line” (de Sousa Santos, 2018). Knowledge is a site of resistance, reclaiming the power to be complex and whole again. The search for knowledge is a process of “never-​ending beginnings” (Jackson, 2008) and presents itself as the realm of potentiality, the realm of unlimited possibilities where another possible will always be possible and the unthinkable always thinkable. Supporting mokopuna Māori and other Indigenous children to reclaim their tino rangatiratanga over their own processes of knowledge creation, sharing, and reciprocity, through an honoring of their consciousness, supports the contributions they have to make to our collective decolonizing and dismantling of knowledge and systems, and to the designing of divergent futures and “never-​ending beginnings” for themselves, their whānau, and their communities. As I push these kupu out into this kōrero, it feels like a waka pushed out into a great ocean. Maybe there is somewhere for me in the heart of my ancestors in the home of my ancestors (ranapiri, 2020).

Notes 1. We use the concept of mokopuna Māori to refer to and position Māori babies, children, and young people within the Māori world as the sacred reflection of our ancestors and a blueprint for future generations (Pere, 1997). 2. The English language translation is “the flax bush contains the centre shoot which will fill the valleys” (Waitangi Tribunal, 2021).

62    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King 3. A school decile is a census based small area measure (50 household mesh-​blocks) of neighborhood deprivation that combines five socioeconomic variables from census information (Ministry of Education, 2020; Moses, 2020).

References Ahenakew, C., Andreotti, V., Cooper, G., & Hireme, H. (2014). Beyond epistemic provincialism: De-​provincializing Indigenous resistance. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 10(3), 216–​231. Beale, F. (1970). Double jeopardy: To be Black and female. Detroit, MI: Radical Education Project. Blackstock, C., Bamblett, M., & Black, C. (2020). Indigenous ontology, international law and the application of the Convention to the over-​representation of Indigenous children in out of home care in Canada and Australia. Child Abuse & Neglect, 110(1), 104587. Byrd, J., & Rothberg, M. (2011). Between subalternity and indigeneity. Interventions, 13(1), 1–​12. Césaire, A. (1972). Discourse on colonialism. New York and London: Monthly Review Press. Charters, C. (2017). Use it or lose it: Māori legal and political claims. In A. Erueti (Ed.), International Indigenous rights in Aotearoa New Zealand. Wellington, New Zealand: Victoria University Press. Chief Ombudsman. (2020). A matter of urgency: Investigation report into policies, practices and procedures for the removal of newborn pēpi by Oranga Tamariki—​Ministry for Children. Wellington: Chief Ombudsman. https://​www.ombuds​man.par​liam​ent.nz/​sites/​defa​ult/​ files/​2020-​10/​He_​Take​_​_​K%C5%8Dh​ukih​uki_​A_​Ma​tter​_​of_​Urge​ncy-​OT_​Rep ​ort-​102​ 020-​DIGI​TAL.pdf Coulthard. G. (2014). Red skin, white masks: Rejecting the colonial politics of recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dencik, L., Hintz, A., Redden, J., & Treré, E. (2019). Exploring data justice: Conceptions, applications and directions. Information, Communication & Society, 22(7), 873–​881. Dencik, L., & Kaun, A. (2020). Datafication and the welfare state. Global Perspectives, 1(1), 1–​8. de Sousa Santos, B. (2018). The end of the cognitive empire: The coming of age of epistemologies of the South Durham, NC: Duke University Press. D’Ignazio, C., & Klein. L. (2020). Data feminism. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Dillen, A. (2006). Children between liberation and care: Ethical perspectives on the rights of children and parent-​child relationships. International Journal of Children’s Spirituality, 11(2), 237–​250. Dübgen, F. (2016). Epistemic injustice in practice. Wagadu: A Journal of Transnational Women’s and Gender Studies, 15, 1–​10. Escobar, A. (2020). Pluriversal politics: The real and the possible. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Fanon. F. (1967). Black skin, white masks. London: Pluto Press. Fong, K. (2020). Getting eyes in the home: Child protective services investigations and state surveillance of family life. American Sociological Review, 85(4), 610–​638. Fregoso, R. (2014). For a pluriversal declaration of human rights. American Quarterly, 66(3), 583–​608. Fricker, M. (2007). Epistemic injustice: Power and the ethics of knowing. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     63 Go, J. (2020). Race, empire, and epistemic exclusion: Or the structures of sociological thought. Sociological Theory, 38(3), 79–​100. Grosfoguel, R. (2002). Colonial difference, geopolitics of knowledge, and global coloniality in the modern/​colonial capitalist world-​system. Review (Fernand Braudel Center), 25(3), 203–​224. Grosfoguel, R. (2012). Decolonizing western uni-​versalisms: Decolonial pluri-​versalism from Aimé Césaire to the Zapatistas. Transmodernity: Journal of Peripheral Cultural Production of the Luso-​Hispanic World, 1(3), 88–​104. Harding, S. (2017). Latin American decolonial studies: Feminist issues. Feminist Studies, 43(3), 624–​636. hooks, b. (1984). Feminist theory from margin to center. Boston, MA: South End Press. Jackson, M. (1992). The Crown, the Treaty and the usurpation of Māori rights: Why is the Treaty important. Auckland, New Zealand: Project Waitangi Tamaki Makaurau and the Mental Health Foundation of New Zealand. Jackson, M. (2008). Restoring the nation: Removing the constancy of terror [Paper presentation]. Traditional Knowledge Conference, Ngā Pae o te Māramatanga, Auckland, New Zealand. Jackson, M. (2015). Keynote: He Manawa Whenua. In L. Pihama, H. Skipper, & J. Tipene (Eds.), He Manawa Whenua conference proceedings: Inaugural issue 2013 (pp. 59–​63). Hamilton: Te Kotahi Research Institute. Jackson, M. (2020). Where to next? Decolonisation and the stories in the land. In A. Hodge (Ed.), Imagining decolonisation (pp. 133–​155). Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Keddell, E. (2019). Algorithmic justice in child protection: Statistical fairness, social justice and the implications for practice. Social Sciences, 8(10), 281. Keddell, E., & Hyslop, I. (2019). Ethnic inequalities in child welfare: The role of practitioner risk perceptions. Child & Family Social Work, 24(4): 409–​420. Kidd, I., Medina, J., & Pohlhaus, G., Jr. (2017). Introduction. In I. Kidd, J. Medina, & G. Pohlhaus Jr. (Eds.), The Routledge handbook of epistemic injustice (pp. 1–​9). London: Taylor & Francis. King, D. (1988). Multiple jeopardy, multiple consciousness: The context of a Black feminist ideology. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 14: 42–​72. King, P. T. (2020). Oranga Mokopuna: Ethical co-​designing for the pluriverse [Unpublished Doctoral thesis, University of Otago]. King, P., Cormack, D., & Kōpua, M. (2018). Oranga Mokopuna—​A tāngata whenua rights-​ based approach to health and wellbeing. MAI Journal, 7(2), 186–​202. Koggel, C. (2018). Epistemic injustice in a settler nation: Canada’s history of erasing, silencing, marginalizing. Journal of Global Ethics, 14(2): 240–​251. Kukutai, T., Cormack, D., & Cormack C. (2020). Not one byte more: From data colonialism to data sovereignty. In A. Chen (Ed.), Shouting zeros and ones: Digital technology, ethics and policy in New Zealand (pp. 28–​34). Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Lupton, D., & Williamson, B. (2017). The datafied child: The dataveillance of children and implications for their rights. New Media & Society, 19(5), 780–​794. Mascheroni, G. (2020). Datafied childhoods: Contextualising datafication in everyday life. Current Sociology, 68(6), 798–​813. Mayeda, D., Ofamo’oni, I., Dutton, H., Keil, M. & Lauaki-​Vea, E. (2014). Māori and Pacific student experiences with every-​day colonialism and racism. Social Space, 8(2), 115–​139. Medina, J. (2013). The epistemology of resistance: Gender and racial oppression, epistemic injustice, and the social imagination. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

64    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King Mignolo, W. (2011). Who speaks for the “human” in human rights? Cadernos De Estudos Culturais, 3(5). Mills, C., & Lefrancois, B. (2018). Child as metaphor: Colonialism, psy-​governance, and epistemicide. World Futures, 74(7-​8), 503–​524. Mikaere, A. (2011). Colonising myths-​Māori realities: He rukuruku whakaaro. Wellington: Huia Publishers. Ministry of Education. (2019). Cabinet paper: Replacing Education Deciles with the Equity Index. Wellington: Ministry of Education. https://​www.educat​ion.govt.nz/​ass​ets/​Docume​ nts/​Minis​try/​Info​rmat​ion-​relea​ses/​2019-​relea​ses/​R-​131-​133-​Redac​ted.pdf. Ministry of Education. (2020). School Deciles, 2020. Wellington: Ministry of Education. https://​w ww.educat​ion.govt.nz/​sch​ool/​fund​ing-​and-​fin​anci​als/​res​ourc​ing/​oper​atio​nal -​fund​ing/​sch​ool-​dec​ile-​rati​ngs/​. Moses, C. (2020). The Integrated Data Infrastructure: Te Hanganga O Ngā Raraunga Kōmitimiti Me Te Whakaaetanga Ā-​Iwi. In A. Chen (Ed.), Shouting zeros and ones: Digital technology, ethics and policy in New Zealand (pp. 84–​101). Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Muñoz Ramírez, G. (2008). The fire and the word: a history of the Zapatista movement. San Franciso, CA: City Lights Books. Office of the Children’s Commissioner. (2018). He manu kai matauranga: He tirohanga Māori, Experiences of tamariki and rangatahi Māori. Wellington: Office of the Children’s Commissioner. https://​www.occ.org.nz/​ass​ets/​Uplo​ads/​Expe​rien​ces-​of-​Mao​ri2.pdf. Office of the Children’s Commissioner. (2020a). Statistical Snapshot: Pēpi Māori 0-​3 months and the care and protection system. Wellington: Office of the Children’s Commissioner. https://​ www.occ.org.nz/​publi​cati​ons/​repo​rts/​pepi-​maori-​and-​the-​care-​and-​pro​tect​ion-​sys​tem/​. Office of the Children’s Commissioner. (2020b). Te Kuku O Te Manawa—​ Ka puta te riri, ka momori te ngākau, ka heke ngā roimata mo tōku pēpi. Wellington: Office of the Children’s Commissioner. https://​www.occ.org.nz/​publi​cati​ons/​repo​rts/​te-​kuku-​o-​te -​man​awa/​ Pere, R. (1997). A celebration of infinite wisdom. Wairoa, New Zealand: Ao Ako Global Learning New Zealand with the assistance of Awareness Book Company. Pihama, L. (2018). Colonization and the importation of ideologies of race, gender, and class in Aotearoa. In E. McKinley & L. Smith (Eds.), Handbook of indigenous education (pp. 29–​48). Singapore: Springer. Pohlhaus, G., Jr. (2017). Varieties of epistemic injustice. In I. Kidd, J. Medina, & G. Pohlhaus Jr. (Eds.), The Routledge handbook of epistemic injustice (pp. 13–​26). London: Taylor and Francis. Querejazu, A. (2016). Encountering the pluriverse: Looking for alternatives in other worlds. Revista Brasileira de Politica Internacional, 59(2), e007. ranapiri, e. m. (2020, April 27). No girl-​dick of nature: An essay on discovering my gender in a forest of language. Wellington: Verb Community. https://​www.ver​bwel​ling​ton.nz/​ess​ays/​no -​girl-​dick-​of-​nat​ure Redden, J., Dencik, L., & Warne, H. (2020). Datafied child welfare services: Unpacking politics, economics and power. Policy Studies 41 (5), 1–​20. Rew, N. (2020). Speculative Study at the End of the World Presentation at Social Movements, Resistance and Social Change Conference, 11–​14 November 2020, Wellington New Zealand. Richterich, A. (2018). The big data agenda: Data ethics and critical data studies. London: University of Westminster Press.

Beyond the “Abyssal Line”     65 Ricaurte, P. (2019). ‘Data epistemologies, the coloniality of power, and resistance’. Television & New Media, 20(4), 350–​365. Schultz, T., Abdulla, D., Ansari, A., Canlı, E., Keshavarz, M., Kiem, M., Martins, L., & Vieira de Oliveira, P. (2018). What is at stake with decolonizing design? A roundtable. Design and Culture, 10(1), 81–​101. Simpson, L. B. (2016). Indigenous resurgence and co-​resistance. Critical Ethnic Studies, 2(2): 19–​34. Simpson, L. B. (2017). As we have always done: Indigenous freedom through radical resistance. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Smith, L. T. (2021). Decolonizing methodologies (3rd ed.). New York: Zed Books. Smith, L. T., Maxwell, T. K., Puke, H., & Temara, P. (2016). Indigenous knowledge, methodology and mayhem: What is the role of methodology in producing Indigenous insights? A discussion from mātauranga Māori. Knowledge Cultures, 4(3): 131–​156. Smith, L. T., Pihama, L., Cameron, N., Mataki, T., Morgan, H., & Te Nana, R. (2019). Thought Space Wānanga—​A Kaupapa Māori decolonizing approach to research translation. Genealogy, 3(4), 74. https://​doi.org/​10.3390/​genea​logy​3040​074 Smith, C. (2007). Cultures of collecting. In M. Barge (Ed.), Resistance: An Indigenous response to neoliberalism (pp. 65–​74). Wellington: Huia Publishers. Stats NZ. (2020). Integrated Data Infrastructure. Wellington: Stats NZ. https://​www.stats.govt .nz/​int​egra​ted-​data/​int​egra​ted-​data-​inf​rast​ruct​ure#how-​being-​used Stats NZ Data Ethics Advisory Group. (2019). Guidance from the Data Ethics Advisory Group: The Equity Index. Wellington: Stats NZ Data Ethics Advisory Group. https://​data.govt.nz/​ about/​gov​ernm​ent-​chief-​data-​stew​ard-​gcds/​data-​eth​ics-​advis​ory-​group/​guida​nce-​from -​data-​eth​ics-​advis​ory-​group/​#equi​tyIn​dex Takitimu, D. (2015). He Manawa Whenua, He Manawa Taketake. In L. Pihama, H. Skipper, & J. Tipene (Eds.), He Manawa Whenua conference proceedings: Inaugural issue 2013 (pp. 22–​23). Hamilton: Te Kotahi Research Institute. Te Aho, L. (Ed.) (2007). Yearbook of New Zealand Jurisprudence Special Issue: Tikanga Māori me te Mana i Waitangi Māori Laws and Values, Te Tiriti o Waitangi, and Human Rights. Hamilton: University of Waikato. Thylstrup, B. N., Flyverbom, M., & Helles, R. (2019). Datafied knowledge production: Introduction to the special theme. Big Data & Society, 6(2). https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​20539​5171​9875​985 Tsosie, R. (2012). Indigenous peoples and epistemic injustice: Science, ethics, and human rights. Washington Law Review, 87, 1133. Tsosie, R. (2017). Indigenous peoples, anthropology, and the legacy of epistemic injustice. In I. Kidd, J. Medina, & G. Pohlhaus Jr. (Eds.), The Routledge handbook of epistemic injustice (pp. 356–​369). London: Taylor and Francis. Tuck, E. (2009). Suspending damage: A letter to communities. Harvard Educational Review, 79(3), 409–​428. Tuck, E., & Yang, K. W. (2014). R-​Words: Refusing Research. In D. Paris and M. Winn (Eds.), Humanizing research: Decolonizing qualitative inquiry with youth and communities (pp. 223–​2 47). Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE. Tuck E, & Yang, K. W. (2016). What justice wants. Critical Ethnic Studies, 2(2): 1–​15. Van Dijck, J. 2014. ‘Datafication, dataism and dataveillance: Big Data between scientific paradigm and ideology’. Surveillance & Society, 12(2), 197–​208. Waitangi Tribunal. (2021). He Pāharakeke, He Rito Whakakīkinga Whāruarua—​ Oranga Tamariki Urgent Inquiry WAI 2915. Wellington, New Zealand: Legislation Direct.

66    Donna Cormack and Paula Toko King Walter, M. (2018). The voice of Indigenous data: Beyond the markers of disadvantage. Griffith Review, 60, 256–​263. Webber, M. (2015). Racial-​ethnic identity, resilience, and responsiveness. In C. Rubie-​Davis, J. M. Stephens, & P. Watson (Eds.), The Routledge international handbook of social psychology of the classroom (pp. 102–​111). New York: Routledge. Whānau Ora Commissioning Agency. (2020). Ko te wā whakawhiti, It’s time for change: A Māori Inquiry into Oranga Tamariki Report. Auckland: Whānau Ora Commissioning Agency. Wyness, M., Harrison, L., & Buchanan, I. (2004). Childhood, politics and ambiguity: Towards an agenda for children’s political inclusion. Sociology, 38(1), 81–​99.

Chapter 5

So cial System s a nd t h e In digenous Li feworl d Examining Gerald Vizenor’s Notion of Survivance in Street Lifestyles Robert Henry

The theories of survivance are elusive, obscure, and imprecise by definition, translation, comparison, and catchword histories, but survivance is invariably true and just in native practice and company. . . . The character of survivance creates a sense of native presence over absence, nihility, and victimry. (Vizenor, 2008, 1)

Introduction Indigenous street gangs continue to capture the imagination of settler society. From the Mongrel Mob and Black Power (Aotearoa/​New Zealand), to Brothers 4 Life (Australia), to Native MOB and Wildboyz (United States), to the Indian Posse, Warriors, and Native Syndicate (Canada), these gangs and the many other youth street gangs that continue to arise in primarily urban spaces are constructed as violent, uncontrollable, and a plague to “civil” society (Comack et al., 2013; Hazlehurst & Hazlehurst, 2018). This construction of Indigenous as violent is not a new tactic within colonial spaces. Colonialism itself is structured on the need to construct Indigenous peoples and lifeworlds as violent and out of place (LaRocque, 2010), specifically within urban settings within traditional Indigenous territories (Buddle, 2011; Dorries et al., 2019; Razack, 2015). Historically, the construction of Indigenous as violent created cultures of terror and fear (Razack, 2015; Taussig, 1987) within colonizer and settler peoples. These fears of the violent Indigene provided a rationale and validation for the heightened levels of

68   Robert Henry violence against Indigenous Peoples by colonizers and later settlers. In When the Other Is Me, Cree/​Métis scholar Emma LaRocque (2010) outlines how Canadian media has a vested interest in the maintenance of Indigenous Peoples as violent, where it is through the Indigenous body as savage that civility can be measured against. The result, as LaRocque argues throughout, is the construction of what she names as the “civ/​sav dichotomy,” where Euro-​Western notions of civility and morality were supported, and the need to control via violence was justified, since Indigenous Peoples were viewed as immoral and a part of nature. Therefore, policies of control were deliberate and effective, as the constructions of Indigenous savagery aided in direct policies aimed at removing, destroying, and killing Indigenous lifeworlds, opening up space for colonial expansion and, later, permanent settlement. Today, Indigenous lifeworlds continue to be under threat from colonial policies, such as those that frame child welfare services (Blackstock, 2007; Stewart & LaBerge, 2019; Tait et al., 2018) or disparate funding for education and health (Blackstock, 2007) that continue to limit, disrupt, remove, and ignore Indigenous sovereignty or ways of being. Social structures and systems designed as “social support” or “public safety” maintain the civ/​sav dichotomy, as Indigenous Peoples are overrepresented in prisons, child welfare, and violence indexes (perpetrators and victims), specifically within the Prairie Provinces of Canada. Within the province of Saskatchewan, Indigenous men and Indigenous women are overrepresented in incarceration statistics at >75% and >95%, respectively, of those incarcerated (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2020). This overrepresentation has fragmented Indigenous communities and families as individuals are removed and placed in non-​Indigenous-​controlled spaces—​adults are placed in prisons while children are removed and placed in foster homes—​forcing many to engage in street lifestyles to survive, resist, and resurge themselves within violent spaces. However, understanding or reading these experiences through Western criminological lenses continues to support the pathologization of Indigenous Peoples, and ignores the creative ways that Indigenous Peoples have come to navigate violent social spaces designed to erase Indigenous lifeworlds. This chapter examines how Indigenous peoples engaged in street lifestyles, specifically street gangs, find innovative ways to survive, albeit not always read as positive. It challenges traditional sociological and criminological theories of street gang involvement that pathologizes an individual’s experience as lacking morality and the ability to make “proper choices” to not engage in illegal street economies. The issue within these established theories is that they do not take into account the history of colonization or the embeddedness of settler colonialism today. Therefore, traditional criminological theories maintain the construction of the “savage” through the violent street gang member. In contrast, this chapter uses life history research with Indigenous gang members from the provinces of Manitoba and Saskatchewan to demonstrate that a survivance lens (Vizenor, 2008) is needed to understand how some Indigenous peoples look to street gangs and lifestyles to provide for themselves and their families. A survivance lens refocuses the development of policy and programs directed at curbing Indigenous street gang involvement and activities, turning the focus away from what

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    69 individuals are doing, to address the structural inequalities that limit the idea that everyone has “equal” choices. This chapter begins with a discussion about the issues related to definitions of street gangs—​that it is a political endeavor in the naming of who and what a street gang is and how this impacts the experiences of Indigenous Peoples in urban spaces. It then moves to an overview of the concept of survivance. It is here that this chapter shows that the concept of survivance can be an integral tool to reread the Indigenous street gang experience. To support this, the chapter draws on research conducted with Indigenous street gang members who have worked and continue to work their way out of street gang involvement and street lifestyles. The chapter concludes with a discussion on how survivance needs to be examined by sociologists and social scientists more broadly, and argues that it is imperative to approach survivance from a strengths-​based analytical lens that centers Indigenous voices and experiences.

Survivance as a Theory to Reread Street Gang Narratives Survivance, or la survivance, was a term first employed in French legal theory, but it fell out of use in the 18th century until it was taken back up by French philosopher Jacques Derrida, who was looking to explain life that was neither living nor dead, but in a state of just living (Derrida, 2011). Specifically, Derrida focused on how material goods created by individuals are created to live beyond that of the creator, to maintain a life beyond death. Where people are “at once alive and dead, or neither alive nor dead. . . . That which is living dead lives on, it sur-​vives . . . what Derrida increasingly refers to as survivance” (Saghafi, 2015, 16). For Derrida, then, survivance is more than mere surviving to live; it is the process of living beyond death, to leave something for the future, and therefore allowing life to carry on (Derrida, 2011). More recently, Anishinaabe scholar Gerald Vizenor (2008) has reclaimed the term “survivance” to reimagine Indigenous futurities and move beyond Indigenous Peoples as being victims to colonization and settler colonialism. Vizenor discusses how survivance can be understood as the active process whereby Indigenous peoples pass on symbols, ideas, identities, and cultural forms from one generation to another. The cultural elements that are being passed on are not necessarily exact replicates of the original cultural elements, but rather adapted and adjusted versions that enable them to persist. For example, Indigenous parents may teach their children how to hunt, using the same cultural ideas and traditions; however, the actual technologies being used will be different from those used pre-​contact. Survivance then, according to Vizenor, can address this as Indigenous Peoples as active agents in the transmission and uptake of materials to make them their own. A primary example historically of how new technologies became embedded within Indigenous Peoples in North America is the use of the horse among Plains Peoples. The introduction of the horse transformed life on the prairies

70   Robert Henry economically, and the horse became a part of the cultural milieu, involving ceremonies and a relationship to shifting Indigenous lifeworlds. At the same time that the horse became a part of Indigenous livelihood, it also became symbolic to settler culture, where Western painting and writing created what Smith (2013) calls an “imperial gaze,” where Indigenous peoples and horses became synonymous with prairie life, and later a measurement of civility with the introduction of the steam engine and settlement. Vizenor, though, moves beyond passiveness or victimry to explain how Indigenous Peoples have found and continue to find innovative ways to survive, resist, and resurge themselves within settler spaces. It is this understanding of survivance that is needed to challenge pathologized understandings of Indigenous lifeworlds, specifically within street spaces. As stated previously, Indigenous Peoples in urban spaces have been linked to violence and the proliferation of street gangs. With a dearth of research on Indigenous street gang experiences, policymakers and programmers often refer to research on the American street gang experience. Most gang theories focus on aspects of poor choices or the immorality of the individuals, ignoring the social spaces that construct one’s actual choices (Fraser, 2015; Harding, 2014). Within these theories, the role and impact of colonization and settler colonialism in creating the spaces where Indigenous street gangs are born and maintain a sense of history is ignored (Buddle, 2011; Henry, 2019). More importantly, for this paper, positivistic criminological theories have ignored the ways in which colonization and settler colonialism have impacted Indigenous Peoples, where the street gang for some becomes the only place for individuals to survive. It is because of this that survivance as a theory is needed to reread the experiences of Indigenous individuals who were at one time engaged in street gangs and violent street lifestyles. It is this process of reading through a lens of survivance that researchers, policymakers, and the broader community can begin to have a deeper understanding of the Indigenous street lifestyle experience.

Politics of Control: Gang Definitions and Framing the Indigenous Urban Experience Definitions of street gangs are often difficult to formulate due to the variance of groups that have been so labeled. Since the advent of research on the subject, beginning with American sociologist Frederic Thrasher’s ethnography of Chicago gangs in the 1920s, to Street Corner Society, to the criminal justice focus beginning in the 1970s, a definition of what actually constitutes a street gang has proved elusive to researchers, policymakers, and criminal justice officials. As European sociologist Simon Hallsworth (2013) satirically explains: The number of gangs identified will be directly related to the criteria used to define your gang. So if you want a lot, then keep your definition broad and inclusive. If you want fewer, add in more filters. And there you have it: the truth of the matter is that

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    71 you can have as many or as few gangs are you need. At the end of the day it’s not realistically about what is going down on the street. What exactly constitutes a suitable amount of gangs remains a political decision. (p. 186)

Definitional issues continue to have a detrimental impact on society’s understandings of street gangs, including where they reside, what they do, and which bodies are understood to be gang involved simply by where they are located. It is because of this that the term “street gang” has become an “empty signifier,” where “the term ‘gang,’ then, temporarily fills a discursive void that allows individuals to make comments on, to accuse, and to direct policy toward this universal entity, without ever actually signifying a particular ‘gang’ or the explicit criteria that would identify gangs as a distinct object” (Richardson & Kennedy, 2012, p. 448). This makes research on or social understandings of street gangs difficult to actually undertake, as what constitutes a street gang changes across locations and even across neighborhoods in the same urban space. With the inconsistency and negative implications that gang labels carry in targeting marginalized populations, Simon Hallsworth and European criminologist Tara Young express the need for communities and researchers to abandon the gang label altogether. Hallsworth and Young (2004, 2008) assert that the gang label helps recreate a negative identity that impressionable young males who live in particular neighborhoods believe they need to live up to: A key problem in attempting to do so [define a gang] is that the notion of a “gang” is terribly permissive. It can be evoked in so many ways that delineating what is and what is not one remains problematic. When is a group of young men not a gang? Does it apply only when they are poor? If so, are the “gang-​like” qualities observed conferred or self-​ascribed? And just how many crimes do not involve group activity of some kind? Are the groups also gangs and if not why not? And if we want to firm matters up by arguing that, by gang, we mean an organised group pursuing a collectively agreed criminal goal, why apply the label to young people? (2004, p. 12)

In other words, due to the ambiguity of the definition, communities are free to apply the street gang label to those the community deems are a “poor fit.” The result is that the criminal activities and who benefits from the activities become less important than who committed them. Settler colonialism becomes reinforced through the systems, where impacts of racialized policing and discrimination are reshaped under the guise of law, authority, and protection (Henry, 2019; Razack, 2015). Within the Prairie Provinces of Canada, Indigenous bodies are demarcated as de facto status criminals simply for being Indigenous. As American gender scholar Lisa Cacho (2012) explains: The term de facto status crime[al] also captures the ways in which criminalized conduct has been intimately linked to the use of “status” to refer to identity categories, such as race, gender, sexuality, and class. . . . De facto status crimes can be defined as specific activities that are only transparently recognized as “criminal” when they are

72   Robert Henry attached to statuses that invoke race (gang member), ethnicity (illegal alien), and/​or national origin (suspected terrorist). (p. 43)

Within the prairies, Indigenous is associated with violence, criminality, and deviance, which in turn promotes a hyper-​surveillance (Lambert & Henry, 2020), where Indigenous Peoples are watched more intently, as it is assumed that they will commit a criminal act or are themselves criminals. One of the more recent and internationally recognized events was that of the death of Colten Boushie near the city of North Battleford, Saskatchewan, where he was shot in the back of the head and killed by a white farmer (Gerald Stanley), while he and his friends were parked on Stanley’s property with a flat tire. When the event was made public, the media constructed Colten as associated with a local street gang, and the actions of his friends as criminal. Even though he was not a gang member, and the youths were not convicted of any crimes, the media was able to create a narrative early on that carried through the trial (see Starblanket & Hunt, 2020). At the end of the trial, Gerald Stanley was found not guilty, reinforcing a continued colonial nostalgia that Indigenous bodies can be disposed of if they are seen to be a threat to one’s life or livelihood. Within urban geographies, Indigenous Peoples are disproportionately located in poor racialized neighborhoods, or “spaces of racialized poverty” (Comack et al., 2013; Dorries et al., 2019; Silver, 2008). Many of these neighborhoods are mired with low-​ income housing, lack of economic opportunities, and high rates of violence and drug abuse, and are seen to be “gang infested.” It is because of the social realities faced across many urban spaces that some Indigenous Peoples search for innovative ways to survive as they are pushed out of legitimate economic opportunities and face heightened violence—​structural and lateral because of their social capital. As a result, some look to street gangs to provide for themselves and their families through their involvement in local underground street economies. Despite the violence that they endure and put onto others in their community, the street gang itself can be a site of resistance for some, as it challenges settler colonialism and Indigenous erasure, as Indigenous street gangs look to claim space and power within settler cities (Henry, 2019). Finally, unlike the common myth of “once a gang member always a gang member,” the life of a street gang member is short, with many leaving the gang life as they get older (Fraser, 2015; Hallsworth, 2013; White, 2013). In doing so, many come to redefine their violent street gang identity to one that focuses on giving back to the community in different ways. As such, they develop a sense of resurgence, looking to protect and give back to their communities so that others may not have to go through their experiences.

Settler Colonialism and the Need of the Indigenous Gangster When the only real Indian is a traditional Indian, white society can maintain that few Indians have survived and that settlers are perfectly

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    73 positioned to salvage the little that is left of Native culture and to become authorities on who is an Indian. The traditional Indian, Scott Lyons observes, possesses a timelessness that effectively removes Indians from history, positioning Indians as things rather than as social actors. If not regarded as things, Indigenous people are present in colonial law only as acted-​upon beings. (Razack, 2015, p. 11)

Settler colonialism differs from other forms of colonialism and colonization, as the settler presence looks to redefine the “new territories” into that of the settler imaginary (Dorries et al., 2019; Wolfe, 2006). To do this, however, settler states and peoples must erase the Indigenous presence and/​or ownership of particular spaces so as to claim them as their own. But this is not a task as simple as physically killing individuals, particularly when settler states consider themselves moral and above the potential violence that Indigenous Peoples are thought to exert (Taussig, 1987). Therefore, settler colonialism, according to Patrick Wolfe (2006), must be understood through the ways in which social structures look to not just erase Indigenous Peoples, but also to state a claim of the territories through settler social structures themselves. As Canadian sociologist Sherene Razack (2015) explains: The activity of clearing settler spaces of Indigenous bodies becomes morally defensible if Indigenous people can in fact be turned into debris, a transformation that is accomplished by viewing the Indigenous body as sick, dysfunctional, and self-​ destructive. (p. 17)

In other words, the creation of the Indigenous as savage is needed for settler structures to claim a morality that Indigenous Peoples are unfit to make logical decisions and must be controlled in ways that minimize Indigenous bodies until they are more aligned within the settler imaginary of civility. Historically, Indigenous bodies were constructed as those that needed to be controlled and brought into modernity (Henry, 2019; LaRocque, 2010). In Canada, the control of Indigenous Peoples is connected to the Indian Residential Schools (IRSs), where children were taken away from their parents and placed into government-​and Christian-​run residential schools. The intention of the schools was to “kill the Indian in the child,” with curriculum and daily schedules designed in a way to erase one’s indigeneity. Death of the body was not the intent, but rather the death of one’s understanding of their indigeneity to become a good-​standing settler citizen (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2012). Once residential schools began to close in the 1950s, other systems looked to take control of Indigenous bodies and remove them from settler spaces. Specifically, the criminal justice and child welfare services began to step up. From the 1960s to today, Indigenous Peoples have become vastly overrepresented in both systems (Comack et al., 2013; Henry, 2019; Stewart & LaBerge, 2019). However, to accomplish this, the Canadian state has had to maintain a narrative that continues to not only position Indigenous

74   Robert Henry Peoples as unable to be protective parents, but also as a constant threat to settler lives and livelihoods (Razack, 2015). Today, the Indigenous gangster supports the settler imaginary. The image of the street gangster is one that creates a sense of fear and unknown for the general society (Garot, 2010; Hallsworth, 2013; Rios, 2011; White, 2013). Gang members, and specifically Indigenous gang members, are constructed as not just immoral in their actions, but as unable to make the proper decisions to deter themselves from street gang involvement. Policies to mitigate Indigenous street gang involvement thus focus on the need to “fix” an individual, rather than understanding the sociopolitical histories, specifically settler colonialism, that help explain why individuals engage in street gang involvement and survive within violent street spaces. Secondly, this perspective continues to lock street gang members into a lifetime of gang involvement and ignores the way in which, for many Indigenous street gang members or those involved in street lifestyles, involvement is an act of survivance challenging past and present settler colonialism and its erasure of Indigenous bodies.

Reading Through a Survivance Lens To show how survivance, as an applied framework, can reshape our understanding of street gangs and involvement in street lifestyles, I focus on a community-​engaged research, life history, and photovoice project that involved Indigenous street gang members in the provinces of Saskatchewan and Manitoba. Over the course of nine months, I worked with community partners Ogijiita Pimatisiwin Kinamatawin (OPK) in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and STR8 UP—​10,000 Little Steps to Healing and EGADZ in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. All three organizations focus on supporting Indigenous youth and adults who are engaged in street lifestyles, where their focus is on working where individuals are at. In total, 35 individuals participated in conversational research methods (Kovach, 2009), where discussions focused on participants sharing their life histories. Conversational approaches are less abrasive than other interview methods that focus on specific questions or points of an individual’s life. Conversation style interviewing provides opportunity for participants and the researcher to have open and candid conversations that focus on specific themes highlighted by community partners and participants prior to interviews taking place. Over the course of the 28 qualitative life history interviews, specific themes emerged. These centered on the importance of relationships, the role of tactical violence, addressing trauma, and a redefining of personal identity politics. Rather than pulling excerpts from across the participants and dissecting their narratives for a specific highlighted point, I instead turn to one narrative to show how a survivance framework moves beyond continued colonial frameworks that pathologize Indigenous existence. The narrative challenges the limiting of the focus to a necropolitical order, or the control of those that are not viewed to be living (see Razack, 2015), ignoring their existence and

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    75 downplaying the innovative ways that Indigenous People challenge everyday settler-​ colonial violence. Within this frame, violence is often misunderstood, as it is mundane in its existence, built as it is into the very structures that have come to define the settler state, which is focused on eradicating Indigenous existence (Dorries et al., 2019; Razack, 2015; Wolfe, 2006).

A Snapshot of Survivance: Trauma, Relationships, and Building Community Mathew is an Indigenous Two-​Spirit male from Saskatchewan. At the time of the interviews, he had just turned 18 years old and was working with a youth program in relation to stabilized housing. Although Mathew did not ever become “down” with a street gang, he worked with street gangs in different ways, such as moving drugs throughout his neighborhood. He would also represent specific colors of the street gang that he worked with, and as a result was often identified as a street gang member, even though he maintained he was independent. This independence was also a strategy, and he was able to accomplish this because of the reputation his family had in the neighborhood. Mathew is personable and has an innate ability to read people. Throughout our conversations he reflected on his life and what had led him to the day that we had our conversations. He reflected about his life, but as he did, he did not hold back on positioning himself within his life decisions, believing that his life is not predetermined. Rather, it is framed by systems out of his control, but he feels that he was active in his decisions and would search for innovative ways to challenge a perceived victimization of his life. To me to survive on the streets of Saskatoon as a youth is . . . weaving through like all the . . . all the people . . . cause in every situation there’s people that are after you just to use you. Just to get your drugs. Whether it’s your drugs or money or whatever you have. But then it’s weaving through all those people that don’t just . . . weaving through all the people that just want to use you getting to the ones that actually like understand what it’s like to not have a mother, to not have family that want to help you in the world, that are just a . . . they know what it’s like to not have anybody care about them and they can see that you’re a good . . . you’re a good person but you’re just in a bad situation right now and right now that’s the only way you really know how to survive cause you aren’t taught ways to know . . . to survive at such a young age. Especially, if your parents are fucked up like mine and all three of my families just don’t want anything to do with me. And to me to know how to survive is really just the ways that I saw the past couple years as I . . . after my grandma passed away and I’ve had to come live with my mom it’s just looking for the right people in the streets or whether its friends at school or anything like that that don’t want to just use you and don’t care if you have money. Don’t care if you

76   Robert Henry have drugs. Don’t care about nothing that they just wanna like have your company or they just wanna help . . . to genuinely help you because they can see that you’re a good person and to me that’s what survival is. Everybody sticking together whether you have drugs, whether you have money, whether you don’t, whether you do and not . . . doesn’t matter how you look, how you act, what other people say about you cause there’s a lot of people out there that’ll talk shit on you, so you won’t get that help out there. But thankfully I have the right people on my side out there that know who I really am and know that, yeah, I’ve done some bad things, but at the end of the day like I’ll do anything for anybody that helps me along the way. There’s just a lot of people out there that if you show them loyalty there’s two things they’ll do with it. They’ll use it against you, or they’ll give it back to you. That’s how I see it. You just have to weave through all the people out there and find the good ones and people of the bad ones that just want to use you for your drugs and money and your whether it’s like . . . if you’re a bigger guy they’ll try to like to find those people just so they can intimidate other people so you can rob them or stuff like that. Or whether you’re a sneaky smaller person that can go and run around and do like little robbing’s and stuff and they get the payout, but if they get caught then it’s not on them. There’s a lot of manipulative and shady people out there and you just have to find the right ones. ’Cause there is definitely a lot of really good ones out there. It’s just a lot of the times it’s . . . after years of drugs use a lot of these good people turn into those emotionless zombies that just use anybody and everybody to get what they want in the world, which at the end of the day is their drugs. And when you’re younger it’s either you turn into one of those right away or you fight against it as much as you can, and you know it’s just you’re just in a bad situation in life and you can get out of it. But I know that because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen my mom go through years of addiction and get out of it. And then I don’t know how many times, I’ve seen countless family members who have family members die and I . . . at the end of the day I had my grandma. And she always like had a home. I seen this side of the ’hood and then I could go home at the end of the day to a nice home. So, I know that addiction isn’t forever if you don’t want it to be. When you are an addict it’s really hard out there to survive but everyone just does it in their own way. Whether it’s functioning. Whether it’s being homeless and just dealing with it and going to different friends to shower, to eat. Using the community services there. There’s a lot of different ways of survival out there for everybody and my way of surviving was really just finding those good people out there and just dealing with whatever was being thrown at me. I can’t blame myself. . . . I can’t blame anybody else for situations I got myself into. I was the one that . . . I was the one that started doing the drugs. I was the one that knew what was going to happen if I kept doing them and after it really got bad and I had no friends left. I had nowhere to live. My mother was gone in jail. My dad doesn’t want anything to do with me. I didn’t want to be around my little brothers and sisters ’cause I don’t want them to see me like that. I knew that I got myself there and I couldn’t cry about it. I couldn’t complain cause there’s nothing . . . there’s nobody to blame but myself. So, I would just find the right people out there that would help my mother in the past and they would help me. I would do

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    77 stuff for them all the time and they knew the type of person I was, and I was just a really bad addict at the time. At the end of the day like, I’m a good person. I don’t like the way I’m living right now, but I am here. I don’t want out of it, but if you just help me right now. Whether it’s for a place to sleep, to shower, to eat, and I had people like that. There’s a lot of people that were assholes and would just straight up say no or not want me around, but I just knew, like, okay I’ve got a lot of people I can talk to and ask. It’s just surviving out there can be really tough sometimes, especially those winter nights when I had nowhere to go, and I had to wander around all night and just stop at like friends’ places along the way. Like the people that didn’t really want to help but the ones that just wanted to use my drugs. I would have to stop there just to like chill somewhere warm for a bit. And there’s a lot of utilizing your good friends and a lot of utilizing your bad friends in situations like that. While there was for me, and I got through it. I didn’t cry lots. I . . . I was alone for sure. I felt alone and I was sad, but I knew I could reach out if I really wanted to. But I didn’t want to. I had no . . . I didn’t want any . . . I didn’t want any help in the world except my mother or my family. But after three years of it I realized that I can’t reach out to my mom anymore, she has to help herself. I can’t reach out to my dad ’cause he’s an asshole and I can’t reach out to my little brothers and sisters. ’Cause I have to be their big brother and show them that yeah the world’s tough, but I can keep going and you guys will be able to keep going too when you get out to the real world. When you grow up. I didn’t have a lot for a lot of the months, but my friends would help me out. Whether it was clothes, jackets, shower, and food. Like getting myself ready for school and stuff like that it’s . . . it’s a lot of everyone helping each other out at the end of the day. Like helping them out and not expecting anything back. There’s a lot of people out there like that still and I think a lot of them still . . . I talk to a lot of them, and I still help a lot of them out because they helped me out in a lot of my toughest situations in the past few years and they helped me. Whether it was just getting me high again or letting me fall asleep there or letting me know like this isn’t the safest position you’re in but you’re safer than being out on the street wandering by yourself having nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. It just everyone helping each other out not expecting much back, but it’d be nice if you help them back and I always do. I . . . whether it’s going to clean their house, taking care of their kids ’cause I’m really good with kids and I like kids and a lot of the times these mothers are stressed out. They don’t know how to ask people for help ’cause a lot of them . . . a lot of these other people don’t help mothers and stuff like that. They just use them, whether it’s child tax day or whatever, ’cause they know that they have money and if you do a little bit for them then they’ll be grateful. But I would do more than enough, and they would always tell me that, but I would just do it out of the goodness of my heart, ’cause they helped me in a lot of situations where I felt like I could have died. Where I felt like if I didn’t have them, I could have been in a lot of worse situations. So, I would help them as much as I could and they would help me with whatever they could and I wouldn’t complain. If I felt like it wasn’t enough like whatever, as long as they were helping me out in the end, and I’ll help them out whenever they need. It’s doing favors but not counting them or throwing it in their face when they can’t help you. I . . . it’s just a lot of that for me for my way of surviving the past few years and pushing against . . .

78   Robert Henry A lot of it is not giving them a reason to put me down for crying; about not having anything or not having stuff like that. It’s just a lot of struggling in silence and putting out the world like what you want them to see. That was how I survived. It was just having a certain look I wanted out in the world about myself and struggling in silence because I didn’t want the world to see me on that side. And it felt like a lot of people did but I put on a good enough front for a while, and I’m in a lot better spot now than I was and . . . I’m thankful for a lot of the people out on the streets that helped me, and I still help them out to this day. Whether it’s with money. Whether it’s with their kid, like looking after kids babysitting or whatever. And I am telling them like you don’t have to pay me back. I’ll just come hang out with you and your kids and you can go have a bath. You can go relax and have a nap for a while. I just like, it’s just . . . it’s just showing people out there that there’s still people in the world, like that whether their addicts or not, I guess that are still there to help one another. That’s really the only way I know how to explain it.

Challenging Pathologized Existences: Living Through Survivance Colonization has had a detrimental impact on Indigenous lived realities. In Canada, the history of the Indian Residential Schools continues to have ripple effects across Indigenous communities. In these schools, where Indigenous children were forcibly sent after being removed from their parents, they faced physical, sexual, emotional, spiritual, and mental abuse at the hands of the church and state (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). However as residential schools began to close in the 1960s (the final school closed in 1996), there was an uptake within child welfare services, as Indigenous children were “scooped” from their homes and placed in non-​Indigenous homes across Canada and the globe. These two systems in particular have had lasting effects, fragmenting Indigenous communities, families, and identities. These effects include issues related to addiction, trauma, and the subsequent violence. Therefore, those who have become involved in street gangs have explained that to protect themselves and siblings from violence, they would watch the adults in their lives. It was through watching adults, other youth, and building relationships with others that many youths found innovative ways to minimize violence, but also to obtain economic and social capital while navigating street spaces. Despite the violence one enacts within street gangs and within violent street lifestyles, many individuals talk about the important role of violence to survive, and through their survival in such spaces resist specific notions of Indigenous Peoples as being lazy or unable to take control of their own lives (Henry, 2019; LaRocque, 2010). Throughout, Mathew discusses the multiple ways that he survives within and across violent street spaces. Western theories of deviance such as control, strain, and social disorganization would focus on the negative relationships, poor moral decisions, and

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    79 lack of opportunities that lead individuals to become involved in street gangs and street lifestyles. According to Wood and Alleyne (2010), “[if] social researchers concentrate on areas where social-​economically deprived and ethnic populations live, there is a danger that explanations of gang membership will be framed solely by socio-​economic deprivation and ethnicity” (p. 103). This is even more so within colonial contexts that have looked to reshape Indigenous lifeworlds. As Mathew navigates the uncertainties of homelessness, addiction, and simply survival, he discusses multiple ways that he engages in survivance to survive, resist, and resurge his presence and build relationships with others. Vizenor asserts that to live as an Indigenous person requires more than one’s ability to be present. It is an active engagement to challenge victimry, specifically victimhood and tropes of victimization that often overtake Indigenous narratives of resistance and resurgence: [S]‌urvivance, in the sense of native survivance, is more than survival, more than endurance or mere response; the stories of survivance are an active presence. . . . The native stories of survivance are successive and natural estates; survivance is an active repudiation of dominance, tragedy, and victimry. (Vizenor, 1998, p. 15)

Survivance highlights the multiple ways that individuals search for personal and community survival, but it cannot and should not be read in a specific moment in time, but rather over and through time. This is because survivance is not passive; it is active. It is not something that simply occurs, but something that people actively engage in (Madsen, 2008). It is this active engagement or relationality to space that is survivance’s greatest strength as a theoretical framework to read Indigenous street lifestyles. Mathew’s narrative provides readers with the opportunity to see different aspects of survivance in action. He does not provide a depiction of his experiences through rose-​ colored glasses, where events and people are shown in a positive light. Nor does he condemn his or their actions or behaviors. He does not wallow in his experiences, seeing himself as a victim who is bound by their social structures, which is often focused within Western theories. Rather, he describes how kin and relationality are inscribed within street spaces, maintaining traditional Indigenous philosophies and lifeworlds. The importance of relationality is found throughout Mathew’s narrative, and it is this aspect that helps him to survive, resist, and resurge himself to be better for himself and his siblings. Through the importance of relationships, Mathew continues to highlight how Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies maintain themselves, despite the efforts of colonization and settler colonialism to erase or fragment them, and continue to support Indigenous life. As Mathew navigates his survival strategies, he explains emphatically that he is not a victim to his experiences and that he does not blame himself or others for what he has had to face. The negative experiences, then, are what have brought him to learn and find ways to reinvent himself as he works through personal issues of addiction and

80   Robert Henry homelessness. Again, such an affirmation of ownership is not present within pathological approaches that look to explain Indigenous lifeworlds within violent street spaces. Survivance as a theoretical analysis challenges traditional sociological explanations of deviance, street gangs, and street lifestyle involvement, as survivance looks to challenge tropes of victimization or blaming negative experiences on social factors outside of one’s control, and looks instead to acts of agency within specific sociopolitical histories.

Conclusion Indigenous lifeworlds are continuously under attack within settler spaces. Indigenous bodies and experiences are designated as being violent or in a necropolitical state, where they are devalued for their worth (Henry, 2019; Razack, 2015). Pathologized and positivistic sociological approaches to understanding Indigenous existence within street gangs and street lifestyles continues to position Indigenous Peoples as victims of colonization, ignoring their active resistance and the presence of individuals within such spaces. However, it needs to be understood that Indigenous Peoples are not just surviving within violent street spaces, but are actively engaged in personal resistance and resurgence through the maintenance of traditional Indigenous values, most often connected to life outside of urban spaces. Survivance as an analytical framework is necessary for social scientists who are examining Indigenous experiences, specifically for those engaged in street gangs and violent street lifestyles. It repositions researchers to understand that there is more happening than one’s poor decisions or a lack of specific moralities that support Indigenous as savage (LaRocque, 2010). Because survivance is not limited to a specific time or space, it is fluid, providing researchers with an innate ability to reread Indigenous lifeworlds within a lens that does not ignore Indigenous struggles or minimizing the horrors of colonization. In fact, it is necessary to acknowledge and discuss these struggles within the agentic actions, as it is these experiences that move beyond a perception of Indigenous victimry within settler colonialism, to that of Indigenous agency centering Indigenous survival, resistance, and resurgence.

References Blackstock, C. (2007). Residential schools: Did they really close or just morph into child welfare. Indigenous Law Journal, 6(1), 71. Buddle, K. (2011). Urban Aboriginal gangs and street sociality in the Canadian West. In H. A. Howard (Ed.), Aboriginal Peoples in Canadian Cities: Transformations and Continuities (p.171). Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Cacho, L. M. (2012). Social death: Racialized rightlessness and the criminalization of the unprotected. New York: New York University Press.

Social Systems and the Indigenous Lifeworld    81 Comack, E., Deane, L., Morrissette, L. & Silver, J. (2013). “Indians wear red”: Colonialism, resistance, and Aboriginal street gangs. Halifax: Fernwood Publishing. Dorries, H., Henry, R., Hugill, D., McCreary, T. & Tomiak, J. (Eds.). (2019). Settler city limits: Indigenous resurgence and colonial violence in the urban Prairie West. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Derrida, J. (2011). The Beast & the Sovereign (Vol. 2) (M. Lisse, M.-​L. Mallet, & G. Michaud, Eds.; G. Bennington, Trans.). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fraser, A. (2015). Urban legends. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Garot, R. (2010). Who you claim: Performing gang identity in school and on the streets (Vol. 3). New York: New York University Press. Hallsworth, S. (2013). The gang and beyond: Interpreting violent street worlds. Cham, Switzerland: Springer. Hallsworth, S., & Young, T. (2004). Getting real about gangs. Criminal Justice Matters, 55(1), 12–​13. Hallsworth, S., & Young, T. (2008). Gang talk and gang talkers: A critique. Crime, Media, Culture, 4(2), 175–​195. Harding, S. (2014). Street casino: Survival in violent street gangs. Bristol, UK: Policy Press. Hazlehurst, K., & Hazlehurst, C. (Eds.). (2018). Gangs and youth subcultures: International explorations. London: Routledge. Henry, R. (2019). “I claim in the name of . . .”: Indigenous street gangs and politics of recognition in Prairie cities. In H. Dorries et al. (Eds.), Settler city limits: Indigenous resurgence and colonial violence in the urban Prairie West (pp. 222–​247). Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Kovach, M. (2009). Indigenous methodologies: Characteristics, conversations, and contexts. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Lambert, S., & Henry, R. (2020). Surveilling Indigenous communities in a time of pandemic. Surveillance & Society, 18(3), 422–​425. LaRocque, E., 2010. When the other is me: Native resistance discourse, 1850–​1990. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Madsen, D. L. (2008). On subjectivity and survivance. In G. Vizenor (Ed.), Survivance: Narratives of Native presence (p. 61). Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Office of the Correctional Investigator. (2020). 2019–​ 2020 Annual Report: Office of the Correctional Investigator. Ottawa: Government of Canada. Razack, S. (2015). Dying from improvement: Inquests and inquiries into Indigenous deaths in custody. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Richardson, C., & Kennedy, L. (2012). “Gang” as empty signifier in contemporary Canadian newspapers. Canadian Journal of Criminology and Criminal Justice, 54(4), 443–​479. Rios, V. M. (2011). Punished: Policing the lives of Black and Latino boys. New York: New York University Press. Saghafi, K. (2015). Dying alive. Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, 48(3), 15–​26. Silver, J. (2008, January 14). The inner cities of Saskatoon and Winnipeg: A new distinctive form of development. Ottawa: Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives =​Centre Canadien de Politiques Alternatives. https://​www.pol​icya​lter​nati​ves.ca/​publi​cati​ons/​repo​rts/​inner-​cit​ ies-​saskat​oon-​and-​winni​peg Smith, L. T. (2013). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. London: Zed Books.

82   Robert Henry Starblanket, G., & Hunt, D. (2020). Storying violence: Unravelling colonial narratives in the Stanley trial. Winnipeg: ARP Books. Stewart, M., & La Berge, C. (2019). Care-​to-​prison pipeline: Indigenous children in twenty-​first century settler colonial economies. In H. Dorries et al. (Eds.), Settler city limits: Indigenous resurgence and colonial violence in the urban Prairie west (pp. 196–​221). Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Tait, C., Henry, R., & Lowen-​Walker, R. (2018). Child welfare: Social determinant of health for Canadian First Nations and Metis children. In R. Henry et al. (Eds.), Global Indigenous health: Reconciling the past, engaging the present, animating the future (pp. 151–​173). Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. (2012). Canada, Aboriginal Peoples, and residential schools: They came for the children. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication. Winnipeg: Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. https://​publi​cati​ ons.gc.ca/​coll​ecti​ons/​coll​ecti​on_​2​012/​cvrc-​trcc/​IR4-​4-​2012-​eng.pdf Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. (2015). Canada’s residential schools: The final report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (Vol. 1). Montreal: McGill-​ Queen’s Press. Taussig, M. T. (1987). Shamanism, colonialism, and the wild man: A study in terror and healing. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Vizenor, G. (1998). Fugitive poses: Native American Indian scenes of absence and presence. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Vizenor, G. (Ed.). 2008. Survivance: Narratives of native presence. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. White, R. (2013). Youth gangs, violence and social respect: Exploring the nature of provocations and punch-​ups. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–​409. Wood, J., & Alleyne, E. (2010). Street gang theory and research: Where are we now and where do we go from here? Aggression and Violent Behavior, 15(2), 100–​111.

S O C IA L C L A S S A N D I N DIG E N OU S L I F E WOR L D S

Chapter 6

I ndigenizi ng t h e So ciol o gy of C l as s Maggie Walter

Introduction Sociology is concerned with the study of human society, seeking to identify, explain, and measure how societies operate, how they are maintained, and how they change. Within this, social class (class) is a central, if not the central, concept. Major sociological theorists, from the discipline’s beginnings in the 18th and 19th centuries to the present, inclusive of Comte, Durkheim, Spencer, Marx, Weber, Parsons, Bourdieu, Giddens, and Bauman, all address class within their work. Western sociological literature, therefore, positions class as an overarching conceptual framework in its analyses and explanations of social life. This chapter provides an overview of class as it is understood within the sociological literature. These conceptualizations are then interrogated for their applicability to Indigenous Peoples living in Anglo-​colonized nation-​states. Finally, the concept of class is re-​envisioned within the Indigenous lifeworld. Examples come mainly from Australian society, as this is the society I sociologically know. But the similarity of the second intersubjectivity of the Indigenous lifeworld—​ as colonized, dispossessed, marginalized peoples—​gives the discussion salience to the lifeworlds of Indigenous peoples from other Anglo-​colonized nation-​states.

Class as a Central Sociological Concept The predominance of class as the key social force energizing the sociological endeavor is unsurprising. The emergence of class as a social concern and the emergence of sociology are intricately entwined. As explained in chapter 1, sociology, as a discipline, arose

86   Maggie Walter in response to the severe social disruptions occurring in Western Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries. The convergence of the French, the American, and the Industrial Revolutions rapidly, and in many cases violently, overturned long-​established patterns of social life. The abandonment of the divine order of kings, the wholesale disruption of the feudal way of life, and the large-​scale movement of previously rural populations to urban centers combined to almost completely remake long-​held notions of the social order (Habibis & Walter, 2014). Explanations of this new social order revolved around the concept of class, its various divisions, and the links between class and social inequality. While the concept is variously defined, all theorizations point to class as related to the hierarchy of a given society’s access to power, income, wealth, and status (Germov, 2009, p. 86). The central tenet is that the class position(s) an individual occupies, especially the class into which they are born, shapes the trajectory of their life chances. As such, class has been empirically linked to the likelihood of a healthy birth weight and first year of life, attaining higher-​level educational qualifications, interactions with the justice system, access to financial resources, housing type and location, social networks, health, and many other life outcomes (Gerth & Mills, 1948; Walter & Saggers, 2007). With a rough division format of working, middle, and upper class, Western sociologists have long sought to map the size and boundaries of the difference social classes and explore the connections between class, social movements, and social change (Van Krieken et al., 2010). The subjective dimensions of class have also been studied. In what the White Australian sociologist Raewyn Connell (1977, p. 33) refers to as the “lived reality of class,” an individual’s class position is an outward projection of that person’s class identity, inclusive of our accent and vocabulary, clothing choices, and “knowing” how to behave in certain social settings or situations. Sociological explorations of the subjectivity of class are often linked to examinations of power and class conflict. The White British researcher Paul Willis’s (1977) classic Learning to Labour, for example, demonstrated how the education system, in concert with the broader social and cultural milieu, reproduces the position of working-​class children in the class-​structured labor market.

Sociological Theories of Class While there are many theories of class, most are derived from, or developed in opposition to, those of the 19th-​century White German philosopher Karl Marx and the White German sociologist Max Weber. In this section these influential frames are briefly explained, alongside the more recent work of the White French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu. These explanations are not meant to be a comprehensive overview of the sociological theoretical on class. To do so is beyond the remit of this chapter, and such broader explanations can be found in any first-​year sociology text. Rather, the aim is to provide a base for the later critique of class as a concept applicable to the Indigenous lifeworld.

Indigenizing the Sociology of Class    87 Karl Marx (1818–​1883) lived during a period of major social chaos emanating from industrialization. In his quest for understanding, Marx applied the principles of natural science to the social world. These analyses led to the theorization that societies were dominated by two classes: those who own the means of production (the bourgeoisie) and those whose only asset is their labor (the proletariat). In Marx’s time the proletariat were those working in the factories, but they also included professional and other workers who drew a wage. Marx also applied his theories beyond his own society, situating inequality as an almost unavoidable outcome for any society that moves beyond subsistence to surplus. Surplus activates interest groups (classes) to garner the surplus for themselves, to the exclusion of other societal members. This unequal system, Marx further theorized, meant that the bourgeoisie would always seek to dominate the proletariat in all domains of life, with economic power translating to political, social, and cultural domination. The result was social stability. The constant struggle of the proletariat against this domination could also result in social change, with social progress achievable via class conflict (Bottomore & Rubel, 1963). Max Weber (1864–​1920) also recognized the stark power differentials between different societal groups, but he did not automatically attribute these to class alone. Rather, for Weber, inequality was related to three different sources of power: status (social standing), party (political organization and influence), and class. Weber drew on these concepts to understand how different groups came to occupy different positions in a market economy and how this similarity of class position translated into social behaviors. While Weber recognized the interdependence of these three attributes, he also theorized that they could and did operate independently. Weber expanded Marx’s property ownership base to also include an individual’s skills and credentials. For Weber, class was divided into four main groups: the bourgeoisie (similar to Marx’s property owners), the petty bourgeoisie (self-​employed small business owners), skilled workers (professionals and managers), and manual workers (relying solely on their labor) (Gerth & Mills, 1948). Pierre Bourdieu’s (1930–​2002) work during the 1980s and 1990s drew on the work of Marx and Weber, but also signaled a newer conceptualization. In Bourdieu’s (1984) approach, class is determined by an individual’s or group’s relationship to four forms of capital: economic capital (income and wealth), cultural capital (cultural knowledge, education), social capital (social connections and networks), and symbolic capital (reputation, respect, social honor). Bourdieu theorized that groups sharing a similar relationship to these forms of capital constitute a social class, and that it is the various combinations of different levels of capital that designate where an individual or group fits into the social class hierarchy. Bourdieu also subdivided the three base categories of working, middle, and upper class into divisions, dependent on their combinations of different capital levels. Thus, the upper class tends to have high levels of economic capital but lower levels of cultural capital. Conversely, intellectuals such as writers and academics are also deemed members of the upper class, based on their higher levels of cultural capital and likely lower levels of economic capital. The working class, on the other hand, tends to have low

88   Maggie Walter levels of all capitals. Bourdieu (1984) theorized that surplus of one type of capital, such as economic capital, could be converted into other types, such as cultural capital. This ability to convert excess capitals to other forms gives rise to the notion of social mobility, or the ability of an individual to move up (or down) a given society’s class hierarchy. Using a Bourdieu-​influenced frame, social theorists argue that upward social mobility requires all four forms of capital, with conversions of excess capital from one area raising the requisite level of capital in another area to complete a class transition (Portes, 1998).

Measuring Class Class is a complex concept, but its operationalization for measurement and analysis processes has tended to be relatively simple. In Australia, as in most other Western countries, most class analysis has measured socioeconomic status (SES) as a proxy for class. Based on a ranked stratification system based on education, occupation, and income, such information is routinely gathered in surveys or administrative collections. For example, the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) generates what are termed Social Economic Indexes for Areas (SEIFA). Under SEIFA, households are divided into deciles, by counting area, according to the level of household income reported in the national Census of Population and Housing, which occurs every five years. This ranking allows comparisons of relative income across areas (ABS 2018b). Similarly, the ABS combines data on income, education, unemployment, and occupation to produce a relative disadvantage score. Scores are then ranked from lowest to highest and divided to create groups with scores at similar levels (Burdess, 2004, p. 176). This relative disadvantage score takes account of Weber’s concept of status via the inclusion of occupation as a proxy for social standing. It might be argued that Bourdieu’s concepts of economic and cultural capital are also captured, at least in part. Measuring other aspects of social class, such as Weber’s concepts of prestige or status, Marx’s divisions of proletariat or bourgeoisie, or symbolic capita and social capital, as per Bourdieu, are less easy to measure at the population level (Germov, 2002).

Indigenous Peoples and Class There are two key questions to be drawn from this overview of Western sociological conceptualizations and operationalizations of class: (1) How applicable are these understandings of class, sociologically, to Indigenous Peoples and populations? (2) How useful are these understandings of class for Indigenous Peoples and Indigenous sociology? These two questions are explored here within the broader framework of the dual intersubjectivities of the Indigenous lifeworld (Walter & Suina, 2018), as outlined in chapter 1:

Indigenizing the Sociology of Class    89 1. Intersubjectivity within peoplehood and the ways of being and doing of those peoples, inclusive of traditional and ongoing culture, belief systems, practices, identity and ways of understanding the world and our place within it. 2. Intersubjectivity as colonized, dispossessed, marginalized peoples whose everyday life is framed through and directly impacted by our historical and ongoing relationship and interactions with the colonizing nation-​state.

How Applicable? Indigeneity occupies an ambiguous position within studies of class (Tyler 1990) and this location is evident from even a cursory examination of how the two concepts are linked in mainstream sociological thought. Because, while the disadvantaged position of Indigenous Peoples is well documented in sociological texts, there is, intriguingly, almost no commentary on the Indigenous class position. I use a bestselling Australian sociology text as my example, a weighty tome of 488 pages and 14 chapters. I won’t name this text and have chosen it primarily because it is available on my bookshelf. But it matters little. I know from my years of teaching first-​year sociology that the pattern of content I describe here is typical. This text, as is standard, has a full chapter devoted to the topic of Class and Inequality. Within this, Indigenous Peoples are mentioned only once, in a sentence discussing the concept of absolute poverty. Indigenous Peoples do feature in another chapter, titled “Identities: Indigenous National, Ethnic and Racial,” getting 7 of the chapter’s 26 pages. Of these, one discusses patterns of inequality since colonization; 2.5 are given over to discussions of cultural survival, with four vignettes on cultural practices (all written by non-​Indigenous researchers); 1.5 pages are on land rights legislation; and 2.5 pages are on Indigenous social disadvantage. In the rest of the text there are just two further Indigenous mentions, a part page in the health chapter and another part page in the criminology section. The term “class” does not feature in any of these pages. The clear conclusion is that the concepts of Class and Indigeneity remain largely unlinked within Western sociological thought. Why? It is well documented, within sociology texts and more broadly, that Aboriginal populations are unremittingly poor, with that poverty evident across all socioeconomic indicators. For example, data from the 2016 Census finds that the mean gross weekly income for the Australian Indigenous population is $802, compared with $1,096 for the non-​Indigenous population. Moreover, the size of this income gap has not shifted over the last 20 years. Similarly, 60% of the Indigenous population record incomes in the lowest two income quintiles, compared to 20% of the non-​Indigenous population. At the other end of the scale, 10% of the Indigenous population record incomes in the top quintile, compared to 21% of the non-​Indigenous population. The pattern of high Indigenous proportions with incomes in the lowest quintile persists across the six Australian states. Geographic area divisions show some variation, but

90   Maggie Walter rates of Indigenous income in the lowest quintile are still disproportionate. For example, in major cities, 27% of the Indigenous population have income in the lowest quintile, compared to 18% of the non-​Indigenous population (AIHW, 2021). The takeaway from these data is that the Aboriginal populations in Australia are the poorest of the poor, nationally, by state, and by geographic region. So, is Australian sociology’s lack of exploration of Indigenous social class explained by an implicit assumption that a low income level equals working class? Are Indigenous populations just another category of the poor, along with other traditionally disadvantaged groups such as migrants and single parents? This would mean, by income, a smaller but still substantive group of perhaps 30% categorized as middle class, with around 10% categorized as upper class. A Marxist analysis would see a much lower proportion of the Indigenous population classified as bourgeoisie, given the very low ownership by Indigenous peoples of businesses or assets that could be deemed means of production. If a Weberian-​based occupational status model is used instead, then the question is whether those 22% of Indigenous employees in professional, associate-​ professional, or managerial type jobs (ABS, 2018a) could be designated as middle class. Using Bourdieu’s four categories, it is easy to see that Aboriginal populations record low levels of economic capital. The Indigenous position on the other three forms of capital (cultural, social, and symbolic) is less clear-​cut. It depends on who is doing the measuring. But if non-​Indigenous norms are the measure, then Indigenous populations likely score low on all three. A measure of the applicability of standard class classifications is to examine levels of income from an Indigenous perspective. Research in this area, admittedly limited, demonstrates that as well as being unequivocally poor by any of the standard measures, Indigenous disadvantage is different, operating outside the usual theoretical understandings of class stratification. For example, the White Australian scholar Boyd Hunter (1999) finds that poverty in nonmonetary spheres is endemic in Indigenous households, even among those who might be deemed to be relatively well off in income terms. In Hunter’s analysis, overcrowding in housing was an issue for relatively advantaged Indigenous families, as well as those on lower incomes, and the usual correlation between income level and health was not found. Indigenous people had poor health across all income distributions, and high-​income Indigenous families were nearly as likely to experience long-​term health problems as low-​income Indigenous families. In other research, educational data reveal that while the mean score of Indigenous students is lower in all categories, unlike non-​Indigenous students, there is no clear association between Indigenous parental socioeconomic position and student results (Walter 2007). Negative interactions with the criminal justice system are also found to be a common feature, regardless of household income, with members of high-​income Indigenous households much more likely to have been arrested in the past year than their non-​Indigenous counterparts (Weatherburn et al., 2003). The reasonable interpretation of all this evidence is that higher income does not translate into better life chances and outcomes for Indigenous Peoples in the way it does for non-​Indigenous Australians. Other research has also found that even the panacea for inequality, social mobility,

Indigenizing the Sociology of Class    91 likely operates differently for Indigenous Peoples than for dominant, non-​Indigenous populations (Walter, 2015). Income-​related class proxies also presume a relative stability of an individual’s position. For the non-​Indigenous population, positioning in income rankings tends to link to position in the labor market, which in turn indicates an intergenerational link. Those in manual occupations tend to come from families who work(ed) in manual positions. Similarly, those from professionally employed families tend to also gain the requisite credentials to gain employment in professional roles. For Indigenous Peoples, however, labor market position has Indigenous-​specific links. While the evidence is again limited, not only are Indigenous individuals less likely to have intergenerational advantages, they are also more likely to be in Indigenous-​specific professional employment (Walter, 2015). Receipt of income in higher quintiles, therefore, may only be a temporary phenomenon and not an indication of life-​course advantage, or as a proxy for other middle-​ class attributes such as better health or educational outcomes. Without longitudinal data it is impossible to estimate what proportion of Aboriginal households retain their higher income status over data collection periods.

How Useful? Does the different nature of Indigenous disadvantage mean that the concept of class has no relevance? It certainly may have only limited usefulness because of the different nature of Indigenous lived reality. Indigenous lives are negotiated within distinctive Indigenous circumstances. These vary across First Nations and geographic settings, but all have culturally specific and social-​positioning elements that do not mirror non-​Indigenous life points. The shape and timing of life events, for example, such as achieving adulthood, family formation, or elder status, have distinctive patterns, and how these are negotiated at individual, family, and community level differs across location (urban, regional, remote). The Quandamooka scholar, Karen Martin (2005) points out that for Aboriginal people, the life course is not linear but circular, with the passage through childhood, for instance, not just about a physical growing up but also about engaging with the world in ever-​increasing circles of relatedness—​to family and community, but also to land, waters, skies, animals, plants, and spirits. Similarly, Martin and Mirraboopa (2003, p. 6) observes that to be an elder is not just to be older, but to have “grown up” in the law. Indigenous disadvantage in areas beyond income also have an impact. In addition, the physicality of lived experience varies from the non-​Indigenous norm. Aging prematurely via the earlier onset of chronic disease is a common experience for Indigenous Peoples (Broe & Jackson-​Pulver 2010; Cotter et al., 2007). There are also considerable conceptual problems in applying standard measures of class to Indigenous Peoples. First, there are methodological problems such as the role nonmarket work plays in many Indigenous lives. Additionally, many of the variables used within SEIFA do not fit easily into Indigenous ways of being (Gray & Auld, 2000). For example, while equivalence scales are commonly used to compare different

92   Maggie Walter households, these are based on presumptions of the Western nuclear family form, with parents and offspring residing in the same household. Indigenous family forms such as multiple family households, or families where members are mobile and may reside in different households, do not fit these scales. Further, as Hunter et al. (2002) discovered, the choice of equivalence scale can significantly reduce or increase the comparative level of Indigenous poverty. Attempts to reduce the confounding impact of Indigenous lived reality have not been successful to date. Gray and Auld (2000), for example, after attempting to construct a composite Index of Relative Indigenous Socio-​Economic Disadvantage, concluded its usefulness was of limited value. The changeability of outcome by included variables made the index unreliable. Again the conclusion is that proxy measures for class, as currently used in Australian sociology, are not very useful in measuring a class position of Indigenous populations, or for those peoples themselves.

The Indigenous Lifeworld and the Indigenous Class Position That Aboriginal Peoples are poor is taken as a given in Australia. But social givens have social origins, they do not just exist. Just like socioeconomic advantage, socioeconomic deprivation accrues and accumulates across and into the life chances of individuals, families, and communities. And these social origins are uniquely Indigenous. Indigenous class positions cannot be understood unless they are placed and analyzed within their present and past social-​structural context. Moreover, the then and the now are connected. The historical and contemporary consequences of being an Aboriginal person in Australian society impacted, and impacts, an individual’s or a family’s ability to access economic, social, cultural, and human capital resources. The overall message is that Indigenous disadvantage is a phenomenon in its in own right, and it is a phenomenon that can be linked directly to colonization, past and present. The Indigenous lifeworld is the crux of Indigenous socioeconomic positioning and, subsequently, the Indigenous class position. Viewed through the perspective of the dual lifeworld intersubjectivities: within peoplehood; and as colonized, dispossessed, marginalized peoples, being Indigenous of itself is a structural component of class position. Being an Indigenous person consistently impacts an individual’s life chances in an Indigenous patterned way. This proposition does not mean that factors such as income, educational attainment, or employment options are not important. They are—​but they are factors that must be understood within a framework of Indigeneity and the Indigenous lifeworld, not explanations in of themselves. From this perspective, Indigenous people constitute a class category of their own. This class position in Anglo-​colonized nation-​ states sits on its own, firmly wedged at the bottom of society (Walter, 2007). There is a critical and specific imbalance in the relationship between the nation-​state, its non-​Indigenous populations, and the Indigenous Peoples of the lands the nation-​state

Indigenizing the Sociology of Class    93 now occupies. Colonization—​and the silences around colonization, then and now, that are necessary for legitimating the narrative of origins and contemporary reality the nation wants to tell itself—​powers this imbalance. Again, our sociology text example reflects this non-​Indigenous social reality. In the entire text, the word “colonization” is mentioned five times. The most prominent mention is on the one page on patterns of Indigenous inequality since colonization, but with the term colonization included as a marker of a time period. There is also a mention in relation to the link between colonization and poor Aboriginal health, another in relation to the especially disadvantaged position of Aboriginal women, another to masculinities, and another in relation to the export of Western values to colonized nations as part of modernity. All of these further four mentions are very brief, mostly just the word “colonization” in a sentence. More tellingly, all mentions situate colonization as being in the historical past, and all except the one on modernity only talk about colonization in relation to Indigenous Peoples. There is no section explaining colonization as a historical and social phenomenon, no operationalization of this phenomenon in the Australian context, and no mention of the impact of colonization on the lived realities of non-​Indigenous Australian populations. In a nation-​state where everything about that society, including its class and inequality dimensions, have links to colonization, this absence in a major sociology text produced for teaching the students of a society how to understand their society, is extraordinary. Yet it is the norm.

Class in This Handbook In this Handbook, seven chapters, inclusive of this chapter, are grouped into the section under the label of “Class.” Yet, as per the argument made above, class as conceptualized in mainstream Western sociology is not very applicable or very useful for Indigenous sociology. For Indigenous Peoples’ class position is irretrievably linked to the Indigenous lifeworld, and the contributions included this section all reflect aspects of this uniquely Indigenous class position. In chapter 17, Randall Akee interrogates the concepts of earnings as usually understood within the inequality literature. His focus is that Western approaches miss significant sources of resource exchange, transfer, and provision common to many Indigenous communities. The non-​inclusion of non–​market-​based environmental and natural resources, Akee argues, distorts understandings of community well-​being and resilience. Bindi Bennett, in c­ hapter 7 takes a different tack through her exploration of the potential benefits of animal-​based therapy for Aboriginal Peoples in Australia. Explaining the nontranslatability of Western definitions of disability in Aboriginal communities, Bennett nevertheless points to the very high incidence of disability in Aboriginal populations and the subsequent greater experience of intersectional discrimination. Writing on how working with dogs can improve social health and well-​being, Bennett further explains its potential for addressing social inequality. The social and emotional support provided can alleviate the effects of the systemic racism common in institutional

94   Maggie Walter practices of disability care. In chapter 9, Matthew Wynyard applies an Indigenous critical theory lens to Marx’s theory of primitive accumulation. Via this innovation, Marx’s theory can provide a useful, Indigenous-​framed account of colonization. Wynyard then deploys this Indigenized theory to explain the accumulation processes deployed in Aotearoa New Zealand of land via the dispossession and attempted elimination of Māori from ancestral lands. Arapera Blank-​Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb, in chapter 16, add to the explication of the Indigenous social position via their early findings from research on Māori and Samoan experiences of youth justice. This chapter foregrounds Māori community narratives on the experience of state justice practices. Critically, the authors demonstrate that it is the marginalization of rangatahi and whānau, two central aspects of the Māori and Samoan lifeworlds, by state authorities that forms the central themes in these narratives. Vanessa Watts, in chapter 14, offers an Indigenous understanding of social hierarchies. Sociological notions of “society” and “culture,” Watts argues, are largely defined by the interrelations between humans only. This exclusivity limits considerations of other-​than-​human relations on societal formations and dynamics. Via an exploration of epistemology, ontology, and other-​than-​human relations, Watts demonstrates the way that Indigenous worlds conceive of societal formations and articulate social events. Finally in chapter 42, Melissa Watkinson positions decolonization, via the reacquiring of tribal lands, as a climate-​change adaptation tool. Indigenous Peoples, via their marginalized social positioning, are particularly exposed to early and adverse climate change. Through an Indigenous worldview and drawing on findings from her research partnership with a coastal tribe in Washington State, Watts demonstrates the effectiveness of reacquiring fractionated land on tribes’ ability to adapt to climate impacts.

References ABS (Australian Bureau of Statistics). (2018a). Census of Population and Housing: Characteristics of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians. https://​www.abs.gov .au/​sta​tist​ics/​peo​ple/​abo​rigi​nal-​and-​tor​res-​str​ait-​islan​der-​peop​les/​cen​sus-​pop​ulat​ion -​and-​hous​ing-​char​acte​rist​ics-​abo​rigi​nal-​and-​tor​res-​str​ait-​islan​der-​aust​rali​ans/​lat​est-​ rele​ase. ABS (Australian Bureau of Statistics). (2018b). Socio-​Economic Indices for Areas SEIFA. https://​www.abs.gov.au/​web​site​dbs/​cen​sush​ome.nsf/​home/​seifa. AIHW (Australia Institute of Health and Welfare). (2021). Indigenous employment. Canberra: AIHW. https://​aihw.gov.au/​repo​rts/​aus​tral​ias-​welf​are/​Ind​igen​ous-​emp​loym​ent. Bottomore, T. B., & Rubel, M. (1963). Karl Marx. Hammondsworth: Penguin Books. Bourdieu, P. (1984). Distinction: A social critique of the judgement of taste (R. Nice, Trans.). London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Burdess, N. (2004). Class and health. In C. Grbich (Ed.), Health in Australia: sociological concepts and issues (pp. 173–​198). Sydney: Pearson and Longman. Broe, G. A., & Jackson Pulver, L. (2010.). Aboriginal ageing, Aboriginal health and epidemiological transitions. Workshop Report, Inaugural National Workshop of the Australian Association of Gerontology, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Ageing Committee, University of New South Wales, Sydney.

Indigenizing the Sociology of Class    95 Connell, R. W. (1977). Ruling class: Ruling culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cotter, P., Anderson. I., Len, S. (2007). Indigenous Australians: Ageing without longevity? In A. Borowski, E. Ozanne, S. Encel (Eds.), Longevity and Social Change in Australia. (pp. 65–98) Sydney: UNSW Press. Germov, J. (Ed.). (2002). Second opinion: An introduction to health sociology (2nd ed.). Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Germov, J. (Ed.). (2009). Second opinion: An introduction to health sociology (4th ed.). Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Gerth, H. H., & Mills. C. W. (Eds.). (1948). From Max Weber: Essays in sociology. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Gray, M., & Auld, A. (2000). Toward an Index of Relative Indigenous Socio-​ Economic Disadvantage. CAEPR, 196/​2000. Canberra: Australian National University. Habibis, D., & Walter, M. (2014). Social inequality: Discourses, realities and directions (2nd ed.). Melbourne: Oxford. Hunter, B. (1999). Three nations not one: Indigenous and other Australian poverty (CAEPR Working Paper 1). Canberra: Australian National University. Hunter, B. H., Kennedy, S., & Biddle, N. (2002). One size fits all?: The effect of equivalence scales on Indigenous and other Australian poverty (CAEPR Working Paper 19). Canberra, Australian National University. Martin, K. (2005). Childhood, lifehood and relatedness: Aboriginal ways of being, knowing and doing. In Introductory Indigenous studies in education (pp. 27–​40). Frenchs Forest, NSW: Pearson Education. Martin, K., & Mirraboopa, B. (2003). Ways of knowing, being and doing: A theoretical framework and methods for Indigenous and Indigenist re-​search. Journal of Australian Studies, 27(76), 203–​214. Portes, A. (1998). Social capital: Its origins and applications in modern sociology. Annual Review of Sociology, 24, 1–​24. Tyler, W. (1990). Aboriginality and socioeconomic attainment in Australia’s Northern Territory. ANZJS, 26(1), 68–​85. Van Krieken, R., Habibis, D., Smith, P., Hutchins, B., Maton, K., & Martin, G. (2010). Sociology: Themes and perspectives. Sydney: Pearson Education. Walter M. (2007). Aboriginality, poverty and health: Exploring the connection. In I. Anderson, F. Baum & M. Bentley (Eds.), Beyond bandaids: Exploring the underlying social determinants of Indigenous health (pp. 77–​90). Darwin: CRC for Aboriginal Health. Walter, M. (2015). The vexed relationship between social mobility and social capital for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People. Australian Journal of Social Issues, 50(1), 69–​88. Walter, M., & Saggers, S. (2007). Poverty and social class. In B. Carson, T. Dunbar, R. Chenhall, & R. Bailie (Eds.), Social determinants of indigenous health (pp. 87–​104). Crows Nest, NSW: Allen and Unwin. Walter M., & Suina M. (2018). Indigenous data, Indigenous methodologies and Indigenous data sovereignty. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 22(3), 233–​243. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​13645​579.2018.1531​228. Weatherburn, D., Lind, B., & Hua, J. (2003). Contact with the New South Wales court and prison system: The influence of age, Aboriginal status and gender. Crime and Justice Bulletin 78. Contemporary Issues in Crime and Justice : NSW Bureau of Crime Statistics and Research. https://​www.boc​sar.nsw.gov.au/​Publi​cati​ons/​CJB/​cjb78.pdf. Willis, P. (1977). Learning to labour: How working class kids get working class jobs. Farnborough: Saxon House.

Chapter 7

Indigenou s Pe opl e s ’ E arnings, In e qua l i t y, and Well -​Be i ng Known and Unknown Components Randall Akee

Introduction There are various measures that can be used to assess the well-​being of individuals, families, and communities. One of the most widely used measures is income. Income is a relatively well-​defined measure, comprising a flow of resources for an individual, family, or community over a predetermined time period. It is often taken to mean only monetary sources of income, which is what makes it relatively easy data to collect; typically, these sources come from wages, salaries, and government transfer programs such as Social Security payments or Temporary Assistance to Needy Family (TANF) payments. Other sources of income are not often reported by virtue of the fact that they are difficult to define in monetary terms. Examples of this include in-​kind donations or gifts of food or free labor services. For some populations, these sources of income may be quite small and insignificant. However, as this analysis will show, they may actually represent a large proportion of income sources and economic activities for certain groups. Not accounting for these sources of income potentially depicts some populations as less resilient and more impoverished than they are in reality. For example, if there are two communities with equivalent incomes and one meets all of its dietary and caloric needs primarily through nonmarket sources of food (e.g., communal farms, fishing or hunting activities) while the other must purchase food, then the second community is unambiguously worse off. However, the two communities would be categorized as doing equivalently well using only a monetary measure of income. Not accounting for these other

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     97 sources of income may also indicate lower levels of cultural connections (or capital) and/​or understate the importance of productive ecosystems and natural environments. Nevertheless, it is useful to start with an overview of income levels and general trends in inequality for the Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander (NHPI) and American Indian and Alaska Native (AIAN) race groups in the United States. These populations are seldom included in research on income and inequality (Bloome, 2014; Bloome & Western, 2011; Piketty & Saez, 2003; Reardon & Bischoff, 2011); a few exceptions to this are Snipp and Cheung (2016) and Akee et al. (2019). Therefore, examining earned income is a useful place to start in order to understand inequality faced by Indigenous Peoples in the United States, and it will allow for a more in-​depth discussion of why these standard measures may miss important components of income flows for these populations. In general, both the level of income and the inequality in society are important. Differences in earnings and incomes across individuals in a society matter for several reasons. Recent research has shown that as inequality has increased it has led to increased residential segregation, a reduction in investment in public education and public assistance programs, and may also adversely affect individual health outcomes (Ashok et al., 2015; Hout, 2016; Kawachi et al., 1997; Kearney & Levine, 2016; Reardon & Bischoff, 2011; Subramanian & Kawachi, 2004). Other potential measures of aggregate well-​being that provide intuitive categories may also overlook important aspects of resource flows. Poverty is an important measure that indicates the percentage of families residing below a well-​defined threshold. These measures are useful because they also provide insight into changes in families at the bottom of the income distribution. However, poverty measures rely on the same income measures as previously described, which may mean that these measures can miss important characteristics of family dynamics for Indigenous Peoples. In the analysis that follows, I will show how both the official poverty rate and the supplemental poverty rates may miss important sources of income for Indigenous Peoples in the United States. I will also discuss some of the ways in which existing measures of well-​being tend to undercount resources in Indigenous Peoples’ nations, communities, and homes. In accounting for educational attainment and income sources, standard definitions may not account for the reality and experience of Indigenous Peoples. As such, these measures may overstate or understate the true conditions in these nations, communities, and households. I will provide a few examples of how this persists when using standard definitions in data collection. Finally, I discuss some paths forward that may improve the collection of data for Indigenous Peoples in the United States. These paths are drawn from existing survey questions in Canada and the Federated States of Micronesia. These discussions will focus on the potential benefits of expanding definitions of income, resources and the consumption of resources. These measures may also help to understand the role that the environment and intact ecosystems play in providing for local populations.

98   Randall Akee

Inequality in Earned Income by Race Groups Income is one of the most important data measures used to identify the well-​being of individuals, communities, and nation-​states. Changes in income often reflect the overall growth of an economy over time. It is often one of the easiest measures to calculate in that it simply requires the sum of all monetary inflows over the course of a week, month, or year. Income flows are generally derived from work efforts in the form of salaries or wages for most people. Other sources of income flows can come from governmental transfers in the form of social support programs such as Temporary Assistance to Needy Families (TANF) or Social Security payments for the elderly or disabled. Some individuals receive interest or dividend payments based on their wealth holdings and whether they are invested or lent to others. Additionally, due to federal (and some state) income tax laws, these income flows are required by law to be estimated and reported annually. Thus, it is a measure that is salient for most households in the United States. In contrast, wealth itself is more complicated to calculate, as it requires the estimation of the value of assets and their net worth in current dollar terms. Given that assets may comprise land or other property, as well as stocks or bonds, it is not often easy to directly estimate the value of these items by most individuals. As a result, wealth is much more difficult to measure and is only done so in very specialized surveys (Kochar & Fry, 2014). However, there are shortcomings to the use of income as well; typically, this measure only includes financial sources of income such as wages, salaries, and government transfer programs. It often omits the receipt of in-​kind goods or services that may be provided by community groups, family members, or employers. Examples of these in-​ kind goods or services would include resources from church relief societies to families in need, free babysitting services from an aunt or grandmother, or providing an employee with a vehicle for work that is also used as transportation to and from their own home. These types of transactions are difficult to quantify and do not often show up in bank accounts or tax reports. Therefore, this source of income (which will be discussed in more detail in Section 3) is often overlooked. Nevertheless, the use of income flows is a useful place to start to assess the well-​being of Indigenous Peoples in the United States. For the analysis that follows, I use the public-​use data from the U.S. Census Bureau. The data includes a combination of the 2000 long-​form Census and the 2005, 2010, 2015, and 2018 American Community surveys available from the Minnesota Population Centers IPUMS website (Ruggles et al., 2020). I start in 2000, as this is the first year for which Native Hawaiians and Pacific Islanders (NHPIs) are separately identifiable from the Asian race group. I examine American Indians and Alaska Natives (AIANs) and finally non-​Hispanic Whites (NHWs) for comparison. In all cases, I examine NHPIs and AIANs either alone or in combination with other race or ethnic groups. As a result, this is the most expansive definition for these groups. The alternative would be to only include individuals who self-​identify as AIAN or NHPI alone; however, given the fact that

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     99 many individuals in these groups identify as members of several different race or ethnic groups, I choose to use the more inclusive race measure. Note that all of these results are reported at the national level for each year and group. In Figure 7.1, I show the average earned income for individuals from these three race groups across the time period 2000–​2018 inflated to 2018 dollars. The gray line for Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islanders remains flat and constant over most years at approximately $40,000 until 2018, when it increases to $43,000. The average earned income for the American Indian and Alaska Native population is fairly constant at $35,000 over all of the years in the data. Non-​Hispanic Whites, on the other hand, realized a $5,000 increase from the start of the time period to the end the period. The most striking observation is the difference in levels of earned incomes across these three groups. Non-​Hispanic Whites earn on average about $10,000 more income than the NHPI population and about $15,000 more income than the AIAN population. In Figure 7.2, I show the same analysis adjusted for educational attainment, age, and whether the individual is male.1 A more complete analysis would control for occupational categories, industry of employment, and state of residence, for instance. However, the results shown below indicate that there are significant differences across these three race groups even after controlling for some of the most important individual-​level characteristics that determine a person’s earnings. In the figure, the difference between the average earnings for non-​Hispanic Whites and NHPIs ranges from $8,000 to almost $10,000 over this time period, and it ranges from $12,000 to $16,000 for non-​Hispanic Whites and AIANs. The results indicate that there are significant differences in earnings

60000

Dollars in $2018

55000 50000 45000 40000 35000 30000

2000

2005

Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islanders

2010

2015

American Indian/Alaska Native

2018 Non-Hispanic White

Figure 7.1  Mean Earnings for Selected Groups in Constant 2018 Dollars Note. Author’s calculations based on U.S. Census and American Community Survey data from IPUMS Website (Ruggles et al, 2020) for years 2000, 2005, 2010, 2015, and 2018.

100   Randall Akee $40,000 $38,000

Dollars in Constant $2018

$36,000 $34,000 $32,000 $30,000 $28,000 $26,000 $24,000 $22,000 $20,000

2000

2005

Native Hawaiian/ Pacific Islanders Non-Hispanic White

2010

2015

2018

American Indian/ Alaska Native

Figure 7.2  Mean Earnings Net of Education, Age and Gender in Constant 2018 Dollars Note. Author’s calculations based on U.S. Census and American Community Survey data from IPUMS Website (Ruggles et al., 2020) for years 2000, 2005, 2010, 2015, and 2018.

even after controlling for educational attainment, age, and gender. In fact, there is some evidence that the difference in earnings expanded somewhat over this time period. This result shows how earnings differences may be attributed to both observed and unobserved characteristics. In the analysis for Figure 7.2, I explicitly controlled for some of the standard inputs to earnings determination; however, many more characteristics either go unmeasured or unquantified and are not easily controlled for in this type of analysis. For instance, standard surveys and national census data do not include measures for a person’s ability, skills, social networks, labor market experience, or the role of discrimination. All of these characteristics surely play an important role in the determination of a person’s earnings. In Table 7.1, I present an expanded set of earnings measures in Panel A, which provides the average earned income by race group as well as the earned income for the 25th, 50th, and 75th percentiles of the earnings distribution across these four time periods spanning 18 years. In Panel B, I provide the residual predicted earnings where educational attainment, age, and gender have been explicitly controlled for. One note is that at the lower end of the income distribution, at the 25th earnings percentile, all three groups experienced a significant decline in earnings over the period of the Great Recession. However, at the higher end of the income distribution, at the 75th earnings percentile, the most pronounced decrease in earnings only occurs for the AIAN population, suggesting that the NHPI population at the higher end of earnings was insulated from the downturn, as were non-​Hispanic Whites. Overall, this indicates that those individuals in the lowest income categories, regardless of race, had the largest declines in income during

$ 40,036

$ 39,304

$ 39,279

$ 39,310

$ 43,054

Year

2000

2005

2010

2015

2018

$ 36,630

$ 35,782

$ 35,110

$ 35,837

$ 35,866

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

$ 54,579

$ 52,574

$ 50,834

$ 52,618

$ 50,911

Non-​ Hispanic White

$ 15,000

$ 12,720

$ 12,760

$ 14,300

$ 15,768

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

$ 26,082

$ 23,921

$ 24,267

$ 24,694

$ 27,853

Year

2000

2005

2010

2015

2018

$ 23,766

$ 23,446

$ 21,973

$ 22,188

$ 21,803

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

$ 38,905

$ 37,450

$ 34,503

$ 35,597

$ 33,913

Non-​ Hispanic White

$ 4,559

$ 3,979

$ 4,072

$ 4,873

$ 4,592

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

$ 3,689

$ 3,689

$ 3,689

$ 3,912

$ 4,932

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

Twenty-​Fifth Percentile

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

$ 6,390

$ 6,130

$ 6,179

$ 6,873

$ 7,130

Non-​ Hispanic White

$ 27,000

$ 25,546

$ 25,520

$ 27,300

$ 28,178

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

$ 15,326

$ 14,492

$ 13,820

$ 15,386

$ 14,177

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

$ 12,391

$ 11,772

$ 11,679

$ 13,070

$ 12,920

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

Fiftieth Percentile

$ 18,000 $ 31,000

$ 15,900 $ 29,680

$ 16,240 $ 30,160

$ 17,550 $ 31,915

$ 17,520 $ 30,660

Non-​ Hispanic White

Fiftieth Percentile

$ 18,073

$ 17,561

$ 17,492

$ 18,462

$ 17,913

Non-​ Hispanic White

$ 38,300

$ 37,100

$ 35,960

$ 39,000

$ 37,814

Non-​ Hispanic White

$ 48,000

$ 47,700

$ 46,400

$ 48,750

$ 48,180

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

$ 32,179

$ 30,154

$ 29,378

$ 29,076

$ 28,260

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

$ 27,585

$ 27,032

$ 26,560

$ 27,543

$ 25,997

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

Seventy-​Fifth Percentile

$ 55,000

$ 53,000

$ 52,200

$ 52,000

$ 49,640

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

Seventy-​Fifth Percentile

$ 39,579

$ 38,698

$ 37,206

$ 37,979

$ 35,411

Non-​ Hispanic White

$ 67,000

$ 63,300

$ 63,800

$ 65,000

$ 62,780

Non-​ Hispanic White

Note. Author’s calculations based on U.S. Census and American Community Survey data from IPUMS Website (Ruggles et al, 2020) for years 2000, 2005, 2010, 2015, and 2018.

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

Panel B Mean Income

$ 11,500

$ 10,600

$ 10,440

$ 10,400

$ 11,680

American Indian/​ Alaska Native

Twenty-​Fifth Percentile

Earnings Net of Educational Attainment, Age and Gender

Native Hawaiian/​ Pacific Islanders

Panel A Mean Income

Earnings without adjusting for other characteristics

Table 7.1 Earnings by Race by Year by Income Percentiles in Real $2018

102   Randall Akee the Great Recession, while those in the upper income categories were spared significant downturns in earned income over the same period. Finally, it is useful to show a broader measure of earnings inequality—​the Gini coefficient. This measure is a standard one that indicates the overall level of inequality within groups. The higher the estimated coefficient, the higher the overall level of inequality. Essentially, a Gini coefficient equal to one would indicate that all of the earnings in this particular group accrued to a single individual; alternatively, a Gini coefficient of zero would indicate that everyone received an equal amount of income. Therefore, the coefficient ranges in value between zero and one and can be used to measure changes in income inequality over time. In Figure 7.3, I show the Gini coefficients by year and by race group over time. The first result to note is that all three groups have experienced an increase in earnings inequality over time; specifically, the Gini coefficient increased between 2000 and 2010 for all three groups. The trend upward (increased inequality) was mostly proportionate between these groups, suggesting that there is an overall trend toward more inequality in the United States.2 After 2010, the level of inequality remains fairly constant, except for a slight decrease in inequality for the AIAN population in 2018. The second finding is that American Indians and Alaska Natives have higher levels of earnings inequality than NHPI and non-​Hispanic whites. In fact, the NHPI and NHW groups have fairly similar Gini coefficients over time. Overall, the results suggest that there are large and persistent differences in the average earnings, median earnings, and the 25th and 75th percentiles of the earnings

0.72 0.7 0.68 Gini Coefficient

0.66 0.64 0.62 0.6 0.58 0.56 0.54 0.52

2000

2005

2010

2015

2018

Years Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander

American Indian/Alaska Native

Non Hispanic White

Figure 7.3  Gini Coefficient for Earnings by Year by Group Note. Author’s calculations based on U.S. Census and American Community Survey data from IPUMS Website (Ruggles et al, 2020) for years 2000, 2005, 2010, 2015, and 2018.

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     103 distribution by race over time. These differences do not diminish when we account for differences in educational attainment, age, and gender. There is evidence that the lowest-​earning individuals from each race group were the hardest hit, in earnings terms, during the Great Recession. The relatively lower levels of earnings for the AIAN population is also marked by higher levels of inequality. This suggests that there are some extremely high-​earning individuals in the AIAN population while the vast majority are low-​earning individuals. These results, however, do not account for regional differences, specifically the on-​or off-​reservation populations. A more detailed analysis focused on the on-​reservation population alone would show even starker differences (Akee et al., 2015).

Poverty Measures An alternative way to measure the well-​being across race and ethnic groups is by determining the proportion of each group that is considered to be under the poverty line. Poverty is calculated at the family level, with income from all individuals summed. It differs depending upon the number of people in the family and their ages. The poverty line is based on three times the food needs for a family (based on a set of foods set in 1963) adjusted for prices in the current economy. This is the Official Poverty Measure (OPM). In 2011, several U.S. federal agencies established the Supplemental Poverty Measure (SPM), which was intended to serve as an update to the OPM and specifically account for governmental transfers and specific antipoverty programs (Fox, 2019). Additionally, the SPM accounts for regional differences in the cost of housing that were not included in the OPM. The two different measures reflect a growing sense that simple earnings measures do not completely capture the true well-​being of families and individuals. An important innovation in the SPM is that the income measure is net of governmental transfers as well as important outflows such as medical expenses, work expenses, and tax payments; the OPM measured only pretax income (Fox, 2019). Importantly, this also accounts for the inflow of governmental programs and transfers such as refundable tax credits and other government-​provided subsidies to low-​income households. These had not been included previously. The second innovation is that the SPM threshold is based on regional costs for four types of items: food, clothing, shelter, and utilities. The OPM only accounted for the costs of food and nothing else. Therefore, this is an improvement and captures important aspects of a family’s well-​being and accounts for the differences in the cost of living across the United States. In Table 7.2, I provide both the OPM and the SPM for all three groups discussed earlier over time. In the first panel, I provide data for children using the Current Population Survey (CPS) from the IPUMS website (Ruggles et al., 2020). This analysis is restricted to the years 2010 onward, as the SPM was created in 2011. In previous research, Akee and Simeonova (2019) noted that the SPM was always lower for Indigenous children than the OPM for Indigenous children in the United States.

104   Randall Akee Table 7.2 Official and Supplemental Poverty Rates by Race and Age Groups Panel A: Poverty Rates for Children Native Hawaiian/​Pacific Islander

American Indian/​Alaska Native

Non-​Hispanic White

Year

Official Poverty Measure

Supplemental Poverty Measure

Official Poverty Measure

Supplemental Poverty Measure

Official Poverty Measure

Supplemental Poverty Measure

2010

0.255

0.247

0.321

0.199

0.163

0.138

2015

0.238

0.182

0.31

0.195

0.17

0.137

2018

0.186

0.180

0.283

0.183

0.146

0.127

Panel B: Poverty Rates for Children Native Hawaiian/​Pacific Islander

American Indian/​Alaska Native

Non-​Hispanic White

Year

Official Poverty Measure

Supplemental Poverty Measure

Official Poverty Measure

Supplemental Poverty Measure

Official Poverty Measure

Supplemental Poverty Measure

2010

0.148

0.205

0.219

0.202

0.106

0.123

2015

0.132

0.166

0.202

0.183

0.112

0.128

2018

0.122

0.153

0.192

0.192

0.096

0.115

Note. Author’s calculations based on U.S. Current Population Survey data from IPUMS Website (Flood et al., 2020) for years 2010, 2015, and 2018.

This may reflect the nature of governmental programs that are aimed at improving child outcomes. These results, where the SPM is lower than the OPM, are also found in these data across all years and groups. The differences are largest for the AIAN children; some differences are as large as 10 percentage points. In the second panel, I provide the same results for adults from these three groups. The results differ from the first panel in that the SPM is either the same or higher than the OPM in all cases. These results provide some indication that measuring additional dimensions of household income, expenses, taxes, and transfers may provide a more accurate depiction of the obstacles and conditions faced by families. These measures are especially important for small race and ethnic groups such as the NHPI and AIAN populations, since these groups seldom gets reported on and this new measure provides a more complete view into these families. As a result, some families are worse off than the official poverty measures indicate. Bridges and Gesumaria (2015) explained why the differences in the OPM and SPM exist and why they may go in different directions based on the age group examined. They find that, “among the six poverty-​reducing resource elements, refundable tax

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     105 credits and Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits produce the largest decreases in the poverty rate—​by 6.7 and 2.9 percentage points.” It is precisely these benefits—​the Earned Income Tax Credit and Child Tax Credit as well as SNAP benefits—​that may have the largest impact for reducing child poverty levels. However, for adults, there are additional costs that they incur, and the authors find that, “among the six poverty-​increasing resource elements, medical out of pocket (MOOP) expenses, work expenses, and payroll taxes produce the largest increases in the poverty rate—​by 3.1, 2.6, and 1.6 percentage points, respectively.” The SPM provides an incremental improvement in measurement for the well-​being of families and individuals. It also provides a more realistic assessment of the levels of inequality across different race and ethnic groups. In the next section, I argue that there is a profound need to go even further, especially for racial, ethnic, or political groups that face other resource constraints and/​or income sources where standard measures do not fully account for conditions faced by Indigenous Peoples.

The Need for Resilience Measures While existing measures of inequality and well-​being have recently been revised to account for a more expansive notion of expenses and income sources, there remain some glaring deficiencies. In particular, Indigenous Peoples face different types of resource flows, family structures, and economic activities that are not often captured in existing measures. As a result, standard measures of income, inequality, and well-​being may either underreport or exaggerate disparities in these communities. First, Indigenous Peoples, nations, and communities do not necessarily inhabit the same ecological and economic spaces as majority populations in their countries. In fact, Indigenous Peoples tend to occupy some of the most marginalized terrains or regions of the country. This could be due to the history of displacement and removal; it could also be due to the specific relationship between an Indigenous group and the land or the sea. As a result, the economic activities do not necessarily perfectly match that of the majority population in many communities; the environment may not allow for the exact same economic activities. Therefore, standard measures may not fully capture the social or economic conditions in these populations. Indigenous Peoples and their leaders may opt for their own economic pursuits, and these may not perfectly align with the standard rural/​urban economic pursuits described for the majority population. Second, Indigenous Peoples also occupy a different social realm, where a nuclear family is not the only unit identified. Extended roles for family members spread across generations, often functioning in collaboration with one another, and thus the economic unit is not as narrowly defined as it might be for the majority population. Third, economic activities may not all be market-​based in nature. Reciprocity, subsistence activities, and community-​based goods and services are not well measured by standard national (or personal) account measures. In fact, these types of activities may define

106   Randall Akee or make up a large part of many Indigenous Peoples’ activities and flows of resources and goods. Omitting these aspects may predict a more dire set of circumstances for Indigenous Peoples than is true. It also undervalues the natural resources and integrity of environmental resources in these communities. For example, in many Indigenous communities, the sharing of resources from hunting, fishing, or harvesting activities is quite common. Whether it be in the mountains of Montana, fishing along the Columbia River or the coasts of Hawaii, or on the farms of the Southwest, traditional activities often involve ceremonies and the sharing of surplus food and other supplies with family and friends and sometimes strangers. In the U.S. Southwest, the Pueblo Peoples often celebrate their feast days with dancing and food. The community is often invited where friends and strangers may eat and celebrate together. In many Pow Wows, there is a giveaway of cultural items and food from the head dancer to friends, family, and organizers. Finally, in Hawaii, families often share produce from their yards or that they have gathered—​whether it be mangoes, lychee, coconuts, passion fruit, or freshly caught fish, this is a standard activity.

Employment and Childrearing For Indigenous Peoples, economic activities do not always follow the standard employment models of the majority population. Whether an individual is engaged in hunting, trapping, fishing, or other occupations such as construction or seasonal laborers, these activities sometimes require a parent to leave a child with another family member for extended time periods. This activity is not necessarily a sign of harm or neglect, but rather of strong community and family ties. As Christopher Newell notes, In Maine, [Native] parents would often leave their children with their grandparents or other extended family members when they would leave for seasonal work elsewhere. To the state, however, this constitutes neglect and could qualify a child for removal. In reality, our children’s needs were commonly met by extended family and community beyond the nuclear family. (quoted in Akee, 2018)

In this situation, there were perfectly acceptable methods to care for one’s children through extended family ties; however, these arrangements were not normal for the majority society and were viewed as “neglect.” This, in combination with policies of forced assimilation, led to the removal of children from American Indian and Alaska Native families at astonishingly high rates over the 20th century (Mannes, 1995). Continued challenges to the Indian Child Welfare Act by conservative organizations and religious groups in the United States have perpetuated this problem into this century (Hoffman, 2019). These Western standards and definitions of a family unit also undervalue the potential cultural, religious, and language-​based contributions of a multigenerational family.

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     107 Whereas living with a person other than the child’s parent may be seen as “neglect,” there may, in fact, be significant benefits for the child to be raised and immersed in a culturally rich environment, which may increase a child’s sense of self and well-​being (Byers, 2010). These living conditions may improve a child’s well-​being rather than causing harm. In standard measures of living conditions, this type of arrangement has been seen as a deficit and not a benefit. Measuring these types of outcomes would be quite difficult in standard surveys; however, additional questions on cultural connectedness and participation in Indigenous practices may provide insight into these outcomes. As Byers (2010) indicates, children raised by their Indigenous grandparents may have stronger cultural connections than would otherwise be indicated; thus, this alternative living arrangement may have beneficial outcomes.

Educational Attainment The inability to identify and quantify the accumulated wealth, resources, and well-​ being in Indigenous communities is not constrained to just social or familial contexts, but also exists in measures of educational attainment and skills. Standard measures of educational attainment ask for a person’s years of schooling and/​or degree completion. This type of measure is common in demographic surveys as well as national censuses. It provides a very standardized measure of education for the population and makes for an easy comparison across group, location, and time. However, this educational attainment measure only captures one dimension of a person’s knowledge, skills, and experience—​the Western, formal one. There is no space or thought provided for other training. This shortchanges Indigenous knowledge, skills, and cultural traditions that are valuable both from a cultural and an economic standpoint. For instance, in Hawaii, some of the most revered cultural experts are known as kumu hula, or hula masters. These individuals are the ones who have gone through rigorous training in the art of dance, Hawaiian language, and history. This training does not show up on a survey or census, however. This process and training occurs in traditional Native Hawaiian settings in a halau and not in a school or college classroom. As a result, these experts may appear—​ on paper—​to have very little educational attainment. For instance, there are many well-​known kumu hula who have little more than a high school degree. In fact, these individuals have what amounts to several doctoral-​level degrees in dance, language, and/​or history. The process for completion of training is no less lengthy, rigorous, or intense than any doctoral degree offered in a typical university setting. In fact, these individuals are valuable cultural repositories and leaders. Some of these individuals have also been able to make a comfortable living with their skills; in that sense, they defy Western concepts regarding the role of formal education and earnings determination. This training, however, goes unrecognized in mainstream data collection and survey instruments.

108   Randall Akee This type of cultural-​and Indigenous-​specific training is not unique to Native Hawaiians. Other Indigenous Peoples have similar non-​institution based training and apprenticeship programs that occur outside the halls of Western academies. Traditional weavers, potters, and other artists often study at the foot of their parents, grandparents, or other community members. Singers and musicians learn their arts from cultural practitioners and in ceremonies practiced year in and year out. None of this investment is captured in existing measures. These skills and abilities have tremendous worth and play a role in community and tribal resilience.

Non-​M arket-​Based Economic Activities In the United States, standard survey and census questionnaires ask for information about market-​based economic activities such as sources of income from work, business income, governmental transfers, and stock dividends. These questions are typically asked in either the historical U.S. Census long form or, more currently, in the American Community Survey. None of these contain questions about income from sources other than the standard market-​based options. Additionally, the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (2021) collects data on consumer expenditures that are used to identify how households allocate their budgets to goods and services. There are only four options for describing how one pays for goods and services: Online, In person, By mail or telephone order, and Other. Presumably, the category “Other” would include in-​kind payments and/​or reflect goods and services that were provided free of charge. However, none of this is explicitly distinguished in this category. Additionally, the Consumer Expenditure Survey (CES) only inquires after formal sources of monetary income such as that from work, self-​employment, dividends, rental income, royalty income, or governmental programs or pensions. There is no category for income from non-​market-​based work. It would not be a problem if these standard measures of consumption and expenditure were adequate in describing the economic well-​being of Indigenous Peoples in the United States. However, there is evidence that non-​market-​based activities continue to be an important part of Indigenous Peoples’ economic activities. Ignoring these activities may serve to underestimate the well-​being and resilience of Indigenous Peoples. Failure to capture the goods and services from non-​market-​based work also leads to an undervaluation of environmental conditions and ecosystems. In the absence of counting their value, these systems appear on paper to be useless to society. However, they may produce significant value in the form of non-​market-​based resources. In contrast to the United States, Statistics Canada asks about the frequency and types of non-​market-​based work for Aboriginal Peoples in Canada.3 Unlike the U.S. Census

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     109 and American Community Survey, the Canadian government conducts surveys on these topics in the Aboriginal Peoples Survey (APS). The data suggest that a large proportion of Inuit and First Nations Status Indians residing off reserves engage in non-​ market-​based activities. Kumar et al. (2019) report that [i]‌n 2017, one in three (33%) First Nations people living off reserve hunted, fished or trapped, and three in ten (30%) gathered wild plants or berries. . . . Among Inuit in Inuit Nunangat, the Inuit homeland in Canada, about two-​thirds (65%) had hunted, fished or trapped and about one-​half (47%) had gathered wild plants or berries in 2017.

In Table 7.3, I reproduce the data from Tables 1 and 9 in Kumar et al. (2019). The data show the percent of individuals ages 15 or older who are either Status First Nations residing off reserves or Inuit, along with their economic activities. The results are quite striking. In Panel A, the results indicate that between 84% and 87% of individuals report hunting, fishing, or trapping in the past 12 months for their own family’s use. The second row provides information for the unemployed population and indicates that 58% of that group has gone hunting, fishing, or trapping for others; this amount is statistically significantly higher than the employed population, which is about 37%. This suggests that those with little or no formal labor market employment are not only providing resources for their own families but for others as well. With regard to the gathering of wild plants or berries, over 90% of all Status First Nations individuals report doing this in the past year. Almost 50% of all individuals also report that the wild plants or berries they picked were for sharing with others in the community. In the bottom panel, I present the results for the Inuit population. There are a few differences as compared with the Status First Nations populations. In particular, hunting, fishing, trapping, or gathering of berries and wild plants for their own use is much more common, at over 90% for all individuals. Additionally, the proportion who say that these activities are for sharing with others tends to almost always be above 50% as well, except for the out of labor force group in the gathering of berries and wild plants. While we do not know the value or the size of the contribution of these non-​market-​ based activities in a household’s annual consumption or income, it is remarkable how ubiquitous these activities are. We have little to no information for these types of activities in official data sources for Indigenous Peoples in the United States. However, there are reasons to expect that some of these same activities would hold in the United States. For instance, Table 7.3 shows, for Inuit Peoples in Canada, that a large proportion of their communities are engaged in subsistence activities. In the United States, there is a heavy reliance on hunting and gathering of wild plants and berries in the Great Plains and Great Lakes regions, and fishing (whether on lakes, rivers or the ocean) is an important activity in many other Indigenous communities.

71

94

92

92

49

55

50

47

54

49

4~

8*~

3~

9

12

9

92

Out of the labor force 62*

58

60

59

52

54

55

13*

13~

8

3~

-​

3

For money or to For some supplement other income reason

67

70

70

92

96

94

46

50

51

To share with others in the community

46

48

51

7*

4~

3~

For money For or to cultural supplement reasons income

-​

-​

5~

For some other reason

Note. Taken from Kumar et al., 2019, Tables 1 and 9. Adapted from Statistics Canada, Aboriginal Peoples Survey, 2019. This does not constitute an endorsement by Statistics Canada of this product.

*  signifies statistical difference from the reference category at the 95% significance level; ~signifies an estimate that should be cited with caution; a missing estimate is too unreliable to be published.

93

68

Unemployed

91

68

Employed (reference category)

For cultural reasons

Labor force status

8

69

72

Own use/​ For pleasure family’s or leisure use

5*

11~

8

To share with others For pleasure Own use/​ in the or leisure family’s use community

37

9*~

3~

Reasons for gathering wild plants or berries in the previous 12 months

39

48*

36

Reasons for hunting, fishing or trapping in the previous 12 months

87

Out of the labor force 72*

58*

37

For some other reason

Panel B: Inuit population

84

72*

Unemployed

84

84

Employed (reference category)

For money For or to cultural supplement reasons income

Labor force status

To share with others in the community

Own use/​ For pleasure family’s or leisure use

For money or to For some supplement other income reason

To share with others For pleasure Own use/​ in the or leisure family’s use community For cultural reasons

Reasons for gathering wild plants or berries in the previous 12 months

Reasons for hunting, fishing or trapping in the previous 12 months

Panel A: First Nations living off reserve

Table 7.3 Reasons for Participating in Hunting, Fishing or Trapping, and Gathering Wild Plants or Berries among First Nations People Living Off Reserve or Inuit Population, aged 15 Years or Older, Canada, 2017

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     111

Discussion of the Path Forward There are many ways in which the standard measures of individual and collective well-​ being do not adequately identify the true conditions for Indigenous Peoples. Simple and direct measures of monetary income flows may miss vital earnings or income sources that typify Indigenous Peoples and their communities. Alternatively, even measures of poverty—​because they are primarily based on monetary incomes and earnings—​also are not fully capable of describing the well-​being of Indigenous Peoples in the United States that are engaged in non-​market-​based economic activities. As mentioned in the previous section, standard measures of well-​being and family characteristics do a poor job of accurately reflecting the lived experience of Indigenous Peoples. Advocating for data collection for non-​market-​based economic activities and expanded definitions of standard family concepts (such as overcrowding, educational attainment, and child care) would go a long way to improving our understanding of Indigenous Peoples’ economic situation and resilience. Expanded data collection activities would also inform us about the importance and prominence of goods and services provided by a well-​functioning and healthy ecosystem. These resources are often undervalued, as they are unable to show any dollar-​denominated contribution to the economy; in fact, they may be contributing in an important way to the subsistence economy. There are at least three immediate pathways toward advocating for this type of expanded data collection. I describe them below. 1. Include questions focused on non-​market-​based economic activities and use of those goods and services in the American Community Survey (ACS). The ACS is conducted annually and samples approximately 2–​3% of all households in the United States. This survey is intended to capture the characteristics of the U.S. population in repeated cross-​section data. Previously, the U.S. Census would administer a short-​and long-​form Census every ten years; the long-​form Census would ask the characteristics of the population, while the short form would ask the main Census questions and would allow for the accurate calculation of the population over the decade by geographic location, age group, and race. The ACS provides a timely examination of the U.S. population. The benefits to including these types of questions in the ACS is that this would be asked on an annual basis and it would provide a consistent measurement of these types of economic and social activities for the entire country over time. The downside is that the ACS 1-​year data only samples a small proportion of the United States annually, the data it collects is only valid for populations greater than 100,000, and many Indigenous peoples reside in communities that are smaller than this. On the other hand, the ACS 5-​ year data, which is a pooling of five ACS surveys across five years, is statistically valid for populations below 20,000. Additional costs include the inclusion of these new questions and the impact they may have on complete response rates. However, there may be useful benefits beyond Indigenous peoples since other race or ethnic groups may also engage in subsistence activities that may previously have gone unnoticed or uncounted.

112   Randall Akee 2. Implement a separate AIAN-​and NHPI-​specific survey similar to the Aboriginal Peoples Survey in Canada. An alternative to including questions regarding the subsistence, non-​market-​based activities of Indigenous Peoples into an existing U.S. Census-​type survey would be to field an entirely novel one. For instance, Statistics Canada, the agency tasked with collecting data on the Canadian population, conducts the Aboriginal Peoples Survey every five years in Canada, which includes Status First Nations Peoples, Inuit, and the Metis. These surveys are targeted to these specific communities and ask extensive questions that are applicable to the Indigenous peoples’ experiences, lives, and activities. No such survey exists in the United States. In some sense, this would be a novel experiment in the United States. There may be a precedent for conducting such a survey, however, given that the U.S. Census Bureau conducts a census of state and local governments every five years. Indigenous Peoples are not just a racial group in the United States, they are also a separate political group, and tribal governments are quasi-​sovereign nations. The benefit is that the survey would be more targeted to these populations and the data would provide useful information for these populations. Additionally, the response rates might be higher with a dedicated survey instrument and the cooperation of tribal governments. 3. Create and support censuses and/​or annual surveys specific to tribal nations and Indigenous communities. The third option is to empower and advocate for tribal nations’ and Indigenous peoples’ own census enumeration or annual surveys. For instance, the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe conducted their own tribal census over 2012–​2014. Funded by the Northwest Area Foundation, the census asked extensive questions on demographic characteristic, housing, education, employment, income and expenses, child care, transportation, cultural resources, and natural resource consumption. These survey questions were able to focus on the most salient topics for the tribal government’s planning needs. The costs to plan and fully execute such an undertaking are quite large, however. Ultimately, the timely and detailed data may be useful for planning and for tracking important changes over time. An additional cost may be that the questions may not be strictly comparable across different tribal nations or Indigenous peoples, as the questions may differ significantly.

Expanding the types of data collected for Indigenous Peoples will improve the understanding of their experiences, lives, and resources. It will allow for a better understanding of the resilience that exists in Indigenous Peoples’ communities. While there is no denying that there are stark instances of poverty and deprivation in some communities, there are reasons to celebrate as well. I have shown that using standard measures of earnings income, inequality, and poverty may miss some aspects of Indigenous Peoples’ lives that are robust and resilient. Other measures that are narrowly defined by the majority population can miss important characteristics of Indigenous peoples’ communities, families, and relationships. The other rationale for undertaking these alternative measures of well-​being that are driven by and inclusive of Indigenous Peoples own values, concepts, and activities is that it may serve as a measuring stick by which proposed development, use, or destruction of natural resources may be effectively measured. In most cases, the use, degradation,

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     113 or destruction of ecosystems are only considered in regard to their economic value or the impact on the property owners. Undeveloped natural areas may be regarded by the mainstream as “untouched” and “wild” lands or spaces. However, many of these areas may be in use by Indigenous Peoples for the collection of wild foods, or for hunting and fishing purposes. These activities do not require the establishment of formal boundaries or infrastructure, and thus the regions appear to the untrained eye to be “untouched.” However, these same lands could be effectively managed by the Indigenous Peoples residing there. Alternatively, in many Indigenous communities and nations, sacred areas, culturally important places, and economically vital ecosystems are not necessarily legally owned by the Indigenous Peoples themselves. This could be due to the historical and legal dispossession and forced removal of Indigenous Peoples, to the illegal annexation and/​or termination of treaties, or to the fact that Indigenous places and spaces do not have the same protection as privately owned land or property used for religious purposes. On cannot simply trespass or develop on church or temple lands, since property rights and long-​established laws prohibit such actions. However, many of the places that are sacred and important to Indigenous Peoples may reside on public lands where the Indigenous Peoples have little authority. Identifying the value, even the nonmonetary value, of intact ecosystems may play an important role in helping to establish and protect important and sacred regions, areas, and waterways from further development. There are several examples where this has started to take hold. In Aotearoa, the Whanganui River has been granted individual rights by the national government and is now formally a part of the Whanganui iwi (tribe) (Iorns Magallanes, 2019; White, 2018;). Additionally, Maunga Taranaki in Aotearoa has been granted legal personality status in order to provide the mountain’s advocates with legal options for protection and preservation (Roy, 2017). In the United States, the California Yurok Tribe declared rights of personhood for Klamath River, previously extended to humans and corporations only (Smith, 2019). In Minnesota, the White Earth Band of Ojibwe recognizes the rights of Manoomin, or wild rice, which is the first acknowledgement of a plant species (Smith, 2019).

Conclusion For Indigenous Peoples, individual well-​ being and the environment are often intertwined. Therefore, if we are to truly understand aspects of Indigenous Peoples’ earnings, inequality, and well-​being, then we are going to need expanded measures for these topics. Standard measures are woefully incapable of capturing the diversity, strength, and innovativeness of Indigenous Peoples, nations, and economies. Advocating for the inclusion of non-​market-​based economic activities and expanded notions of standard topics will play an important role in this endeavor. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to examine how physical and mental health measures are linked to environmental health. Public health researchers have identified

114   Randall Akee the importance of environmental health and societal well-​being in multiple contexts (Krieger, 1994). This intricate link is also underreported, poorly understood, or mismeasured in Indigenous Peoples’ communities. However, this is an important dimension of well-​being that is clearly related to the health of the ecosystem and access to these ecosystems.

Appendix Statistics Canada Aboriginal Peoples Survey 2017—​E conomic Participation This survey will collect data from First Nations people living off reserve, Métis and Inuit in Canada.

Other Labour Activities (OLA) OLA_​R05 The following questions ask about other activities you may have taken part in. Some of these questions may not apply to you but participation in these activities varies across the country. OLA_​Q05 In the past 12 months, did you hunt, fish, or trap? 1: Yes 2: No 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q10 During the hunting, fishing or trapping seasons, how often did you do this? 1: Every day 2: A few times a week 3: Once a week 4: At least once a month 5: Less than once a month 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q15 For which of the following reasons did you do this? Please answer yes or no to each. Was it . . . ? 1: For pleasure or leisure 2: For money or to supplement your income 3: For your own use or your family’s use

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     115 4: To share with others in the community 5: For cultural reasons 6: For some other reason 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q20 In the past 12 months, did you gather wild plants, for example, berries, rice or sweet grass? 1: Yes 2: No 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q25 While they were in season, how often did you do this? 1: Every day 2: A few times a week 3: Once a week 4: At least once a month 5: Less than once a month 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q30 For which of the following reasons did you do this? Please answer yes or no to each. Was it . . . ? 1: For pleasure or leisure 2: For money or to supplement your income 3: For your own use or your family’s use 4: To share with others in the community 5: For cultural reasons 6: For some other reason 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q35 In the past 12 months, did you make clothing or footwear? 1: Yes 2: No 8: RF 9: DK

116   Randall Akee OLA_​Q40 In the last month, did you do this . . . ? 1: Every day 2: A few times a week 3: Once a week 4: At least once a month 5: Not at all 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q45 For which of the following reasons did you do this? Please answer yes or no to each. Was it . . . ? 1: For pleasure or leisure 2: For money or to supplement your income 3: For your own use or your family’s use 4: For cultural reasons 5: For some other reason 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q50 In the past 12 months, did you make carvings, drawings, jewellery or other kinds of artwork? 1: Yes 2: No 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q55 In the last month, did you do this . . . ? 1: Every day 2: A few times a week 3: Once a week 4: At least once a month 5: Not at all 8: RF 9: DK OLA_​Q60 For which of the following reasons did you do this? Please answer yes or no to each. Was it . . . ? 1: For pleasure or leisure

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     117 2: For money or to supplement your income 3: For your own use or your family’s use 4: For cultural reasons 5: For some other reason 8: RF 9: DK https:// ​ w ww23.stat ​ c an.gc.ca/ ​ i mdb/ ​ p 3In ​ s tr.pl?Funct ​ i on= ​ a ssemb ​ l eIn ​ s tr&lang =​en&Item​_​Id=​331​955

2012 APS—​Traditional Activities Questions Make clothing Arts Hunt Fish, Trap Gather wild plants https://​www23.stat​can.gc.ca/​imdb/​p3In​str.pl?Funct​ion=​getIns​trum​entL​ist&Item _​Id=​123​666&UL=​1V 2006 APS Hunted, fished, trapped for: a) food b) pleasure c) commercial use d) other use (medicinal, ceremonial) FSM 2010 Census, Population and Housing Census 2010 accessed from the International Household Survey Network https://​c ata​log.ihsn.org/​index.php/​c ata ​log/​4 155/​d ata-​dic​t ion​ary/​F1?file_​n​ame =​PER​SON P19 Did . . . work at any time LAST WEEK, either full-​time or part-​time (for cash pay, payment in-​kind, or home production activities)? 1. Yes, worked @ paid job and did no home production 2. Yes, worked @ paid and did home production 3. Yes, did home production activity only 4. No P21 What kind of work does . . . usually do? 1. Work @ paid job @ does no home production 2. Work @ paid job and does home production 3. Does home production activity ONLY

118   Randall Akee P22. How are the goods produced from home production activities used? 1. For sale 2. Own consumption 3. Both

Notes 1. The regression equation for each group and year used in this analysis is the following: Yi =​α +​ β×EduAttaini +​γ×Agei +​δ×Malei +​i. In Figure 7.2, I present the estimates of the residual term, i, for each group in each of the four years. 2. In earlier research (Akee et al., 2019), we show in Appendix figures, using IRS-​U.S. Census linked confidential data, a similar upward trend in total income using IRS 1040 annual data for 2000–​2014. 3. A list of survey and census questions are provided in the Appendix drawn from Statistics Canada survey instruments. Additionally, I include questions used from the Federated States of Micronesia that relate to nonmarket labor activities.

References Akee, R. K., Spilde, K. A., & Taylor, J. B. (2015). The Indian gaming regulatory act and its effects on American Indian economic development. Journal of Economic Perspectives, 29(3), 185–​208. Akee, R. (2018, October 11). 40 years ago we stopped the practice of separating American Indian families. Let’s not reverse course. Upfront Blog, Brookings Institution. (https://​www .brooki ​ ngs.edu/​ blog/​ up-​ f ront/​ 2 018/​ 1 0/​ 1 1/​ 40-​ years-​ ago-​ we-​ stop​ p ed-​ t he-​ pract​ i ce-​ of -​sep​arat​ing-​ameri​can-​ind​ian-​famil​ies-​lets-​not-​reve​rse-​cou​rse/​) Akee, R., & Simeonova, E. (2019). Poverty and disadvantage among Native American children: How common are they and what has been done to address them? In G. Duncan & S. Le Menestrel (Eds.), A roadmap to reducing child poverty. Washington, DC: National Academies Press. https://​www.nap.edu/​cata​log/​25246/​a-​road​map-​to-​reduc​ing-​child-​pove​rty Akee, R., Jones, M. R., & Porter, S. R. (2019). “Race matters: Income shares, income inequality, and income mobility for all US races.” Demography, 56(3), 999–​1021. Ashok, V., Kuziemko, I., & Washington, E. (2015). Support for redistribution in an age of rising inequality: New stylized facts and some tentative explanations. Brookings Papers on Economic Activity, 2015(1), 367–​405. Bloome, D. (2014). Racial inequality trends and the intergenerational persistence of income and family structure. American Sociological Review, 79, 1196–​1225. Bloome, D., & Western, B. (2011). Cohort change and racial differences in educational and income mobility. Social Forces, 90, 375–​395. Bridges, B., & Gesumaria, R. V. (2015). The Supplemental Poverty Measure (SPM) and children: How and why the SPM and official poverty estimates differ. Social Security Bulletin, 75(3). https://​www.ssa.gov/​pol​icy/​docs/​ssb/​v75n3/​v75n3​p55.html

Indigenous Peoples’ Earnings, Inequality, and Well-Being     119 Byers, L. (2010). Native American grandmothers: Cultural tradition and contemporary necessity. Journal of Ethnic & Cultural Diversity in Social Work, 19(4), 305–​316. Flood, S., King, M., Rodgers, R., Ruggles S., & Warren J. R. (2020). Integrated Public Use Microdata Series, Current Population Survey: Version 7.0. Minneapolis, MN: IPUMS. https://​doi.org/​10.18128/​D030.V7.0 Fox, L. (2019, October). The Supplemental Poverty Measure: 2018. Washington, DC: U.S. Census Bureau. https://​www.cen​sus.gov/​libr​ary/​publi​cati​ons/​2019/​demo/​p60-​268.html Hoffman, J. (2019, June 5). Who can adopt a Native American child? A Texas couple vs. 573 tribes. New York Times. https://​www.nyti​mes.com/​2019/​06/​05/​hea​lth/​nav​ajo-​child​ren-​cust​ ody-​fight.html Hout, M. (2016). Money and morale: Growing inequality affects how Americans view themselves and others. Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 663, 204–​228. Iorns Magallanes, C. J. (2019). From rights to responsibilities using legal personhood and guardianship for rivers. In B. Martin, L. Te Aho, & M Humphries-​Kil (Eds.), ResponsAbility: Law and governance for living well with the Earth (pp. 216–​239). London & New York: Routledge. Kawachi, I., Kennedy, B. P., Lochner, K., & Prothrow-​Stith, D. (1997). Social capital, income inequality, and mortality. American Journal of Public Health, 87, 1491–​1498. Kearney, M. S., & Levine, P. B. (2016). Income inequality, social mobility, and the decision to drop out of high school. Brookings Papers on Economic Activity, 2016(1), 333–​380. Kochhar, R., & Fry, R. (2014, December 12). Wealth inequality has widened along racial, ethnic lines since end of great recession. FactTank: News in the Numbers Report. Washington, DC: Pew Research Center. http://​www.pewr​esea​rch.org/​fact-​tank/​2014/​12/​12/​rac​ial-​wea​lth -​gaps-​great-​recess​ion/​ Krieger N. (1994). Epidemiology and the web of causation: Has anyone seen the spider? Social Science & Medicine, 39(7), 887–​903. doi:10.1016/​0277-​9536(94)90202-​x Kumar, M. B., Furgal, C., Hutchinson, P., Roseborough, W., & Kootoo-​Chiarello, S. (2019, April 16). Harvesting activities among First Nations people living off reserve, Métis and Inuit: Time trends, barriers and associated factors. Ottawa: Statistics Canada. https://​www​150.stat​ can.gc.ca/​n1/​pub/​89-​653-​x/​89-​653-​x2019​001-​eng.htm Mannes, M. (1995). Factors and events leading to the passage of the Indian Child Welfare Act. Child Welfare, 74(1), 264–​282. Piketty, T., & Saez, E. (2003). Income inequality in the United States, 1913–​1998. Quarterly Journal of Economics, 118, 1–​41. Reardon, S. F., & Bischoff, K. (2011). Income inequality and income segregation. American Journal of Sociology, 116, 1092–​1153. Roy, E. A. (2017, December 22). New Zealand gives Mount Taranaki same legal rights as a person. The Guardian. Ruggles, S., Flood, S., Goeken, R., Grover, J., Meyer, E., Pacas J., & Sobek M. (2020). IPUMS USA: Version 10.0 American Community Survey. Minneapolis, MN: IPUMS. https://​doi .org/​10.18128/​D010. V10.0 Smith, Anna V. (2019, September 29). Some Indigenous communities have a new way to fight climate change: Give personhood rights to nature. Mother Jones. Snipp, C. M., & Cheung, S. Y. (2016). Changes in racial and gender inequality since 1970. Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 663, 80–​98.

120   Randall Akee Subramanian, S. V., & Kawachi, I. (2004). Income inequality and health: What have we learned so far? Epidemiologic Reviews, 26, 78–​91. U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. (2021). Consumer Expenditure Survey, Interview Survey Questionnaire 2019–​2020. https://​www.bls.gov/​cex/​csx​surv​eyfo​rms.htm White, H. (2018). Indigenous Peoples, the international trend toward legal personhood for nature, and the United States. American Indian Law Review, 43(1), 129–​166.

Chapter 8

C ould Assistanc e D o g s Improve Wel l -​Be i ng f or Ab origina l Pe opl e s L iving With Di s a bi l i t y? Bindi Bennett

Introduction In 2018–​2019, Aboriginal Peoples reported a disability or restrictive long-​term health condition at 1.8 times the rate for non-​Indigenous Australians (Australian Bureau of Statistics [ABS], 2019). In 2018, among Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People aged 15 years and over with a disability, 18.1% reported experiencing discrimination due to their disability (ABS, 2019). However, for many Aboriginal People, the Western definition of “disability” is incongruous with their ideologies and can be contradictory to their traditional beliefs (Connell, 2011). The current Western biomedical model of disability is thus viewed as culturally inappropriate (Green, 2019). More than two decades ago, Kumbari/​Ngurpai scholar Louis Ariotti (1999), who worked with the Anangu People in Western Australia, revealed that rather than seeing disabilities as disadvantages, the community accepted and even celebrated these conditions as examples of the natural diversity and differences of humanity. Thus, categorizing (and othering) people as “disabled” may be an inherently non-​Indigenous idea. This chapter, therefore, follows the definition of disability suggested by the First Peoples Disability Network (FPDN), which states that disability is the result of barriers to equal participation in the social and physical environment (FPDN, 2019). Disability is as much a social perception as it is a physical or mental state. From a social constructionist perspective, while categories like “race” or “ability” may appear to be self-​evident descriptors of human characteristics, they are in fact categories that order people into particular types, and that, further, ascribe value to those types. In

122   Bindi Bennett social constructionist philosophy, the concept of “disability” is a sociohistorical creation that has been understood and defined differently at different times and places (Barnes, 2015; Owens, 2015). In contemporary Australia, disability is largely understood through the lens of the Western medical model of health and illness (Soldatic, 2013). As a lived phenomenon, disability is primarily a relationship between an individual and their physical and social environment. This often manifests in the contradiction between the capabilities of an individual and the demands of their environment and others who live within it (Wendell, 1996). An example of how environment impacts the experience of people with disability is that living arrangements are often created with able-​bodied people in mind. This situation, which is also an example of indirect discrimination, should be changed to make the world more accessible for all its citizens (Asch, 2001; Crow, 2008). The concept of disability as an exception to the norm is also constructed through the language we use. The use of “people-​first” language emphasizing persons rather than impairments (“people with disability,” for example) is highly prevalent in academia and professional services and supported by the American Psychological Association (2012) and advocacy groups in the United States (Dunn & Andrews, 2015; Peers et al., 2014). However, disability advocates sometimes prefer to use “disabled people” in an affirmative way that asserts their identity as disabled and emphasizes group belonging (see People with Disability Australia, 2018). Understanding the distinction between individual and social dimensions of disability is critical to recognizing disability as a key determinant of well-​being (Whiteneck, 2006). When disability is thought of only as a personal tragedy or a form of biological deficit, the response tends to focus on medical treatment, cure, or prevention. By contrast, social approaches focus not on the presumed deficiencies within an individual, but on the social processes that cause people with disabilities to experience inequalities and social exclusion. A social understanding of disability urges a response to the inequalities that operate beyond the level of the individual. Structural inequality and social exclusion play a large part in the individual’s experience of living with a disability. When the experience of disability is identified as discrimination, exclusion, or injustice, policy responses are more likely to focus on human rights and the removal of the barriers to inclusion (Degener, 2016). Aboriginal Peoples suffer from intersectional discrimination throughout their lives (FPDN, 2018; 2019). Intersectional discrimination, in its narrow sense, refers to a situation in which several forms of discrimination interact concurrently (Lutz et al., 2016). For instance, minority women may be subject to types of prejudices and stereotypes and face types of racial discrimination not experienced by minority men. Similarly, disabled women may face types of discrimination not experienced by disabled men or able-​bodied women. Similarly, Aboriginal People with a disability belong to several disadvantaged groups simultaneously and suffer aggravated and specific forms of discrimination. One example of such discrimination that has occurred globally is the subjection of disabled First Nations People to forced sterilization (Collier, 2017; Myrna, 2019). This kind of discrimination is not experienced by able-​bodied women or disabled men

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    123 (Perry et al., 2013). Thus, Aboriginal People with a disability experience multiple disadvantages and often many layers of racism and prejudice (Hollinsworth, 2013). These factors impact both the time and energy required to advocate for people’s needs and human rights in this space. Discrimination on multiple fronts also leads to a continued widening of the gaps in service delivery and health outcomes for Aboriginal People living with a disability (Green, 2019; Fleming & Grace, 2016). The types of services and interventions delivered to non-​Indigenous Australians with a disability may also not be as useful or as culturally appropriate for Aboriginal Peoples. In this chapter, I discuss one type of intervention that has the potential to be particularly useful for First Nations Peoples: animal-​assisted interventions (AAIs). The beneficial effects of AAIs for health outcomes and service delivery have been documented both historically and in recent research (Albright, 2018; Bowers, 2021; Morrison, 2007). Animals and humans have existed in therapeutic relationships with each other for more than 12,000 years (Morrison, 2007). A variety of animals (horses, cats, rats) can be used to benefit human health and well-​being, and dogs in particular are commonly used in therapeutic environments (Albright, 2018; Bowers 2021; Morrison, 2007). Researchers have found several positive health outcomes from the use of dogs in therapy, including decreased anxiety and stress; increased interest in therapy; greater ease in self-​disclosure and discussion of feelings and personal information; increased capability to communicate; and increased rapport in the therapeutic relationships, which leads to improved life skills (Bowers, 2021; Flynn et al., 2020; Rodriguez et al., 2020). In mainstream services, the use of dogs to improve outcomes is more prevalent, while the research on positive health outcomes is robust, which suggests opportunities for considering the potential of assistance dogs for Aboriginal People with disabilities. In what follows, I explain what discrimination is and what it means for individual and group well-​being before discussing its effects on Aboriginal People in Australia. I then go on to discuss the potential for assistance dogs to relieve at least some of the burdens of the everyday discrimination experienced by Aboriginal People with disabilities.

Underlying Sociological Ideas “Multiple” or “intersectional” discrimination, which describes the convergence of multiple forms of social disadvantage, was first recognized in the late 1980s and early 1990s (Makkonen, 2002). The term “intersectionality” was coined by African American scholar Kimberle Crenshaw (1989) in her seminal essay “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex.” The concept was then further explored by African American feminist scholars such as Gloria T. Hull, Patricia Bell Scott, and Barbara Smith, who discovered that African American women suffered specific forms of discrimination to which African American men and white women are not subjected. Discussions on this subject remained predominantly academic in the first half of the 1990s, after which the importance and usefulness of the concept became increasingly recognized in the wider

124   Bindi Bennett context of international human rights (Chow, 2016; Makkonen, 2002). Intersectionality has been used as a framework that reveals the many disadvantages associated with complex and multifaceted identities brought about by many coexisting and co-​constituted disabling forces of sexism, racism, ableism, ageism, classism, heterosexuality, homophobia, transphobia, and xenophobia (Atrey, 2018). The discourse around these issues has contributed to the understanding that disadvantage and discrimination are defined not only by multiple and intersecting group identities but also by cross-​cutting systems. Intersectional discrimination thus produces patterns of socially determined disadvantage that intersect (Atrey, 2018). For example, one might be Aboriginal, living with a disability, and female. Discrimination, within the mainstream Western literature, refers to any distinction, exclusion, restriction, or preference that is based on race, color, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth, or other status, and which has the purpose or effect of nullifying or impairing the recognition, enjoyment, or exercise of rights and freedoms (Bayefsky, 2015). When flaws in the systems of disability services are prolonged and pronounced, people with disability may bear the brunt of negative attitudes (including stereotypes and prejudices) as a group who are “othered,” or regarded as being outside normal society. Discrimination against the disabled and disadvantaged reinforces divisions and prejudice within society and has been called the “vicious circle of discrimination” (Makkonen, 2002, p. 8). The way in which many people perceive disability has a closer connection to discrimination than is usually recognized. This is because people are not generally discriminated against because of who or what they are, but because of what they are thought to be or represent. For example, some social and ethnic groups are automatically stigmatized because a small proportion has been lawless in some way. This also affects those with a disability due to the often inaccurate attribution of different kinds of negative stereotypes (e.g., people with disabilities can’t lead a full or productive life) (Soldatic & Gilroy, 2018). “Deficit discourse” refers to discourse that represents people or groups in terms of deficiency (Fogarty et al., 2018). Deficit discourse helps to “prop up” intersectional discrimination by placing responsibility for deficiency or failure onto communities, families, and individuals. This deficit discourse can be viewed as “containment” (Fleming & Grace, 2016, p. 8), which serves to both silence the person with a disability and to justify exclusionary beliefs and practices (Gabel & Miskovic, 2014). A sharp focus on the individual tends to imply that responsibility for the disability—​and the associated needs and requirements—​lies with that person. As a result, people with disabilities are often caught in a vicious cycle of having to “prove” their limitations while simultaneously trying to assert their capabilities (Oliver & Barnes, 2012). Aboriginal People with disability often contend with negative racial stereotypes that come with this deficit discourse (for example, that they are inherently savage, backward, or incapable), while also having to fight for recognition of the challenges they face while living with a disability. When the discourse is reduced to personal failure or dysfunction, it becomes more difficult to see how broader structural relationships—​of inequality, oppression, and marginalization—​influence the perception of dysfunction. When the responsibility

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    125 for deficiency is placed on the person, the question of whether the problem lies instead with culturally embedded ideas about ability and inability remains unchallenged. The deficit model thus makes it harder to see the community’s, family’s, and individuals’ capabilities and strengths. What this has meant for Aboriginal Peoples and communities is a limited understanding of the range of therapies and options that would be deemed culturally appropriate in terms of social and emotional well-​being. The sociological theory of racial discrimination is the unequal treatment of races. Racism is implicit in racial discrimination and is built upon the historical, unconscious, institutional, and systemic social construction of race. Racism can be defined as “explicit attitudes, but also implicit biases and processes that are constructed, sustained, and enacted at both micro and macro levels” (Clair & Dennis, 2015, p. 3). Acts of racism can involve prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism toward others who are viewed as inferior or different due to their ethnicity or race (Australian Human Rights Commission, 2020). Racism can be direct (overt) or indirect (covert). Direct racism can look like an unequal distribution of resources, opportunities, and power. Indirect racism can look like treatment that impacts specific groups differently—​for example, a policy at an organization that indirectly affects the opportunities for people with a disability in a way that is adverse in comparison with able-​bodied people (Paradies & Cunningham, 2012). The link between racism and poorer well-​being is well documented, particularly for Aboriginal Peoples (Larson et al., 2007; Paradies, 2006).

Disability for Aboriginal Peoples in Australia For Aboriginal Peoples and their communities, disadvantage originates from long-​ established dispossession of land and property, racism, and prevailing colonial systems that even in the 21st century continue to subordinate Aboriginal Peoples (Moreton-​ Robinson, 2015). Aboriginal People with disabilities are among the most disadvantaged Australians and face multiple barriers to meaningful participation within their own and the wider communities. Therefore, Aboriginal Peoples already suffering from racial discrimination may be reluctant to take on the further negative label of disability (Griffis, 2012). A range of social factors contribute to the higher prevalence of disability in Aboriginal communities. For instance, poverty can be a direct cause of disability (Lustig & Strauser, 2007; Walter, 2016), because “those living in chronic poverty often have limited access to land, healthcare, healthy food, shelter, education and employment. Furthermore, people in chronic poverty often have to put up with hazardous working conditions. All these factors can cause illness, injury and impairments” (Yeo, 2001, p. 15). Social and socioeconomic inequalities occur as a result of differences in access to effective services, educational opportunities, material resources, safe and satisfying

126   Bindi Bennett working and living conditions, and inappropriate applications of policing and the law (Friel, 2016). Many of these social and socioeconomic inequalities are avoidable, and the fact that they exist implies a degree of unfairness or inequity. Therefore, recognizing and addressing entrenched and institutional discrimination and racism is an important first step in ensuring that the needs of Aboriginal People with a disability are addressed (Henry et al., 2004; Herring et al., 2013). A lack of opportunity can also alter people’s expectations of what life offers in the future, and can then cause pessimism and depression (Strunk et al., 2006). Aboriginal People, who often come from poor and disadvantaged backgrounds, may find it difficult to get appropriate help because services often focus on only one area—​mental health, intellectual disability, or drug and alcohol rehabilitation. Thus, services that take a holistic approach to health and well-​being are needed to ensure inclusivity and cultural appropriateness. Therefore, recognizing and addressing entrenched and institutional racism is an important first step in ensuring that the needs of Aboriginal People with a disability are addressed (Henry et al., 2004; Herring et al., 2013).

Disability Through a Social and Emotional Well-​Being Lens Aboriginal People understand disability to be the result of barriers to equal participation in the social and physical environment (FPDN, 2019). However, the dominant discourse in Australia relies on the Western medical model to define and understand “disability.” The National Disability Services (n.d.) define disability as “the umbrella term for any or all of an impairment of body structure or function, a limitation in activities (the tasks a person does), or a restriction in participation (the involvement of a person in life situations).” The International Classification of Functioning, Disability and Health (ICF) recognizes two main components of functioning and disability: a Body component, comprising classifications of Body Function and Body Structure, and an Activities and Participation component, providing a complete set of domains for aspects of functioning from both an individual and societal perspective. When discussing disability, this chapter encompasses physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual disability. “Social and emotional well-​being” (SEWB) is the preferred term for use in relation to the physical and mental health of Aboriginal Peoples. This is because SEWB takes a holistic view of health that also recognizes aspects of Aboriginal culture, such as connection to land and spirituality (Australian Institute of Health and Welfare, 2021; Gee et al., 2014). Aboriginal Peoples often have a more collectivist approach to health and can hold the view that the individual cannot be separated from family, community and culture (Gee et al., 2014; Somerville et al., 2017). The SEWB model encompasses a distinct set of well-​being domains and principles and an increasingly documented set of culturally informed practices acknowledging

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    127 the effects of history, politics, and society on the social and emotional well-​being of Aboriginal Peoples (Gee et al., 2014). The framework is divided into seven overlapping domains: connection to body, connection to mind and emotions, connection to family and kinship, connection to community, connection to culture, connection to Country, and connection to spirituality and ancestors. The model also acknowledges that history, politics, and society all affect the social and emotional well-​being of Indigenous Australians (Gee et al., 2014). In the disability arena, risks to SEWB occur at both the interpersonal and systemic levels. Issues of racism, violence, control, stereotypes, and the provision of culturally inappropriate or unsafe services can all have effects on accessibility to, and effectiveness of, healthcare. SEWB literature consistently highlights protective factors for health as connection to culture, land, and ways of life (Zubrick et al., 2014). The Royal Australian and New Zealand College of Psychiatrists’ (RANZCP) Indigenous Mental Health Group identifies some of the solutions to be considered across the physical, psychological, social, cultural, and spiritual dimensions in Palyku scholar Helen Milroy’s “Dance of Life” matrix (Adams et al., 2014). The matrix was devised as a way of exploring Aboriginal values, experiences and understandings in a systematic and culturally appropriate way, consistent with the Aboriginal Terms of Reference (ATR). A crucial aspect of the assessment focuses on the most appropriate ways of doing assessments and interventions for Aboriginal Peoples.

Why Dogs for Aboriginal Peoples Living With a Disability? Aboriginal Peoples with a disability often report experiencing biased, judgmental, or racist behaviors when receiving human-​based interventions. Such experiences are far less likely in interventions that are animal-​assisted (Walsh, 2009a, 2009b). When dogs negatively react to someone of a different race, it’s more of a novelty reaction than actual racism. Various dog psychologists and behavioralists (e.g., Linda Michaels, Renee Payne, Crita L. Coppola, Suzi Schaefers, and Anthony Newman) have come to the consensus that dogs do not exhibit behavior that’s racist, biased, or judgmental. The literature discusses dogs as having an inability to engage in the complex cognitive functioning required to be discriminative, and, in fact, aggressive behavior is more likely to be guided by fear-​based reactions, insufficient positive associations, lack of socialization, or their owners’ fear or anxiety (Hamilton, 2013). For instance, American psychologists Hawkins and Vandiver (2019) found that human caretakers who have implicit and explicit racial preferences reported their dogs were more positive around the caretaker’s preferred race. This is further supported by UK teaching fellow Josh Doble (2020), who suggests dogs are compliant and represent their caretaker’s ideology and actions, and through replication and extension of the caretaker’s agency and mentalities, the dog can engage in and learn racist acts.

128   Bindi Bennett There are also demonstrated benefits in the literature of assistance and therapy dogs for socially marginalized people with disability, which indicates the potential for the application of assistance animals in Aboriginal communities. American occupational therapist Morgan Starkweather’s thesis (2020) examined, through qualitative in-​depth interviews, the experiences of parents of children with autism with an assistance dog for at least one year. The research found that these dogs improved children’s participation and engagement in therapy, school, and general life. The study concluded that assistance dogs are a valuable and alternative form of therapy for children with autism. Further, the study suggests that there are considerable benefits of advocating for and assisting families in acquiring an autism assistance dog. In studies like this one, dogs have been shown to ameliorate the pain of social marginalization and to help autistic people to bear the conditions of “normal” social life that exclude, rather than support, them. A more recent example of the possibilities of using assistance dogs to increase feelings of happiness and purpose took place in a school on the New South Wales and Victoria border, where a therapy dog was introduced. Before the dog, the school had experienced high student disengagement, as well as student behavior incidents and suspensions (Higgins & Wellauer, 2021). By providing the therapy dog and mindfulness sessions and introducing a local Indigenous language, the school found that in twelve months suspensions had decreased by 65% and suspensions had decreased by 90% (Higgins & Wellauer, 2021). The school reports that these changes have had a positive effect on the surrounding community, which has also become more engaged with the school. Another successful program is Paws Up, run by BackTrack (n.d.) in Armidale, New South Wales. This program is based on the principle that dogs can teach young people lifelong lessons in trust and self-​discipline and encourage growth in self-​confidence. BackTrack has an educational program that runs alongside many other programs, including horticulture and construction skills. It has had success with its wraparound support model, with positive outcomes for many young people. While further research in this area is needed to determine the benefits of using dogs in therapy with Aboriginal people with disabilities, some studies (Signal et al., 2017) that have begun this research have found that incorporating dogs is a valuable technique when working with Aboriginal People with trauma-​related symptoms. It may be suggested that dogs have the potential to mitigate the effects of discrimination and racism and are already effective in the disability sphere. They are unaware of human oppression and marginalization. Some would say they love (most) humans unconditionally and with positive regard (Wells, 2004). In this way, I argue that dogs are possibly (without the intervention of humans) unable to be racist, sexist, or ableist. They just do the job. This means that dogs are culturally safe and responsive, and are thus a very viable therapeutic option for Aboriginal Peoples in general, as well as those living with a disability in particular (Arkow, 2004). Thus, it seems safe to take these possibilities and explore them with Aboriginal People.

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    129

Utilization of Dogs Under the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) The National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) provides support to eligible people with intellectual, physical, sensory, cognitive and psychosocial disability. Under the NDIS scheme, eligible participants are allocated individual funding packages with the aim of increasing autonomy and choice in accessing services and therapeutic supports that align with their individual goals. A pamphlet provided specifically for Aboriginal People’s states: The NDIS helps people under the age of 65 with permanent and significant disability get care and supports. Permanent means the disability will not go away. Significant means the disability affects how you live every day. The NDIS will pay for reasonable and necessary supports that a person needs to live and enjoy their life. Reasonable means something that is fair. Necessary means something a person must have. To get services and support, you need to join the NDIS. (NDIS, 2020)

Scholars and Aboriginal Peoples, communities, and organizations have raised concerns regarding the capacity of the NDIS to engage with Aboriginal People (Avery, 2018; Biddle et al., 2014; Gilroy et al., 2013; Gordon et al., 2019). The NDIS markets choice and has been developed to provide Aboriginal People with disability the opportunity (perhaps for the first time) to choose and access supports and services that they feel are culturally appropriate and that meet their disability needs (Biddle et al., 2014: Gordon et al., 2019). Aboriginal Peoples who are marginalized, such as through rural and remote living, homelessness, substance abuse, mental illness, and/​or cognitive disability, and those in the criminal justice system are at risk of exclusion from the NDIS (Gordon et al., 2019; Townsend et al., 2018). In response to low engagement of Aboriginal Peoples in the NDIS system, the Department of Social Services has funded participant readiness activities to facilitate the inclusion of marginalized groups into the NDIS, and also outlines plans for Indigenous engagement in the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Engagement Strategy (Carey et al., 2018). However, it remains unclear whether these initiatives will be enough to engage Aboriginal Peoples in the NDIS (Somerville et al., 2017). An example of the lack of understanding of the NDIS is a community where wheelchairs provided to Aboriginal People with mobility impairment were not suitable for an environment with no hard-​surface footpaths and where the heat can sometimes melt the tires of the wheelchairs (Avery, 2018). In August 2021, a Royal Commission into

130   Bindi Bennett Violence, Abuse, Neglect and Exploitation of People with Disability (2021) heard from Aboriginal Peoples that there was a lack of culturally appropriate services, a complex application process, inadequate funding for remote service delivery, and a lack of cultural capacity within the NDIS. The National Aboriginal Community Controlled Health Organisation (NACCHO) reported to the commission that “[t]‌he needs, situation and culture of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples were not taken into consideration when developing the NDIS, creating a system that creates accessibility and service gaps at best and exploitation at worst for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people” (2020, p. 2). Despite increases in funding through NDIS, there is a real danger that without culturally appropriate services, supports, and pathways, Aboriginal communities will not get access to all the opportunities that the NDIS represents (Archibald, 2018). The NDIS has the potential to enable Aboriginal Peoples to access supports and services to which they are entitled, but its options and decision-​making must consider Aboriginal concepts of health, disability, and cultural heterogeneity and be delivered according to best community advice. A way to start addressing engagement is the use of dogs. Assistance dogs (ADs) fall under the Assistive Technology umbrella of the NDIS. Participants have had varying degrees of success in having their assistance dog included in their individualized plan (Assistance Dogs 4 All, 2021), while many have been refused. In order to have the dog accepted, the participant needs to match the use of the dog with the goals and objectives in their plan. They must also prove that dogs would be “value for money” and that the costs related to training and owning the dog would be comparable to alternative therapies (such as cognitive-​behavioral therapy, an accepted Western therapy modality) [Signal et al., 2017]). The participant must also convince the NDIS authorities that the assistance given by the dog will be effective and beneficial and cannot be funded under any other government system, agency, or body (e.g., Guide Dogs Australia) (NDIS, 2021). However, a barrier to access of an assistance dog for people with a disability in Australia is the fact that NDIS representatives have the right to ask further and additional questions of the participant in regard to any request for an assistance dog. Online examples of these questions include the participant being asked to provide evidence of outcomes with an assistance animal, outlining the tasks the animal is intended to perform to mitigate disability, and other options that have been considered. These extra hurdles are not expected when a participant applies for services such as speech therapy or occupational therapy, as these are more currently accepted therapy options (NDIS, 2019). If a participant is denied their request for an assistance dog, they can ask for an internal review, and from there apply to the Administrative Appeals Tribunal. Both processes involve effort and time, and there has been no research to gauge the amount of success of the ability to access the dog after such a review has been completed. An extra barrier for Aboriginal Peoples is the cost of a fully trained assistance dog. Prices range from $10,000 to $50,000 depending on the level of training and skills required (PADS, 2018). Different Australian states also have different policies regarding which public areas an assistance dog may be taken into. Currently, the only states in

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    131 Australia to have a clear structure in place for testing and retesting dogs for public access are Western Australia and Queensland. Therefore, the ability for Aboriginal Peoples living in rural and remote or specific areas of Australia to have access to an assistance dog seems limited despite the growing demands.

Discussion Disability has a significant impact on Aboriginal People’s health, and culturally appropriate care in Aboriginal communities means attending to “Aboriginal ways of caring” that are “based upon relationships with all things, human and non-​human” (Russ-​Smith & Wheeler, 2021, p. 93). The incorporation of animals in treatment and therapy with Aboriginal Peoples utilizes the SEWB framework that conceptualizes an Aboriginal understanding of health and well-​being (Bennett, 2019). There is evidence showing that companion dogs can increase the health and well-​being of both non-​Aboriginal and Aboriginal People. For many Aboriginal People, exclusion from the opportunities and resources available to be able to access a dog to address their well-​being may mean that they are unable to choose to have a healthy and fulfilling life. Ways forward to address the intersectional discrimination, racism, and deficit-​based language and systems require the prioritization of disadvantages faced by Aboriginal People with disabilities and those living in regional and remote areas, and the provision of resources to build the capacity of dogs and dog therapy in these regions (Public Health Information Development Unit [PHIDU], 2014). Aboriginal-​led and focused theoretical and practical research on animal therapies is needed to determine the overall impact on Aboriginal SEWB. Establishing an Aboriginal-​led working group to design and develop state-​and territory-​based programs that focus on dogs within the NDIS would support this process. These programs could investigate translating the evidence emanating from community knowledge and academic research into policy with a strong focus on the rights and circumstances of Aboriginal People. Aboriginal-​led knowledge, solutions, and community-​controlled organizations that are supported and resourced are necessary to ensure Aboriginal People living with a disability are held at the center of practice, encompassing the SEWB framework to inform national legislation and person-​centered care that is culturally and circumstantially appropriate.

Conclusion Aboriginal People continue to be disadvantaged through intersectional discrimination, racism, and deficit discourse, which negatively affect their SEWB. Dogs can be a positive resource in improving well-​being, and they can circumvent anthropogenic

132   Bindi Bennett discrimination and racism. Aboriginal People have great strengths, creativity, and endurance, and a deep understanding of the relationships between human beings and animals. There is growing evidence that using dogs may be, and is already, effective for Aboriginal People with a disability, but there are questions about access, cost, and sustainability. Instead of asking whether dog therapy is as effective or on par with other forms of therapy, what needs to be asked is whether any other forms of therapy can provide the same level of social and emotional companionship that a live-​in dog can provide to someone living with a complex disability. Does that therapy have the same elements of unique developmental factors and the appropriate cultural approaches, values, and experiential knowledge of the individual? Can any other therapy provide the depth and scope of animal-​assisted therapy with such a wide range of comprehensive potentials for learning and social and emotional skills acquisition? Can any other therapy appear to potentially mitigate and offset some of the inherent challenges of intersectional discrimination and racism? More research on the effectiveness of animal-​assisted therapy, especially with dogs, needs to be undertaken in Australia, particularly as it concerns Aboriginal peoples, frameworks, models, and best-​practice approaches. Regardless, it does appear that dogs are integral to a whole-​of-​life approach to improved well-​being.

References Adams, Y., Drew, N. M., & Walker, R. (2014). Principles of practice in mental health assessment with Aboriginal Australians. In P. Dudgeon, H. Milroy, & R. Walker (Eds.), Working together: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander health and wellbeing principles and practice (2nd ed., pp. 271–​288). Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia, Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. Albright, B. (2018). Consider the value of equine therapy. Behavioral Healthcare, 38(1), 26–​28. Archibald, J. (2018, May 10). Aboriginal people with disabilities and their families need our support. The Guardian. http://​www.theg​uard​ian.com/​commen​tisf​ree/​2018/​may/​10/​abo​rigi​ nal-​peo​ple-​with-​disab​ilit​ies-​and-​their-​famil​ies-​need-​our-​supp​ort Ariotti, L. (1999). Social construction of Anangu disability. Australian Journal of Rural Health, 7(4), 216–​222. https://​doi.org/​10.1046/​j.1440-​1584.1999.00228.x Arkow, P. (2004). Animal-​assisted therapy and activities: A study, resource guide and bibliography for the use of companion animals in selected therapies (9th ed.). Stratford, NJ: P. Arkow. Asch, A. (2001). Disability, bioethics, and human rights. In G. Albrecht, K. D. Seelman, and M. Bury (Eds.), Handbook of disability studies (pp. 297–​326). Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE. https://​doi.org/​10.4135/​978141​2976​251 Assistance Dogs 4 All. (2021). Sign the petition. Change.Org. Retrieved [online] 2nd November 2011, from https://​www.cha​nge.org/​p/​natio​nal-​dis​abil​ity-​insura​nce-​sch​eme-​ass​ista​nce -​dogs-​under-​the-​ndis-​why-​are-​some-​peo​ple-​fun​ded-​but-​many-​are-​being-​den​ied Atrey, S. (2018). Comparison in intersectional discrimination. Legal Studies, 38(3), 379–​395. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​lst.2017.17 Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2019, November 12). National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Health Survey, 2018-​19 financial year. https://​www.abs.gov.au/​sta​tist​ics/​peo​ple/​abo​

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    133 rigi​nal-​and-​tor​res-​str​ait-​islan​der-​peop​les/​natio​nal-​abo​rigi​nal-​and-​tor​res-​str​ait-​islan​der -​hea​lth-​sur​vey/​lat​est-​rele​ase Australian Human Rights Commission. (2020, August 13). Learn about racism. Sydney: Australian Human Rights Commission. https://​itstop​swit​hme.huma​nrig​hts.gov.au/​learn -​about-​rac​ism Australian Institute of Health and Welfare. (2021). Social & emotional wellbeing. AIHW Indigenous MHSPC. Canberra: AIHW. https://​www.indi​geno​usmh​spc.gov.au/​top​ics/​sewb Avery, S. (2018, October 7). Indigenous people with disability have a double disadvantage and the NDIS can’t handle that. The Conversation. http://​thec​onve​rsat​ion.com/​ind​igen​ous-​peo​ple -​with-​dis​abil​ity-​have-​a-​dou​ble-​disad​vant​age-​and-​the-​ndis-​cant-​han​dle-​that-​102​648 BackTrack. (n.d.). Programs. BackTrack Youth Works. https://​backtr​ack.org.au/​what-​we-​do/​ progr​ams/​ Barnes, C. (2015). The social model of disability: Valuable or irrelevant? In S. Farrior (Ed.), Equality and non-​discrimination under international law (pp. 12–​29). London: Routledge. Bayefsky, A. F. (2015). The principle of equality or non-​discrimination in international law. In S. Farrior (Ed.), Equality and non-​discrimination under international law (pp. 1–​34). London: Routledge. Bennett, B. (2019). Using horses to assist in promoting Aboriginal wellbeing. In B. Bennett & S. Green (Eds.), Our voices: Aboriginal social work (2nd ed., pp. 244–​260). London: Red Globe Press. Biddle, N., Al-​Yaman, F., Gourley, M., Bray, J. R., Gray, M., Brady, B., Pham, L. A., Williams, E., & Montaigne, M. (2014). Indigenous Australians and the National Disability Insurance Scheme. Canberra: ANU Press. https://​doi.org/​10.26530/​OAPEN​_​515​950 Bowers, J. R. (2021). The efficacy of canine assisted therapy in autism and intellectual disability focused behavioural support in Australia: A clinical review of literature for case-​based consideration. Armidale, NSW: Ability Therapy Specialists Pty Ltd and Ability Academy Australia. Carey, G., Malbon, E., Olney, S., & Reeders, D. (2018). The personalisation agenda: The case of the Australian National Disability Insurance Scheme. International Review of Sociology, 28(1), 20–​34. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​03906​701.2018.1425​084 Chow, P. Y. S. (2016). Has intersectionality reached its limits? Intersectionality in the UN human rights treaty body practice and the issue of ambivalence. Human Rights Law Review, 16(3), 453–​481. https://​doi.org/​10.1093/​hrlr/​ngw​016 Clair, M., & Dennis, J. (2015). Sociology of racism. In J. D. Wright (Ed.), The International Encyclopedia of the Social and Behavioral Sciences (Vol. 19). Amsterdam: Elsevier. Collier, R. (2017). Reports of coerced sterilization of Indigenous women in Canada mirrors shameful past. Canadian Medical Association Journal, 189(33), E1080–​E1081. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1503/​cmaj.1095​471 Connell, R. (2011). Southern bodies and disability: Re-​ thinking concepts. Third World Quarterly, 32(8), 1369–​1381. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​01436​597.2011.614​799 Crenshaw, K. (1989). Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: A black feminist critique of antidiscrimination doctrine, feminist theory and antiracist politics. University of Chicago Legal Forum, 1989(1). https://​chi​cago​unbo​und.uchic​ago.edu/​uclf/​vol1​989/​iss1/​8 Crow, L. (2008). Including all our lives: Renewing the social model of disability. In N. Watson (Ed.), Disability: Major themes in health and social welfare (pp. 136–​152). London: Routledge. Degener, T. (2016). Disability in a human rights context. Laws, 5(3), 35. https://​doi.org/​10.3390/​ LAWS​5030​035

134   Bindi Bennett Doble, J. (2020). Can dogs be racist? The colonial legacies of racialized dogs in Kenya and Zambia. History Workshop Journal, 89, 68–​89. https://​doi.org/​10.1093/​hwj/​dbaa​003 Dunn, D. S., & Andrews, E. E. (2015). Person-​first and identity-​first language: Developing psychologists’ cultural competence using disability language. American Psychologist, 70(3), 255. https://​doi.org/​10.1037/​a0038​636 First Peoples Disability Network. (2018). Culture is inclusion: A narrative of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people with disability. Sydney: FPDN. https://​fpdn.org.au/​prod​uct/​cul​ ture​isin​clus​ion/​ First Peoples Disability Network. (2019). Policy Platform Federal Election 2019. Sydney: FPDN. https://​fpdn.org.au/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​2019/​02/​Pol​icy-​Platf​orm-​Fede​ral-​Elect​ion-​201​ 9_​3.pdf Fleming, M. J., & Grace, D. M. (2016). Best practice in supporting Indigenous students with disability in higher education. University of Canberra. https://​www.ncs​ehe.edu.au/​wp-​cont​ent/​ uplo​ads/​2016/​08/​B est-​Pract​ice-​in-​Sup​port​ing-​Ind​igen​ous-​Stude​nts-​with-​Dis​abil​ity-​in -​Hig​her-​Educat​ion.pdf Flynn, E., Denson, E. B., Mueller, M. K., Gandenberger, J., & Morris, K. N. (2020). Human-​ animal-​ environment interactions as a context for youth social-​ emotional health and wellbeing: Practitioners’ perspectives on processes of change, implementation, and challenges. Complementary Therapies in Clinical Practice, 41, 101223. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​ j.ctcp.2020.101​223 Fogarty, W., Bulloch, H., McDonnell, S., & Davis, M. (2018). Deficit discourse and Indigenous health: How narrative framings of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people are reproduced in policy. Carlton South, Victoria: Lowitja Institute. Friel, S. (2016, September 1). Social determinants: How class and wealth affect our health. Special Broadcasting Service (SBS). https://​www.sbs.com.au/​top​ics/​voi​ces/​hea​lth/​arti​cle/​2016/​09/​ 01/​soc​ial-​deter​mina​nts-​how-​class-​and-​wea​lth-​aff​ect-​our-​hea​lth Gabel, S. L., & Miskovic, M. (2014). Discourse and the containment of disability in higher education: An institutional analysis. Disability & Society, 29(7), 1145–​1158. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1080/​09687​599.2014.910​109 Gee, G., Dudgeon, P., Schultz, C., Hart, A., & Kelly, K. (2014). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander social and emotional wellbeing. In P. Dudgeon, H. Milroy, & R. Walker (Eds.), Working together: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander mental health and wellbeing principles and practice (pp. 55–​68). Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia, Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. Gilroy, J., Donelly, M., Colmar, S., & Parmenter, T. (2013). Conceptual framework for policy and research development with Indigenous people with disabilities. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 2, 42–​58. https://​doi.org/​10.3316/​iel​apa.7518​4294​5817​584 Gordon, T., Dew, A., & Dowse, L. (2019). Listen, learn, build, deliver? Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander policy in the National Disability Insurance Scheme. Australian Journal of Social Issues, 54(3), 224–​244. https://​doi.org/​10.1002/​ajs4.73 Green, A. (2019). Aboriginal People, disability and the National Disability Insurance Scheme. In B. Bennett & S. Green (Eds.), Our Voices (2nd ed.) (pp. 227–​237). London: Red Globe Press. Griffis, D. (2012, April 20). Disability in Indigenous communities: Addressing the disadvantage. ABC. https://​www.abc.net.au/​ram​pup/​artic​les/​2012/​04/​20/​3481​394.htm Hamilton, N. (2013). Why are dogs racist? Caine experts speak. Gwaker. Retrieved 2nd November 2021, from, https://​www.gaw​ker.com/​5972​557/​why-​are-​dogs-​rac​ist-​can​ine-​expe​ rts-​speak

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    135 Hawkins, C. B., & Vandiver, A. J. (2019). Human caregivers perceive racial bias in their pet dogs. Group Processes & Intergroup Relations, 22(6), 901–​917. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​13684​3021​ 8824​656 Henry, B. R., Houston, S., & Mooney, G. H. (2004). Institutional racism in Australian healthcare: A plea for decency. Medical Journal of Australia, 180(10), 517–​520. https://​ www.mja.com.au/​jour​nal/​2004/​180/​10/​instit​utio​nal-​rac​ism-​aus​tral​ian-​hea​lthc​are-​plea -​dece​ncy Herring, S., Spangaro, J., Lauw, M., & McNamara, L. (2013). The intersection of trauma, racism, and cultural competence in effective work with Aboriginal People: Waiting for trust. Australian Social Work, 66(1), 104–​117. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​03124​07X.2012.697​566 Higgins, I., & Wellauer, K. (2021, April 17). This school had 120 behaviour incidents a day. Then Sheekie the therapy dog arrived. ABC News. https://​www.abc.net.au/​news/​2021-​04-​18/​ther​ apy-​dog-​ind​igen​ous-​langu​age-​and-​med​itat​ion/​100074​192 Hollinsworth, D. (2013). Decolonizing Indigenous disability in Australia. Disability & Society, 28(5), 601–​615. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​09687​599.2012.717​879 Larson, A., Gillies, M., Howard, P. J., & Coffin, J. (2007). It’s enough to make you sick: The impact of racism on the health of Aboriginal Australians. Australian New Zealand Journal for Public Health, 31(4), 322–​329. Lustig, D. C., & Strauser, D. R. (2007). Causal relationships between poverty and disability. Rehabilitation Counselling Bulletin, 50(4), 194–​202. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​00343​5520​7050​ 0040​101 Lutz, H., Vivar, M., & Supik, L. (2016). Framing intersectionality: Debates on a multi-​faceted concept in gender studies. London: Routledge. Makkonen, L. M. T. (2002). Multiple, compound and intersectional discrimination: Bringing the experiences of the most marginalized to the fore. Turku, Finland: Institute for Human Rights, Åbo Akademi University. https://​www.abo.fi/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​2018/​03/​2002-​Makko​ nen-​Multi​ple-​compo​und-​and-​int​erse​ctio​nal-​dis​crim​inat​ion.pdf Moreton-​Robinson, A. (2015). The white possessive: Property, power, and Indigenous sovereignty. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. https://​www.upr​ess.umn.edu/​book -​divis​ion/​books/​the-​white-​pos​sess​ive Morrison, M. L. (2007). Health benefits of animal-​assisted interventions. Complementary Health Practice Review, 12(1), 51–​62. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​15332​1010​7302​397 Myrna, T. (2019, March 26). Forced or coerced sterilization of Indigenous women. Calgary, AB: Alberta Civil Liberties Research Centre. https://​www.aclrc.com/​blog/​2019/​3/​26/​for​ced-​or -​coer​ced-​steril​izat​ion-​of-​ind​igen​ous-​women National Aboriginal Community Controlled Health Organisation (NACCHO). (2020). The Experience of First Nations People with Disability in Australia. Submission to the Royal Commission into Violence, Abuse, Neglect and Exploitation of people with Disability. Retrieved 2nd November 2021, from, https://​dis​abil​ity.roya​lcom​miss​ion.gov.au/​sys​tem/​files/​sub​miss​ ion/​ISS0​0100​491.pdf National Disability (n.d.). Disability Types and Descriptions. Retrieved from https://​www.nds .org.au/​dis​abil​ity-​types-​and-​descr​ipti​ons National Disability Insurance Scheme. (2019). Access to the NDIS: The disability requirements. Canberra: NDIS. https://​www.ndis.gov.au/​about-​us/​oper​atio​nal-​gui​deli​nes/​acc​ess-​ndis -​oper​atio​nal-​guidel​ine/​acc​ess-​ndis-​dis​abil​ity-​requi​reme​nts National Disability Insurance Scheme. (2020). How to start NDIS. Easy read. Canberra: NDIS. https://​www.ndis.gov.au/​media/​2805/​downl​oad

136   Bindi Bennett National Disability Insurance Scheme. (2021). Supports funded by the NDIS. Canberra: NDIS. https://​www.ndis.gov.au/​unders​tand​ing/​suppo​rts-​fun​ded-​ndis Oliver, M., & Barnes, C. (Eds.). (2012). The new politics of disablement (2nd ed.). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Owens, J. (2015). Exploring the critiques of the social model of disability: The transformative possibility of Arendt’s notion of power. Sociology of Health & Illness, 37(3), 385–​403. https://​ doi.org/​10.1111/​1467-​9566.12199 PADS. (2018, August 5). Types of Assistance/​Therapy Dogs. PADS Australia. http://​www.pads -​austra​lia.org/​types-​of-​ass​ista​nce-​serv​ice-​dogs/​ Paradies, Y. (2006). A systematic review of empirical research on self-​reported racism and health. International Journal of Epidemiology, 35(4), 888–​901. https://​doi.org/​10.1093/​ije/​ dyl​056 Paradies, Y. C., & Cunningham, J. (2012). The DRUID study: Racism and self-​assessed health status in an indigenous population. BMC Public Health, 12(1), 131. https://​doi.org/​10.1186/​ 1471-​2458-​12-​131 Peers, D., Spencer-​Cavaliere, N., & Eales, L. (2014). Say what you mean: Rethinking disability language in Adapted Physical Activity Quarterly. Adapted Physical Activity Quarterly, 31(3), 265–​282. https://​doi.org/​10.1123/​apaq.2013-​0091 Perry, B. L., Harp, K. L. H., & Oser, C. B. (2013). Racial and gender discrimination in the stress process: Implications for African American women’s health and well-​being. Sociological Perspectives, 56(1), 25–​48. https://​doi.org/​10.1525/​sop.2012.56.1.25 People with Disability Australia. (2018). Identity-​first vs person-​first language. https://​pwd .org.au/​resour​ces/​dis​abil​ity-​info/​langu​age-​guide/​ident​ity-​vs-​per​son Public Health Information Development Unit. (2014). Health, inequality and social exclusion. In Life opportunities, social inclusion and health outcomes: An Australian atlas. http://​phidu .torr​ens.edu.au/​pdf/​2010-​2014/​life-​opport​unit​ies-​atlas-​2012/​life_​opportunitie​s_​au​stra​lian​ _​atl​as_​s​ecti​on2.pdf Rodriguez, K. E., Bibbo, J., & O’Haire, M. E. (2020). The effects of service dogs on psychosocial health and wellbeing for individuals with physical disabilities or chronic conditions. Disability and Rehabilitation, 42(10), 1350–​1358. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​09638​ 288.2018.1524​520 Royal Commission into Violence, Abuse, Neglect and Exploitation of People with Disability. (2021). Overview of responses to the First Nations Issues paper. https://​dis​abil​ity.roya​lcom​ miss​ion.gov.au/​media/​1744 Russ-​Smith, J., & Wheeler, A. (2021). A culturally supportive ethics of care: Working with Aboriginal children and young people. In B. Bennett (Ed.), Aboriginal fields of practice (pp. 79–​97). London: Red Globe Press. Signal, T., Taylor, N., Prentice, K., McDade, M., & Burke, K. J. (2017). Going to the dogs: A quasi-​experimental assessment of animal assisted therapy for children who have experienced abuse. Applied Developmental Science, 21(2), 81–​93. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​10888​ 691.2016.1165​098 Soldatic, K. (2013). The transnational sphere of justice: Disability praxis and the politics of impairment. Disability & Society, 28(6), 744–​755. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​09687​599.2013.802​218 Soldatic, K., & Gilroy, J. (2018). Intersecting indigeneity, colonialisation and disability. Disability and the Global South, 5, 1337–​1343. Somerville, R., Cullen, J., McIntyre, M., Townsend, C., & Pope, S. (2017, Winter). Engaging Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples in the “Proper Way.” Newparadigm: The

Could Assistance Dogs Improve Well-Being?    137 Australian Journal on Psychosocial Rehabilitation, 14, 4. https://​www.mhvic.org.au/​ima​ges/​ PDF/​newpa​radi​gm_​/​Win​ter2​017/​04_​Engaging_​Aboriginal_​and_​Torres_​Strait_​Islander _​peoples_​in_​the_​Proper_​W​ay_​R​ebec​ca_​S​omer​vill​e_​et​_​al.pdf Starkweather, M. (2000). Pawsitive purpose: The impact of autism assistance dogs on levels of participation and engagement in occupations of children with autism spectrum disorder [MS dissertation, University of Victoria]. Strunk, D. R., Lopez, H., & DeRubeis, R. J. (2006). Depressive symptoms are associated with unrealistic negative predictions of future life events. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 44(6), 861–​882. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.brat.2005.07.001 Townsend, C., McIntyre, M., Lakhani, A., Wright, C., Bishara, J., & Cullen, J. (2018). Inclusion of marginalised Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples with neurocognitive disability in the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS). Disability and the Global South, 5(2), 22. Walsh, F. (2009a). Human-​animal bonds I: The relational significance of companion animals. Family Process, 48(4), 462–​480. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​j.1545-​5300.2009.01296.x Walsh, F. (2009b). Human-​animal bonds II: The role of pets in family systems and family therapy. Family Process, 48(4), 481–​499. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​j.1545-​5300.2009.01297.x Walter, M. (2016). Social exclusion/​inclusion for urban Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People. Social Inclusion, 4(1), 68–​76. Wells, D. (2004). My therapist’s dog: Lessons in unconditional love. Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin Books. Wendell, S. (1996). The social construction of disability. In The rejected body (pp. 35–​56). London: Routledge. Whiteneck, G. (2006). Conceptual models of disability: Past, present, and future. In M. J. Field, A. M. Jette, & L. G. Martin (Eds.), Workshop on disability in America: A new look: Summary and background papers. Washington, DC: The National Academies Press. https://​www.nap .edu/​read/​11579/​chap​ter/​5 Yeo, R. (2001). Chronic poverty and disability. Manchester, UK: Chronic Poverty Research Centre. Zubrick, S. R., Shepherd, C. C., Dudgeon, P., Gee, G., Paradies, Y., Scrine, C., & Walker, R. (2014). Social determinants of social and emotional wellbeing. In P. Dudgeon, H. Milroy, & R. Walker (Eds.), Working together: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander mental health and wellbeing principles and practice (p. 20). Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia, Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet.

Chapter 9

Disp osses si on as Destinat i on Colonization and the Capture of Māori Land in Aotearoa New Zealand Matthew Wynyard

Introduction On June 5, 2021, Paul Goldsmith, MP and education spokesperson for New Zealand’s opposition National Party, told an interviewer that, “on balance,” colonization had been “good” for Māori, bringing with it “all sorts of wonderful things” (Hogan, 2021). The wider context of the interview was Goldsmith’s opposition to the current Labour government’s proposed Aotearoa New Zealand Histories Curriculum, which, when launched in 2022, will be this country’s first compulsory history curriculum (Ministry of Education, 2021a). The current government resolved to make history compulsory in all schools and kura following a “spirited campaign” led by students from Ōtorohanga High School (Manning, 2017; Royal Society Te Apārangi, 2021; Smallman & Small, 2015). On December 8, 2015, the students, led by Waimarama Anderson (Ngāti Uekaha, Ngāti Maniapoto) and Leah Bell (Pākehā), marched on the New Zealand Parliament to deliver a petition calling for the New Zealand Land Wars to be included in the national curriculum (Otago Daily Times, 2017; Smallman & Small, 2015). Anderson, Bell, and other Ōtorohanga High School students had earlier been taken on a school trip to a historical battle site at Rangiaowhia1 and were left “shocked and horrified” by the stories told by Kuia and Kaumātua about innocent women, children, and elders being burned alive. Bell later told reporters, “We decided that it was our responsibility now to take action and be proactive about our history. We petitioned absolutely everywhere and . . . ended up with almost 13,000 signatures” (Smallman & Small, 2015).

Dispossession as Destination    139 After an initially lukewarm response from the Conservative National government (TVNZ, 2015) and officials at the Ministry of Education (Manning, 2017; Price, 2016), the current prime minister, Jacinda Ardern, announced on September 12, 2019, that the Ministry of Education would begin work on a draft history curriculum (Ardern & Hipkins 2019). The resulting curriculum focuses on three “Big Ideas,” central among them that colonization and its consequences are central to the history of Aotearoa New Zealand (Ministry of Education, 2021b). The draft curriculum has faced criticism for, among other things, obscuring the histories of women and wahine Māori, of New Zealand’s Chinese community, and of Māori before the arrival of Europeans (Royal Society Te Apārangi, 2021, pp. 7–​9). Conservative commentators and politicians have also criticized the curriculum. Goldsmith, for example, contends that the draft curriculum is “lacking in balance” and that it requires revision (Collins, 2021). When asked what he would like to see included in a compulsory history curriculum, Goldsmith, who also opposes the inclusion of “White privilege” in teaching resources (Hogan, 2021), instead called for a focus on the supposed “amazing transformation” through which “we grew our economy and became a prosperous society,” with “one of the highest standards of living in the world” (Hogan, 2021). Goldsmith also called for an emphasis on New Zealand’s “strong traditions of freedom and rule of law” (Collins, 2021). In fairness to Goldsmith, colonization did indeed generate extraordinary prosperity, but only for White settlers. His cherished “laws” were among an extensive battery of weapons used to systematically dispossess Māori of all but a tiny fraction of their lands. Contrary to Goldsmith’s view, colonization was not “a good thing” for Māori (see Hogan, 2021). Indeed, settler colonialism of the kind experienced in Aotearoa New Zealand is predicated on the elimination of Indigenous Peoples and the permanent capture of all of their lands (Wolfe, 2006, pp. 387–​409). It is however, in part at least, a failed project (Brown, 2014, pp. 1–​26). For, despite the countless weapons deployed against Māori, and which will be detailed in the paragraphs that follow, Māori remain. The intimate and umbilical relationship to the lands of their ancestors has not been severed. This chapter describes the settler-​colonial process in Aotearoa New Zealand and the myriad attempts of settlers to eliminate Māori and sever their connections to the land. It details the systematic dispossession of Māori land in the 19th and 20th centuries, a process through which the ancestral lands of Māori came to form the basis of New Zealand’s capitalist economy and which established persistent patterns of inequality between Māori and Pākehā. It is a history of violent subjugation, of theft, of murder and force—​a history through which Māori lost all but a fraction of their ancestral lands. It is a process that unites the experiences of Māori with those of Indigenous peoples the world over. This chapter draws on philosopher Karl Marx’s theory of primitive accumulation and on a burgeoning body of Indigenous research that, following Fanon (1961/​ 2004) (Martiniquais), seeks to “stretch” or indeed “indigenize” Marxist analysis to better account for Indigenous experiences of colonization (Bagchi, 2019; Brown, 2014; Coulthard, 2014; Pacheco, 2017). And indeed, as Simon Barber (Kāti Huirapa, Kāi Tahu, Pākehā) has recently noted, in his later writings, Marx himself “saw the need for

140   Matthew Wynyard his theory to undergo transformation through engagement with modes of life beyond those of Europe and conceptual frameworks beyond those of European construction” (Barber, 2019). Marx’s theory of primitive accumulation is crucial in explaining the processes through which various lands and natural resources are torn from their original owners and inhabitants and brought into the cycle of capital accumulation, as well as the myriad forms of “conquest,” “enslavement,” “robbery,” “murder,” and “force” that are used to facilitate these processes (Marx, 1867/​1976, p. 874). What Marx did not, and could not, account for, though, was the uniqueness of the Indigenous experience of primitive accumulation, and here Indigenous scholars such as Glen Coulthard (Yellowknives Dene) have added important theoretical innovations that much better account for the experiences of Māori and other Indigenous groups. In so doing, Taiaiake Alfred (Mohawk) contends that Coulthard has rescued Marx “from his 19th century hostage chamber” (Alfred, 2014, p. xi).

Original Sin: Indigenizing Marx’s Theory of Primitive Accumulation In 1840, Māori rangatira and the British Crown signed Te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi), which guaranteed to Māori the “full exclusive and undisturbed possession of their Lands and Estates Forests Fisheries and other properties” (Te Tiriti o Waitangi, 1840). At that time, Māori land ownership was largely undisturbed. Over the next hundred years, Māori were systematically dispossessed of all but a tiny fraction of their lands through a ruthlessly effective battery of measures, ranging from raupatu (confiscation) to the individualization of title, compulsory acquisition, excessive purchasing, and the seizure of land for roads and other public works. In this way, what was once communally owned Māori land came to form the basis of New Zealand’s largely land-​based economy, and Māori were left in a perilous position, with precious little land on which to subsist (Wynyard, 2019, 1–​14). In ­chapters 27 and 28 of Volume 1 of Capital, Marx details similar processes through which long-​settled agricultural producers were “suddenly and forcibly torn from their means of subsistence” and were forced to eke out whatever lives were possible on the margins (Marx, 1867/​1976, p. 876). Marx referred to these processes as “primitive accumulation,” an initial burst of violent acquisition and marginalization that establishes the basis of the capitalist economy. Marx understood capitalism as an unequal and antagonistic relationship between two classes, the bourgeoisie and the proletariat (Marx & Engels, 1848/​1969, p. 15)—​on the one hand, the elite “dilligent, intelligent and frugal,” the owners of money and the means of production, and on the other hand, the poor, “lazy rascals,” “rightless” and “unprotected,” those who possess no means of subsistence other than their own skins. Primitive accumulation is the process through which these two groups are created (Marx, 1867/​

Dispossession as Destination    141 1976, pp. 873–​876). The poor are, of course, only “rightless” and “unprotected” once torn from the earth that has so long nurtured them—​the basis of the whole process of primitive accumulation is, then, the expropriation of long-​settled peoples from their lands. These processes differ over space and time; the example provided by Marx in the closing pages of Capital, Volume 1, is the forcible expropriation of the people from the land in Britain, the capture and enclosure of their precious resources, and the myriad forms of “bloody legislation” and “ruthless terrorism” required to drive the people from the soil (Marx, 1867/​1976, pp. 895–​899; see also Wynyard, 2016, p. 28). The history of this expropriation, Marx concludes, is written in the annals of human history in “letters of blood and fire” (p. 875). In Marx’s telling, primitive accumulation has the twin effect of capturing land and natural resources essential to capitalist agriculture, on the one hand, while simultaneously creating desperate and otherwise destitute workers essential to capitalist social relations, on the other. As Marx puts it, these “idyllic methods of primitive accumulation . . . conquered the field for capitalist agriculture, incorporated the soil into capital, and created for the urban industries the necessary supplies of free and rightless proletarians” (Marx, 1867/​1976, p. 895). The following paragraphs will detail the various mechanisms through which Māori were dispossessed of their whenua, and here Marx’s theory of primitive accumulation is instructive. Where the experience of Māori, and of Indigenous Peoples more generally, differs from Marx’s account is that Māori were not primarily required as workers. Rather, the settler-​colonial project was aimed at dispossession for dispossession’s sake. And while Māori did indeed increasingly come to depend on wage labor to survive (see Poata-​Smith, 2013, p. 148), all that was really required of them was their disappearance from the land (Steven, 1989, p. 29). It was Māori space, not time, that was the overriding impetus for dispossession. As White Australian scholar Patrick Wolfe notes, settler colonialism is about the elimination of the Native, and the primary motive for elimination is access to land (Wolfe, 2006, p. 388). Similarly, for Coulthard, settler colonialism is a form of “structured dispossession,” whereby power “has been structured into a relatively secure or sedimented set of hierarchical social relations that continue to facilitate the dispossession of Indigenous peoples of their lands” (Coulthard, 2014, p. 6). This distinction is important, for, like Indigenous Peoples the world over, Māori too were driven from their lands and set adrift under “circumstances of ruthless terrorism” (Marx, 1867/​1976, p. 895). In Aotearoa, too, the stories of the expropriation of iwi, hapū, and whānau from the whenua are written in “letters of blood and fire” (p. 875). Here, too, it was through these processes of primitive accumulation that the deep umbilical relationship between people and the land that nourishes them was strained and sometimes severed (Barber, 2019, p. 51). But it is this loss of land, rather than the process of proletarianization, that has had the greatest toll on Māori, and land loss remains the central grievance for Māori seeking redress from the Crown. Indeed, as White Canadian scholar Peter Kulchyski puts it, while for proletarian workers, oppression is measured primarily as exploitation, “as the theft of time,” “oppression for the colonized is registered in the spatial dimension—​as dispossession” (Kulchyski, 2005, p. 88; see also Brown 2014, p. 5).

142   Matthew Wynyard In order to better account for the unique Indigenous experiences of primitive accumulation, Glen Coulthard has sought to critically reformulate Marx’s theory by shifting the emphasis from proletarianization to territorial dispossession (Coulthard, 2009, p. 214; 2014, p. 7; see also Brown, 2014, p. 5; Roberts, 2020, pp. 532–​552). Here, Coulthard contends that while Marx sees primitive accumulation both dispossessing and proletarianizing noncapitalist populations, for Indigenous peoples, dispossession alone is the primary destination (Coulthard, 2009, pp. 214–​215; 2014, pp. 5–​11; see also Brown, 2014; Wynyard, 2019). In addition, Coulthard adds, Marx’s primary concern was the process of proletarianization, which has remained the overriding concern of the Marxist tradition more broadly. The theoretical reformulation suggested by Coulthard seeks instead to take as its analytical frame, “the subject position of the colonized vis-​à-​vis the effects of colonial dispossession” (Coulthard, 2014, p. 9). Indeed, Coulthard notes, it is dispossession rather than proletarianization that “has been the dominant background structure shaping the character of the relationship between Indigenous peoples and the . . . [settler] state” (2009, p. 19; see also Brown 2014, p. 5). Further, Coulthard continues: [D]‌ispossession also continues to inform the dominant modes of Indigenous resistance and critique that this relationship has produced. Stated bluntly, the theory and practice of Indigenous anti-​colonialism, including Indigenous anti-​capitalism, is best understood as a struggle primarily inspired by and oriented around the question of land—​a struggle not only for land in the material sense, but also deeply informed by what the land as system of reciprocal relations and obligations can teach us about living our lives in relation to one another and the natural world in non-​dominating and non-​exploitative terms—​and less around our emergent status as “rightless proletarians” (2009, pp. 19–​20; see also 2014, p. 9).

Coulthard’s proposed realignment of emphasis from proletarianization to dispossession also confronts the racist assumption—​comforting as it might be for some—​ that colonial dispossession will “somehow magically redeem itself by bringing the fruits of capitalist modernity into the supposedly ‘backward’ world of the colonized” (Coulthard, 2014, p. 9). And indeed, this was a popular form of apologism for settler rapacity in Aotearoa in the 19th century. As the colonial secretary, J. C. Richmond, put it in 1864, “the settler was, quite properly, anxious to extend settlement. Nor could this desire for land be properly called greed. It was not individual wealth he was grasping; he was indulging in the healthy wish for the spread of civilization” (Richmond, 1864). It remains a form of apologism today. In 2014, then prime minister of Aotearoa John Key told local Māori radio that, in his view, New Zealand had been settled peacefully, and that “Māori probably acknowledge that settlers had a place to play and brought with them a lot of skills and a lot of capital” (Key, 2014; Wynyard, 2017, p. 13). Similarly, and as noted earlier, National MP Paul Goldsmith contends that colonization was, on balance, a “good thing” for Māori (Hogan, 2021).

Dispossession as Destination    143 It is to what some Pākehā conceive of as the comparatively benign and “peaceful settlement” of Aotearoa that we now turn.

“Blood and Fire”: Land Loss and the Marginalization of Māori For many Māori, the two decades immediately following the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi were a time of prosperity and economic development. Iwi and hapū around the country established and maintained an impressive infrastructure to facilitate trade with Pākehā (Petrie, 2006; Walker, 2007, pp. 63–​69). Trade in foodstuffs, flax, and other goods thrived (Petrie, 2006; Walker, 2007), and yet land remained the overriding economic concern for many Pākehā (Wynyard, 2016, p. 68). There is perhaps no more brazen example of settler rapacity for Māori land than the “Wentworth Indenture.” On February 15, 1840, just days after Te Tiriti o Waitangi was signed, a New South Wales-​ based land syndicate formed by John Jones and William Charles Wentworth signed an agreement with several Ngāi Tahu rangatira to purchase the entire South Island—​ Te Waipounamu, Rakiura (Stewart Island), and all other adjacent islands, together with, “all Seas, Harbours, Coasts, Bays, Inlets, Rivers, Lakes, Waters, Mines, Minerals, Fisheries, Woods, Forests, liberties, franchises, profits, emoluments, advantagements, hereditaments, rights, members and appurtenances whatsoever” (Wentworth & Jones, 1840). More than 150,000 square kilometers were purchased for the princely sum of £100, along with a £50 annuity for the principal rangatira involved. As with so many land “transactions” at the time, the deed was not translated into Te Reo Māori (Anderson, 1990). Unfortunately for Wentworth and Jones, Te Tiriti o Waitangi had given the Crown the exclusive right to purchase Māori land, and had guaranteed to Māori the full, exclusive, and undisturbed possession of any lands that they wished to retain. Here, the formalized apparatus of state actually prevented the immediate loss of Te Waipounamu in 1840. In the two decades that followed, however, preemptive Crown purchasing achieved the very same result. Most of Te Waipounamu was lost to Māori through a series of massive Crown purchases, including the 3,000,000-​acre Wairau purchase in the upper South Island for £3000 in 1847, the 20,000,000-​acre Kemp purchase of Waitaha (Canterbury) for £2000 in 1847, the 7,000,000-​acre Murihiku purchase of what is now Otago, Southland, and Fiordland for £2,600 in 1853, and the 7,500,000 acre Arahura purchase of the West Coast district for £300 in 1860 (He Tohu, 2017). In addition to its purchases in Te Waipounamu, the Crown had also made major inroads in Te Ika-​a-​Māui (the North Island) including large purchases in Wairarapa, Te Matau-​a-​Māui (Hawkes Bay), Tāmaki Makaurau (Auckland), Kaipara, Porirua, and Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara (Wellington) (Ward, 1999, p. 121). And it was precisely these inroads, this surging demand for Māori land coupled with a growing reluctance on the part of

144   Matthew Wynyard Māori to sell, that plunged Te Ika-​a-​Māui into a bloody, decades-​long war in the 1860s and early 1870s and resulted in the Crown passing legislation that allowed it to confiscate millions of acres of land from any Māori iwi deemed to be hostile to the Crown. As in the closing pages of Marx’s magnum opus, the acquisition of Māori land in the middle decades of the 19th century is recorded in the history of Aotearoa in letters of “blood and fire.” At the peak of the New Zealand Land Wars in the 1860s, 29% of all Britain’s Imperial forces outside of the United Kingdom and India were involved in the prosecution of the war (Pool, 2017, p. 13). Twelve thousand Imperial troops and approximately 5,000 colonial troops opposed an estimated 2,000–​3,000 Māori (Belich, 1986, p. 126; 1996, p. 236), equipped with no artillery, no cavalry, no ships, and armed only with inaccurate and antiquated muskets left over from earlier European conflicts (Simpson, 1986, p. 153). The New Zealand Land Wars erupted first in Taranaki in 1860, spread to Waikato in 1863 when Lieutenant General Duncan Cameron crossed the Mangatawhiri River, and developed into “a bewildering series of intersecting conflicts spread over much of the North Island and involving most Māori” (Belich, 1996, p. 229). In the end, Steven notes, the British Imperial troops, hardened by Britain’s adventures around the globe, “left the prosecution of the war to the settlers, in disgust at the brutalities the latter were inflicting” (Steven, 1989, p. 29; see also Simpson, 1986, p. 161; Wynyard, 2016, p. 72; 2017, p. 19). It is a brutality well illustrated in the words of Arthur Samuel Atkinson, himself involved in the fighting at Taranaki, for whom, “one lies in wait to shoot Maoris without any approach to an angry feeling,” rather, “it is a sort of scientific duty” (Atkinson, 1863; Clayworth, 1999, pp. 135–​147). The ferocity of settler violence and contempt for Māori lives was staggering. Unarmed children were cut down by cavalry at Handley’s woolshed in Nukumaru, Taranaki (Ngaati Ruanui DoS, 2001, p. 30; Riseborough, 1993). Prisoners were summarily executed in Te Urewera (Ngāi Tūhoe DoS, 2013, pp. 46–​47). Women and children were burned alive during the attack on Rangiaowhia Pā (O’Malley, 2016, pp. 291–​312). Crown troops committed a number of rapes during the invasion of the pacifist settlement at Parihaka (Te Kawenata-​o-​Rongo, 2017, p. 11). An unarmed rangatira was shot 18 times, while chanting karakia (ritual prayer) during the invasion of Ōpōtiki (Cowan, 1956, p. 106; Walker, 2007, p. 97); his body was subsequently used for target practice. Less than a month later and during the same invasion, approximately 35 Māori were killed by settler cavalry at Te Tarata pā (Cowan 1956, p. 113; Walker 2007, p. 101). The contempt for Māori property and the ongoing well-​being of survivors was correspondingly horrifying. As the fighting raged around the central North Island, Crown forces adopted “scorched-​earth” tactics, burning, pillaging, and looting their way through Waikato and Taranaki, Te Moana-​a-​Toi and Te Urewera. Indeed, the Crown has since acknowledged the use of such tactics in its settlements, with numerous iwi, including Ngāti Ruanui, Taranaki Iwi, Ngāti Ranginui, Tapuika, Waitaha, Ngāi Tūhoe, Ngāruahine, Ngāti Manawa, and Waikato-​Tainui (see Treaty Settlement Documents, n.d.). The experience of Te Whakatōhea in the eastern Bay of Plenty is instructive. Settler militia and Crown forces boasted of the bounty available to them as an invading force:

Dispossession as Destination    145 Pork chops, beef steaks, fowls and everything was good. In the village, we found potatoes enough to feed an army—​pigs, cattle were swarming around. I remained on shore for five days after the village was taken during which time I had glorious fun. (Stoate, in Gilling, 1994, p. 73)

What the troops couldn’t eat or carry away with them was destroyed. The economic basis of Whakatōhea was deliberately and systematically undermined, horses and livestock were looted or shot, and crops and homes were razed (Daily Southern Cross, 1865; Hawkes Bay Herald, 1865; Walker, 2007; WPSCT & the Crown, 2020). The settler press carried stories of the destruction of “everything belonging to the Maories” (Hawkes Bay Herald, 1865; WPSCT & the Crown, 2020). One eyewitness account noted that the invading force “burnt everything that would burn, after taking all the loot worth carrying off ” (Hawkes Bay Herald, 1865). The plantations about the place were all destroyed, acres of beautiful corn were being mowed down by the sword; melons and pumpkins which were just about ripe, were served up in the same manner. (Daily Southern Cross, 1866)

In 1863, amid this spiraling conflict, the Crown unleashed a new and powerful weapon, one much more devastating than any deployed in the field—​raupatu, the confiscation of lands as punishment for “rebellion.” It was, Dick Scott has argued, a master-​stroke, “breathtaking in its simplicity” (Scott, 1975, pp. 18–​19). The relentless pressure for Māori land had provoked some North Island iwi into resistance, the subsequent confiscations punished Māori for resistance and would net for the Crown and settlers some 3,490,737 acres of prime land in Waikato, Taranaki, Tauranga, and Te Moana-​a-​Toi (Appendix to the Journal of the House of Representatives [AJHR], 1928). Indeed, many British Officers serving in Aotearoa came to see the war and confiscations as cruel and immoral, their views expressed in letters published back home—​that the whole process was “nothing more than a device got up to rob the natives” (Simpson, 1986, p. 76). Raupatu was facilitated through the passage of the Suppression of Rebellion Act and the New Zealand Settlements Act in 1863. The Suppression of Rebellion Act empowered the Crown to punish “by death, penal servitude or otherwise” any “Aboriginal tribes of this Colony” found to be “acting aiding or in any manner assisting” in “open Rebellion” against the Crown. The New Zealand Settlements Act allowed for the confiscation of any land belonging to Māori in any district where significant numbers had “entered into combinations and taken up arms . . . and are now engaged in open rebellion.” The ostensible purpose of the act was the establishment of militarized settlements for the “protection and security of well-​disposed inhabitants of both races” and to prevent future “insurrection or rebellion.” Before the latter act passed into law, however, the wording was amended to remove reference to the “vast tracts of land, lying unoccupied, useless and unproductive” (The Press, 1863), which was, of course, the real purpose of the legislation.

146   Matthew Wynyard There was limited but strident opposition to the passage of the New Zealand Settlements Act in Parliament—​ the independent member for Ellesmere, James Fitzgerald, argued that the act was “a repeal, upon the face of it, of every engagement of every kind whatsoever which has been made by the British Crown with the Natives.” It gave the Crown “absolute and arbitrary power” to confiscate any land on “any imaginary or conceivable wrong.” It was, Fitzgerald continued, “an enormous crime” perpetrated against Māori, who were “totally and absolutely in ignorance” about this “great invasion upon their privileges,” and who, without representation in Parliament, are “unable to plead their cause.” Further, the act ran “contrary to the Treaty of Waitangi,” which had “distinctly guaranteed and pledged the faith of the Crown that the lands of the Natives shall not be taken from them except by the ordinary process of law” (Fitzgerald, 1863, p. 784). Despite the spirited opposition, the act passed into law in December 1863. Confiscations followed soon after. On January 31, 1865, Governor Grey proclaimed the confiscation of what was called “Middle Taranaki District” under the powers of the New Zealand Settlements Act. Later that year, on September 2, the governor proclaimed the confiscation of the Te Āti Awa and Ngāti Ruanui districts. In total, 1,275,000 acres were confiscated from Taranaki Māori (AJHR, 1928, pp. 10–​11). Proclamations announcing the confiscation of land in Waikato were made on January 30, May 16, and September 2, 1865; in total 1,202,172 acres were confiscated from Waikato Tainui, including land at Māngere and Ihumātao, from people described as “old and infirm” and whose only act of insurrection appears to have been being related to more “rebellious” iwi and hapū further south (pp. 15–​16). The confiscation of 290,000 acres from Ngāi Te Rangi in Tauranga was proclaimed on May 18, 1865. Early the following year, on January 17, 1866, 448,000 acres were confiscated from Ngāti Awa, Ngāi Tūhoe, and Te Whakatōhea in Te Moana-​a-​Toi (pp. 17–​22). In 1865, at precisely the same time as it was confiscating millions of acres of prime land in Taranaki, Waikato, and Te Moana-​a-​Toi, the Crown was also working on an even more sophisticated weapon for its battery—​the Native Land Court and the forced individualization of title. It was, Simpson (1986) argues, “one of the most pernicious measures ever enacted by a settler community to get its hands on the estate of the natives” (p. 168). The Court was designed to undermine communal Māori land tenure and facilitate the passage of land into the hands of settlers. The attorney general and noted land speculator Frederick Whitaker explained the thinking behind the process, stating, “It does appear to me to be most desirable, I may say absolutely essential . . . that the Native titles should be extinguished, the Native customs got rid of ” (Whitaker, 1877, p. 254). Under traditional communal title, land was difficult to acquire, as use and ownership rights were complex and not easily amenable to purchase. The land, once individualized, could much more easily be bought and sold. Individual owners or small groups of owners could be bullied, cajoled, bribed, trapped, or otherwise “encouraged” to sell their lands. In addition, court hearings often took place in European towns, well away from Māori settlements, and the hearings often took weeks and weeks, during which time the claimants were susceptible to a “predatory horde” (Ward, 1973, pp. 185–​186) of moneylenders, land speculators, and alcohol merchants who would descend upon them

Dispossession as Destination    147 as they waited for their day in court (Ward, 1973, pp. 185–​186; see also Wynyard 2016, 2019). As Simpson puts it: [T]‌he owners named on the title would be plied with whiskey and unlimited credit and then, quite suddenly, the credit would be cut off. To meet these debts the owner would be forced to transfer the freehold to [their] creditor. It was an exercise in cynical blackmail and was widely countenanced by the authorities, who were themselves indulging in it. (Simpson, 1986, p. 170)

In the latter half of the 19th century, from approximately 1860 to 1890, Māori land holdings in Te Ika-​a-​Māui diminished from 22 million to 11 million acres, less than a sixth of which was lost to confiscation, the rest to “sale.” The forced individualization of title through the Native Land Court was, Steven (1989) argues, “the most devastating of all the onslaughts the settlers made on . . . Māori as a people” (p. 30). Large-​scale Crown purchasing of Māori land continued well into the 20th century. Between 1890 and 1930, Māori lost an additional 7 million of their remaining 10 million acres, including to compulsory sale (Wynyard, 2019). Successive Liberal and Reform governments each added additional weapons to the Crown’s legislative arsenal. In 1879, future Liberal premier Richard Seddon floated the idea of building roads through Māori land as a means with which to gain access to it: The colony, instead of importing Gatling guns with which to fight the Maoris, should wage war with locomotives . . . by pushing through the country first roads and then railways. . . . Successive governments have shown a want of firmness in dealing with these people. (Lyttleton Times, 1906)

Once in power, Seddon’s minister for lands, John McKenzie, drafted legislation aimed at cutting through the “Gordian Knot” of Māori landownership (Brooking, 1996, p. 131), a knot “so intricate that” the conservative New Zealand Herald (1891) feared, “it might never be untied.” McKenzie’s Public Works Act of 1894 allowed the Crown to compulsorily acquire “any native land” for “any public work,” including the building of roads. Further, the act stated that “[n]‌o compensation shall be payable in respect of any [Māori] land taken for a road” (Public Works Act, 1894). Other mechanisms followed, including the Native Lands Purchase Act 1892, the Native Lands (Validation of Titles) Act 1892, and the Native Land Court Act 1894 (Brooking, 1996, pp. 137–​139; Wynyard, 2016, p. 103). Massey’s conservative Reform administration also undertook a systematic program of purchase, and by 1930 a total of approximately 3.5 million more acres were lost to Māori. Freehold Māori land diminished to just 3.6 million acres (McAloon, 2008; Ward, 1999, p. 159; Wynyard, 2019), much of it inaccessible backcountry and totally unsuitable for the kinds of economic development that might alleviate the material hardship that

148   Matthew Wynyard so many Māori had been plunged into. Today, collectively owned Māori lands comprise just 4.8 percent of Aotearoa (He Tohu, 2017; Wynyard, 2019, p. 5).

Settler Colonialism and the “Failed” Elimination of Māori As noted briefly earlier, Māori did increasingly come to depend upon wage labor to survive, and the middle decades of the 20th century saw many Māori relocate to the burgeoning towns and cities in search of work (Pool, 1991, pp. 133–​189). From 1960 onward, Māori were actively encouraged to migrate—​that year, the infamous Hunn report on the Department of Māori Affairs was published; it found a paradox between the material hardship of unemployed rural Māori and labor shortages in urban centers (Hunn 1960). The report concluded that Māori in 1960 could be broadly classified into three categories: “a completely detribalised minority whose Maoritanga is only vestigial”; “the main body of Maories, pretty much at home in either society, who like to partake of both”; and “another minority complacently living a backward life in primitive conditions” (Hunn, 1960, p. 16; Williams, 2019, p. 38. The object of policy, Hunn continued, should be to eliminate the third group—​any Māori who might resent the pressure to conform to what they might regard as a Pākehā way of life could be reassured that “it was not, in fact, a pakeha way of life, simply, but a modern way of life, common to advanced people—​the Japanese, for example—​in all parts of the world” (Williams, 2019, p. 38). The path to modernity would involve Māori abandoning “relics of ancient Māori life” such as language and culture and divesting themselves of remaining communally owned land in favor of state housing in towns and cities: “It would be a good thing if the Maori people . . . could come to regard the ownership of a modern home in town . . . [as superior to] an infinitesimal share in scrub country that one has never seen” (Te Ao Hou, 1961). The recommendations of the Hunn report were “enthusiastically embraced and implemented” by the Conservative national government (1960–​1972), which “vigorously promoted deliberate migration of Māori” to towns and cities. Māori land development schemes in rural areas were abandoned and Māori were pressured to sell any remaining land and accept a one-​way ticket to the city to be “pepper potted” in state housing in mostly Pākehā suburbs, so that, “as far as possible, Māori families had no immediate Māori neighbours and no Māori communal facilities were built in the new suburbs” (Williams, 2019, p. 38). The net effect of these policies was, indeed, the proletarianization of Māori (Poata-​Smith, 2013, pp. 149–​150)—​yet the deepest impacts for many Māori are still measured in terms of land loss, in terms of the severing of the umbilical connection to ancestral land and all it provides. Land was, is, and perhaps always will be, central to Māori claims against the Crown. Indeed, many contemporary treaty claims continue to center on Māori proprietary

Dispossession as Destination    149 rights in lands and other natural resources, including freshwater and geothermal resources (see Waitangi Tribunal, 2012), and the foreshore and seabed (Waitangi Tribunal, 2004). In 1975, in response to wide-​ranging Māori protest, the then Labour government established the Waitangi Tribunal, a permanent commission of inquiry empowered to inquire into Crown breaches of Te Tiriti o Waitangi—​the Treaty of Waitangi. A decade later, after more protest, including the high-​profile occupation of Bastion Point by Ngāti Whātua-​o-​Ōrākei, the tribunal’s powers were extended to include historical breaches of Te Tiriti dating back to its signing. Between 1985 and an arbitrary, Crown-​imposed deadline in September 2008, the tribunal received more than 2,500 claims cataloguing, among other things, the systematic alienation of land detailed here—​indeed the vast majority of historical claims concern the loss of specific areas of land to the Crown (Hobson, 2015, p. 14; Wynyard, 2019, p. 7). In 1987, the Waitangi Tribunal was also given binding powers to order the restoration of land to Māori (Mutu, 2018, p. 210); to date, the tribunal has never used these powers and the Crown has sought to circumvent the tribunal by entering into direct negotiations to settle the claims of iwi—​today more than 75 groups have settled with the Crown, and some $2.24 billion has been paid out in redress. While that might seem a substantial amount of money, settling iwi typically receive just 1% to 2% of their actual losses (Te Aho, 2017, p. 105). The treaty settlement process also serves to formally extinguish the rights of settled groups to seek further redress from the Crown. Essentially, then, the Treaty of Waitangi settlement process seeks to formalize and finalize the processes of land loss detailed above. Mutu (2018) notes that the treaty settlement process aims to deliver to Māori “far less” than would be available via the tribunal’s binding recommendations, and that “[the Crown] have steadfastly refused to deviate from their aim of extinguishing Māori rights and claims as expeditiously and as cheaply as possible” (p. 213). But despite all of this, Māori remain. Despite the hideous violence, the confiscations and the forced individualization of title, the compulsory acquisition of land for roads and other public works, the myriad legislative weapons deployed by successive governments to alienate Māori from their land, and the passage of tens of millions of acres of communally held ancestral land into the hands of Pākehā and the Crown, Māori remain. Despite the state-​sanctioned urbanization and assimilation of Māori in the 20th century, the numerous assaults on language and culture, the paltry compensation, and the legal extinguishment of all historical land claims, the deep ontological, spiritual, and inalienable connections between Māori and the whenua have not been severed, will not be severed and cannot be severed. The settler-​colonial project in Aotearoa New Zealand is, then, a failed one.

Conclusion To describe settler colonialism as a “failed project” is not to suggest that the impacts of settler colonialism on Māori are anything other than monstrous—​far from it. All the

150   Matthew Wynyard myriad attempts to eliminate Māori through “blood and fire”; frontier homicide; the alienation of land; the suppression of language, culture, and spirituality; forced assimilation; the abduction of children; and so on have left an enduring legacy manifest in any number of negative social statistics, from incarceration rates (McIntosh & Goldmann, 2017, pp. 251–​263), to appalling health and mental health outcomes, to material hardship and poverty (Matthewman, 2017, pp. 83–​94). Colonization was, in no way, a “good thing” for Māori. As Nicolas Brown (2014) argues, however, to categories the settler-​colonial project as a failure is, in the most basic sense, to acknowledge the simple fact that Indigenous peoples have not been eliminated, and that their ties to land or “sense of place” have not been expunged (p. 6). Brown goes on to argue that understanding dispossession as a failed project requires us to move beyond narrow European conceptions of “property” and focus instead on what Aileen Moreton Robinson (Goenpul) refers to as an “ontological” or “inalienable” relationship to land, a deep sense of “ontological belonging” that continues to upset and unsettle the non-​Indigenous sense of belonging that is based on the forms of dispossession detailed in this chapter (Moreton Robinson, 2003, p. 31).

Note 1. Rangiaowhia was a largely undefended pā site that served as a refuge for women, children, and the elderly. It was attacked by Crown and colonial troops on February 21, 1864. The exact death toll is not known, but at least twelve Māori were killed, including women and children, many burned alive when Crown forces torched the whare they were sheltering in. Thirty-​three inhabitants were also taken prisoner, including 21 women and children and 12 (mostly) elderly men (see O’Malley, 2016, pp. 291–​312).

References Ardern, J., & Hipkins, C. (2019, September 12). NZ History to be taught in all schools. Beehive. Wellington: New Zealand Government. https://​www.beeh​ive.govt.nz/​rele​ase/​nz-​hist​ory -​be-​tau​ght-​all-​scho​ols Appendix to the Journal of the House of Representatives (AJHR). (1928). “Confiscated Native Lands and Other Grievances. Royal Commission to Inquire into Confiscations of Native Lands and Other Grievances Alleged by Natives (Report of).” Appendix to the Journal of the House of Representatives, Session 1. G.-​07. https://​atojs.nat​lib.govt.nz/​cgi-​bin/​atojs?a =​d&d=​AJHR1​928-​I.2.2.6.13&e=​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​10-​-​1-​-​-​-​-​-​0-​-​ Alfred, T. (2014). Forward. In G. S. Coulthard (Ed.), Red skin white masks: Rejecting the colonial politics of recognition (pp. ix–​xii). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Anderson, A. (1990). Tūhawaiki, Hone. In Te Ara—​ The encyclopedia of New Zealand. Wellington: Manatū Taonga Ministry for Culture and Heritage. https://​teara.govt.nz/​en/​ biog​raph​ies/​1t110/​tuhawa​iki-​hone Atkinson, A. S. (1863). Journal, 5 June 1863. In G. H. Scholefield (Ed.), The Richmond-​Atkinson papers (pp. 48–​49). Wellington: R. E. Owen, Government Printer.

Dispossession as Destination    151 Bagchi, A. K. (2019). Colonialist primitive accumulation. Journal of Labour and Society, 22(4), 717–​732. Barber, S. (2019). Māori Marx. Counterfutures: Left Thought and Practice Aotearoa, 8, 43–​72. Belich, J. (1986). The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian interpretation of racial conflict. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Belich, J. (1996). Making peoples: A history of the New Zealanders from Polynesian settlement to the end of the nineteenth century. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Brooking, T. (1996). Lands for the people? The Highland clearances and the colonisation of New Zealand: A biography of John McKenzie. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Brown, N. A. (2014). The logic of settler accumulation in a landscape of perpetual vanishing. Settler Colonial Studies, 4(1), 1–​26. Clayworth, P. (1999). A sort of scientific duty, A. S. Atkinson: Racial ideas and the Maori. In M. Reilly & J. Thomson (Eds.), When the waves rolled in upon us: Essays in nineteenth-​century Maori history (pp. 135–​147). Dunedin: Otago University Press. Collins, S. (2021, February 2). National Party’s Paul Goldsmith slams Aotearoa NZ Histories curriculum as lacking in balance. New Zealand Herald. https://​www.nzher​ald.co.nz/​nz/​ natio​nal-​par​tys-​paul-​goldsm​ith-​slams-​aotea​roa-​nz-​histor​ies-​cur​ricu​lum-​as-​lack​ing-​in -​bala​nce/​C5M​RXHS​ZXUI​DWXX​ZI2B​F4VM​MBQ/​ Coulthard, G. S. (2009). Subjects of empire? Indigenous Peoples and the “politics of recognition” in Canada [Doctoral dissertation, University of Victoria]. Coulthard, S. (2014). Red skins, white masks: Rejecting the colonial politics of recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Cowan, J. (1956). The New Zealand wars: A history of the Māori campaigns and the pioneering period: Vol. 2. The Hauhau Wars 1864–​1872. Wellington: R. E. Owen. Daily Southern Cross. (1865, September 23). The capture of Opotiki [By an Eye-​Witness]. Daily Southern Cross, 21(2553). Daily Southern Cross. (1866, February 28). The East Coast: Reconnoitering of the troops at Opotiki under Colonel Lyons. Surprise of the Hauhaus—​Eight killed. Erection of Pas. Daily Southern Cross, 22(6). Fanon, F. (2004). The wretched of the Earth. Reprint. New York: Grove Press. (Original work published 1961). Fitzgerald, J. (1863, November 10). New Zealand Settlements Act. New Zealand Parliamentary Debates (Hansard), 1861–​1863. Wellington: Government Printer. Gilling, B. (1994). Te Raupatu o te Whakatōhea: The confiscation of Whakatōhea Land 1865–​ 1866. Wellington: Treaty of Waitangi Policy Unit. Hawkes Bay Herald. (1865, September 19). Arrival of the expedition, and capture of Opotiki Pa. Hawkes Bay Herald, 8(684). He Tohu. (2017). Land ownership. National Library of New Zealand. https://​www.yout​ube .com/​watch?v=​rynn​k2LB​EY0 Hobson, W. (2015). Ka tika ā muri, ka tika ā mua: Healing the past, building the future; A guide to Treaty of Waitangi claims and negotiations with the Crown. Wellington: Office of Treaty Settlements. Hogan, F. (2021, May 6). Colonisation a good thing for Māori “on balance”—​National MP Paul Goldsmith. Newshub Nation. https://​www.news​hub.co.nz/​home/​polit​ics/​2021/​06/​colon​isat​ ion-​a-​good-​thing-​for-​m-​ori-​on-​bala​nce-​natio​nal-​mp-​paul-​goldsm​ith.html Hunn, J. (1960). Report on Department of Māori Affairs with Statistical Supplement. Appendix to the Journal of the House of Representatives G–​10.

152   Matthew Wynyard Key, J. (2014, November 18). New Zealand settlement peaceful says Key. Waatea Urban Māori Radio. https://​www.waa​tean​ews.com/​waa​tean​ews/​x_​n​ews/​ODM​3Nw/​Natio​nal%20N​ews/​ NZ-​set​tlem​ent-​peace​ful-​says-​Key?story​_​id=​ODM​3Nw=​=​ Kulchyski, P. K. (2005). Like the sound of a drum: Aboriginal cultural politics in Denendeh and Nunavut. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Lyttleton Times. (1906, June 12). Death of Mr Seddon. Lyttleton Times, 116(14084). https://​pap​ ersp​ast.nat​lib.govt.nz/​new​spap​ers/​lyttel​ton-​times/​1906/​06/​12/​8 Manning, R. (2017). The New Zealand (School Curriculum) “History Wars”: The New Zealand Land Wars petition and the status of Māori histories in New Zealand schools (1877–​2016). Australian Journal of Indigenous Education, 47(2), 120–​130. Marx, K. (1976). Capital: A critique of political economy. Volume 1. Reprint. London: Penguin Books. (Original work published 1867). Marx, K., & Engels, F. (1969). Manifesto of the Communist Party. Reprint. Moscow: Progress Publishers. (Original work published 1848). Matthewman, S. (2017). Pākehā ethnicity: The politics of White privilege. In A. Bell, V. Elizabeth, T. McIntosh, & M. Wynyard (Eds.), A land of milk and honey? Making sense of Aotearoa New Zealand (pp. 83–​94). Auckland: Auckland University Press. McAloon, J. (2008). Land ownership—​Maori and land ownership. In Te Ara—​The encyclopedia of New Zealand. Wellington: Manatū Taonga Ministry for Culture and Heritage. http://​www .TeAra.govt.nz/​en/​land-​owners​hip/​page-​1 McIntosh, T., & Goldmann, B. (2017). Locked up. In A. Bell, V. Elizabeth, T. McIntosh, & M. Wynyard (Eds.), A land of milk and honey? Making sense of Aotearoa New Zealand (pp. 251–​ 263). Auckland: Auckland University Press. Ministry of Education. (2021a). Aotearoa NZ’s histories in our national curriculum—​ Consultation open. Ministry of Education/​Te Tāhuhu o Mātauranga. https://​www.educat​ ion.govt.nz/​news/​aotea​roa-​new-​zeala​nds-​histor​ies-​in-​our-​natio​nal-​c ur​r icu​lum-​now -​open-​for-​consu​ltat​ion Ministry of Education. (2021b). Aotearoa New Zealand’s histories in the New Zealand curriculum. Ministry of Education/​ Te Tāhuhu o Mātauranga. https://​www.educat​ ion.govt.nz/ ​ a ss ​ e ts/ ​ D ocume ​ nts/ ​ Aotea​ roa- ​ N Z- ​ h istor ​ i es/ ​ MOE- ​ Aotea​ roa- ​ N Z- ​ Histor​ ies-​A3-​FINAL-​020-​1.pdf Moreton Robinson, A. (2003). I still call Australia home: Indigenous belonging and place in a White postcolonizing society. In S. Ahmed, C. Castaneda, A. M. Fortier, & M. Sheller (Eds), Uprootings/​regroundings: Questions of home and migration (pp. 23–​40). Oxford: Berg. Mutu, M. (2018). Behind the smoke and mirrors of the Treaty of Waitangi claims settlement process in New Zealand: No prospect for justice and reconciliation for Maori without constitutional transformation. Journal of Global Ethics, 14, 208–​221. New Zealand Herald. (1891, September 12). Editorial. New Zealand Herald, 27(8670). https://​ pap​ersp​ast.nat​lib.govt.nz/​new​spap​ers/​new-​zeal​and-​her​ald/​1891/​09/​12/​4 New Zealand Settlements Act. (1863). New Zealand Legal Information Institute. http://​www .nzlii.org/​nz/​legis/​hist_​act/​nzsa1​8632​7v18​63n8​377/​ Ngaati Ruanui DoS. (2001). Ngaati Ruanui and Her Majesty the Queen in right of New Zealand: Deed of Settlement of Historical Claims of Ngaati Ruanui. https://​www.govt.nz/​ass​ ets/​Docume​nts/​OTS/​Ngati-​Rua​nui/​Ngati-​Rua​nui-​Deed-​of-​Set​tlem​ent-​12-​May-​2001.pdf Ngāi Tūhoe DoS. (2013). Tūhoe me Te Uru Taumatua Rāua Ko Te Karauna /​The Crown: Te Whakatauna o Nā Tohe Raupatu Tawhito: Deed of Settlement of Historical Claims. https://​ www.govt.nz/​ass​ets/​Docume​nts/​OTS/​Ngai-​Tuhoe/​Ngai-​Tuhoe-​Deed-​of-​S et​tlem​ent-​4 -​Jun-​2013.pdf

Dispossession as Destination    153 Otago Daily Times. (2017, October 28). First annual commemoration of NZ Wars. Otago Daily Times. https://​www.odt.co.nz/​news/​natio​nal/​first-​ann​ual-​commem​orat​ion-​nz-​wars O’Malley, V. (2016). The Great War for New Zealand: Waikato 1800–​2000. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Pacheco, A. J. C. (2017). Primitive accumulation in Indigenous Mexico: The contested transformations of the Maya solar of Yucatán. City: Analysis of Urban Change, Theory, Action, 21, 503–​519. Petrie, H. (2006). Chiefs of industry: Māori Tribal enterprise in early colonial New Zealand. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Poata-​Smith, E. (2013). Inequality and Māori. In M. Rashbrooke (Ed.), Inequality: A New Zealand crisis (pp. 148–​158). Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Pool, I. (1991). Te Iwi Māori: A New Zealand population, past, present and projected. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Pool, I. (2017). New Zealand’s population and development path: Unravelling the when, how and why. Policy Quarterly, 13, 10–​21. Price, R. (2016, March 30). Ministry of Education refuses to include New Zealand Land Wars in curriculum. Stuff. https://​www.stuff.co.nz/​natio​nal/​polit​ics/​78386​446/​minis​try-​of-​educat​ ion-​ref​use-​to-​incl​ude-​new-​zeal​and-​land-​wars-​in-​cur​ricu​lum Public Works Act. (1894). New Zealand Legal Information Institute. http://​www.nzlii.org/​nz/​ legis/​hist_​act/​pwa18​9458​v189​4n42​236/​ Richmond, J. C. (1864). Native Commission Bill. New Zealand Parliamentary Debates (Hansard), 1864–​1866. Wellington: Government Printer. Riseborough, H. (1993). Bryce, John. In Te Ara—​The encyclopedia of New Zealand. Wellington: Manatū Taonga Ministry for Culture and Heritage. https://​teara.govt.nz/​en/​biog​raph​ies/​ 2b44/​bryce-​john Roberts, W. C. (2020). What was primitive accumulation? Reconstructing the origin of a critical concept. European Journal of Political Theory, 19(4), 532–​552. Royal Society Te Apārangi, Expert Advisory Panel. (2021, May 17). Aotearoa New Zealand’s Histories: A response to draft curriculum. https://​www.royal​soci​ety.org.nz/​ass​ets/​Aotea​ roa-​New-​Zeal​and-​histor​ies-​respo​nse-​to-​draft-​cur​ricu​lum-​May-​2021-​digi​tal.pdf Scott, D. (1975). Ask that mountain: The story of Parihaka. Auckland: Heinemann/​ Southern Cross. Simpson, T. (1986). Te riri Pakeha =​the White man’s anger. Auckland: Hodder and Stoughton. Smallman, E., & Small, V. (2015, December 8). Otorohanga College students deliver Land Wars petition to Parliament. Stuff. https://​www.stuff.co.nz/​waik​ato-​times/​news/​74876​330/​oto​ roha​nga-​coll​ege-​stude​nts-​deli​ver-​land-​wars-​petit​ion-​to-​par​liam​ent Steven, R. (1989). Land and White settler colonialism: The case of Aotearoa. In D., Novitz & B. Wilmott (Eds.), Culture and identity in New Zealand (pp. 21–​34). Wellington: GP Books. Suppression of Rebellion Act. (1863). New Zealand Legal Information Institute. http://​www .nzlii.org/​nz/​legis/​hist_​act/​sora1​8632​7v18​63n7​403/​ Te Aho, L. (2017). The “false generosity” of treaty settlements. In A. Erueti (Ed.), International Indigenous rights in Aotearoa New Zealand (pp. 99–​117). Wellington: Victoria University Press. Te Ao Hou. (1961). The Hunn report. Te Puna Mātauranga o Aotearoa National Library of New Zealand. http://​teao​hou.nat​lib.govt.nz/​journ​als/​teao​hou/​issue/​Mao34​TeA/​c28.html Te Kawenata-​o-​Rongo. (2017). Parihaka and the Parihaka Papakāinga Trust and the Crown: Te Kawenata Ō Rongo /​Deed of Reconciliation. https://​parih​aka.maori.nz/​home/​wp-​cont​ent/​ uplo​ads/​Te-​Kawen​ata-​o-​Rongo.pdf

154   Matthew Wynyard Te Tiriti o Waitangi /​The Treaty of Waitangi. (1840). https://​www.waita​ngit​ribu​nal.govt.nz/​tre​ aty-​of-​waita​ngi/​engl​ish-​vers​ion/​ The Press. (1863, November 17). New Zealand Settlements Act, 1863. The Press, 3(327). https://​ pap​ersp​ast.nat​lib.govt.nz/​new​spap​ers/​CHP1​8631​117.2.10 Treaty Settlement Documents. (n.d.). https://​www.govt.nz/​tre​aty-​set​tlem​ent-​docume​nts/​ Wellington: New Zealand Government. TVNZ. (2015, December 8). Politicians react to petition for establishing a day of commemoration of NZ Land Wars. Te Karere. https://​www.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​Cuho​kZ6c​3Xo Waitangi Tribunal. (2004). Report on the Crown’s foreshore and seabed policy. https://​forms.just​ ice.govt.nz/​sea​rch/​Docume​nts/​WT/​wt_​D​OC_​6​8000​605/​Foresh​ore.pdf Waitangi Tribunal. (2012). Stage 1 Report on the national freshwater and geothermal resources claim. https://​forms.just​ice.govt.nz/​sea​rch/​Docume​nts/​WT/​wt_​D​OC_​5​9941​926/​Wai23​ 58W.pdf Walker, R. (2007). Ōpōtiki-​Mai-​Tawhiti capital of Whakatōhea: The story of Whakatōhea’s struggle during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Auckland: Penguin. Ward, A. (1973). A show of justice: Racial “amalgamation” in nineteenth century New Zealand. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Ward, A. (1999). An unsettled history: Treaty claims in New Zealand today. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Wentworth, W., & Jones, J. (1840, February 15). Deed for the purchase of the South Island. National Library of New Zealand. https://​nat​lib.govt.nz/​reco​rds/​23172​593 Whitaker, F. (1877, August 7). Native Land Court Bill. New Zealand Parliamentary Debates (Hansard), 1877. Wellington: Government Printer. Williams, D. (2019). The continuing impact of amalgamation, assimilation and integration policies. Journal of the Royal Society of New Zealand, 49, 34–​47. Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–​409. WPSCT & the Crown. (2020). Whakatōhea: Draft historical account. https://​www.whak​atoh​ eapr​eset​tlem​ent.org.nz/​histo​ric-​resour​ces Wynyard, M. (2016). The price of milk: Primitive accumulation and the New Zealand dairy industry 1814–​2014 [Doctoral dissertation, University of Auckland]. Wynyard, M. (2017). Plunder in the Promised Land: Māori Land alienation and the genesis of capitalism in Aotearoa New Zealand. In A. Bell, V. Elizabeth, T. McIntosh, & M. Wynyard (Eds.), A land of milk and honey? Making sense of Aotearoa New Zealand (pp. 13–​25). Auckland: Auckland University Press. Wynyard, M. (2019). Not one more bloody acre: Land restitution and the Treaty of Waitangi settlement process in Aotearoa New Zealand. Land, 8(11), 1–​14.

Chapter 10

R angatahi Māori a nd You th Ju st i c e i n New Zea l a nd Arapera Blank-​P enetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb

Introduction This chapter provides an overview of community experiences of the youth justice system and the issues for rangatahi Māori (youth or young persons) in Aotearoa New Zealand. It explores previous research studies and incorporates findings emerging from the early national Māori study phase of an ongoing project1 involving participants in regions across the country. Past and current data on rangatahi Māori and their participation in youth justice, coupled with the lack of independent research on this topic since the early 1990s, provide a clear rationale for why the research and this chapter were necessary. In particular we note concerns by researchers such as Roguski and Tauri (2012) that some reports from government agencies rely upon populist constructions and moral panics about “youth gangs” in our ethnic minority and Indigenous communities.2 While rangatahi Māori (and especially those defined by the policy sector and media as “gang affiliated”) are commonly portrayed as a “problem population” (see Beals, 2006; McCreanor et al., 2014), little empirical research that privileges their experiences of youth justice in New Zealand has been carried out with them or the communities they live within. This situation exists despite other key policy areas, such as education and health, where informed engagement with rangatahi is supported (see Kidman, 2014; Williams et al., 2018). We begin this chapter with a discussion of the rationale for engaging community-​ based research with the Māori community, rangatahi, and their whānau (families). This is followed by an overview of previous studies and a critique of government responses to

156    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb the problem of Māori overrepresentation within the justice system since the late 1980s—​ all designed, according to government rhetoric, to alleviate the problem and enhance the cultural appropriateness of the justice system (see Tauri, 2016, 2019). Finally, we draw upon and examine some of the preliminary findings from the Aotearoa leg of our international study into youth justice in three settler-​colonial jurisdictions (the international components have involved interviews with Māori and Samoan communities in Australia, and Samoan communities in the United States). What is evident from this research is that for rangatahi Māori and their whānau, the experience of criminal justice practice in New Zealand is, at times, marginalizing.

Why Research Rangatahi Experiences of Youth Justice? The importance of dealing with Māori youth justice issues has long been on the agenda for policymakers in New Zealand, especially since the late 1980s (Williams, 2001). At that time, policy changes occurred as a result of criticisms of criminal justice and social welfare systems, stemming from the John Rangihau-​led Puao te ata tu report on Māori perspectives on the Department of Social Welfare (Ministerial Advisory Committee, 1988), and Māori scholar Moana Jackson’s (1988) landmark research into experiences of the criminal justice system, He Whaipaanga Hou: Māori and the Criminal Justice System. Jackson’s (1988) report identified a number of key ideas on the operation of the New Zealand criminal justice system in regard to Māori. Firstly, it noted that the legal and criminal justice system is a cultural system derived from the imposed settler-​colonial institutions of law, based on the cultural values of the Pākehā (non-​Māori of European descent) settlers. This also included the deliberate denigration and exclusion of Māori understandings, values, and concepts. Secondly, state assimilation policies have undermined nga ture a te Māori (Māori social control and authority) by weakening the legal and religious traditions used for stability in communities, and thereby marginalizing the collective community responses and traditional ways of responding to social harm. The report drew attention to the dominant conceptions of law and crime in state responses that rely upon Western frameworks, and how these have framed and limited the descriptions and analyses of offending to individual deficits (pp. 19–23). It identified that rangatahi were alienated from Māori traditions, conceptions of behavior, and authority by the processes of colonization that deliberately undermined Māori social and cultural structures that emphasized collective norms and relationships. They also experienced alienation from the Pākehā criminal justice system’s institutions, from the monocultural practices, and the experiences of institutional racism and overcriminalization (pp. 113–​114). Speaking to solutions, Jackson articulated the need to decolonize the state justice system, and to have Māori-​led justice that recognized self-​ determination and Te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi)3. Moreover, he saw the

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     157 way Western-​based criminological theories and explanations pathologized Māori as individuals without reflecting upon the wider social histories of colonization and dispossession. Jackson argued for the decolonization of criminological approaches to take into account the collective social structures of Māori communities. The decolonial approach explores the interactions between the different cultural elements of New Zealand criminal and youth justice systems and the wider society. The findings from Jackson’s report were confirmed in the Puao te ata tu report (Ministerial Advisory Committee, 1988), which detailed Māori concerns over the Department of Social Welfare’s responses to youth welfare. Puao te ata tu identified Māori community experiences of monocultural social policy and institutionalized racism, and made recommendations advocating for changes to legislation and policies to recognize the social, cultural and economic values of all cultural groups. The report recognized children and young persons as members of wider kin groupings, and supported having hapū (sub-​tribe) to exercise collective responsibility for the child’s care, with community programs being used to strengthen this. As a result of the reports from the 1980s, criminal justice agencies went through a period of focused policy and strategic work designed to enhance their responses to the needs (and no doubt criticisms) of Māori offenders, victims, their whānau, and wider communities. Tauri (2019), commenting on Māori targeted policy and legislative directives, contends that ensuing official responses were introduced with one or more of the following “outcomes” in mind: • To reduce Māori offending. • To make the justice system generally more “responsive” to Māori offenders, victims, and their families. • To increase the “positive participation” of Māori in the criminal justice system. Table 10.1 provides an indication of the types of responses that resulted from Māori critiques of justice practices, and how state agencies sought to enhance the cultural responsiveness of the sector following these reports.

Table 10.1 Selected State Responses to Māori Overrepresentation in the Criminal Justice System Post-​1980s Corrections

Police

Courts

Youth Justice

“Blended” psychological and cultural therapeutic interventions (1998–​) Māori Focus Units (1997–​) Māori cultural assessment tools (1999–​)

Māori Responsiveness Strategies (1997–​) Iwi Liaison Officers (1999–​)

Cultural sensitivity training for judges District Court restorative justice (1996–​) Rangatahi Courts (2008–​)

Family group conferencing (1989–​) South Auckland Youth (gang) Project (2007)

158    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb

The Policy Response in Perspective The criminal justice system response to the recommendations of reports from the late 1980s appears significant in terms of the range of policies, strategies, and interventions that resulted (see Williams, 2001). What has not been gauged thus far is the impact that changed policies have had on Māori in terms of reductions in offending, victimization, or general feelings of safety and well-​being. This can be attributed to the lack of outcome evaluation activity undertaken by the sector, and what Tauri (2016) considers to be the tokenistic nature of the criminal justice sector’s response. In the main, the criminal justice sector’s work can be grouped into two forms of response: (1) indigenization, with recruitment drives aimed at increasing the number of Māori peoples working in the system, and the adoption of Māori names for organizations, institutions, and strategies; and (2) co-​option of culture, focusing upon adding select components of Māori cultural practices to mainstream interventions, such as the family group conferencing (FGC) forum and the Rangatahi Courts (see Tauri, 2019, pp. 193–​198). The FGC model was introduced with the Children, Young Persons, and Their Families Act 1989 (amended and renamed the Oranga Tamariki Act 1989 in 2017). The intended aim of the act and conferencing model was to introduce an alternative process for responding to youth offenders, and to move away from utilizing formal court processes for the majority of cases except for more serious offending (Becroft, 2015). Among the changes implemented has been the adoption of court sittings in community settings. A specific example is Ngā Kōti Rangatahi (Rangatahi Youth Courts), which have grown in number since 2008, and are held on marae (meeting places) across 16 sites nationally. Alongside these a smaller number of Pasifika Youth Courts were introduced in Auckland from 2010 for young offenders from Pacific Peoples communities (Samoa, Tonga, Niue, Cook Island, Tokelau, and Fiji) (see Kaipuke 2012; Taumaunu 2014). Both Tauri (2019) and Williams (2001) argue that the system’s dual response of indigenization and co-​option has largely focused on enhancing responsiveness to Māori (and to a lesser extent Pasifika People), ensuring that the response did not impact on the state’s domination of the system itself. The apparent reluctance of the policy sector to entertain significant changes to the process of criminal justice—​that is, to challenge the monoculturalism of the system and to recognize Māori self-​determination and authority over the control and administration of justice for Māori (Jackson, 1988)—​along with the dearth of research (by both the policy sector and members of the academy) on Māori experiences of youth justice over the past 30 years, has prompted the authors to undertake research of their own. This is discussed through the remainder of this chapter.

The Research Project In 2017 we started a comparative qualitative study of Māori and Samoan experiences of youth justice systems operating in New Zealand, Australia (Brisbane and Gold Coast), and California in the United States. The project explores how contemporary

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     159 youth justice institutions, organizations, professions, and persons interact with the communities and cultural values and practices of rangatahi Māori and Samoan talavou (youth), whānau Māori, and Samoan aiga (family), across the three jurisdictions. This chapter only focuses on the emerging and preliminary findings from the first part of the New Zealand component of the study with Māori, which started with community hui (gathering or meeting) and focus groups in Auckland, Taranaki, Wellington, and Gisborne during the period from 2017 to 2019. In 2020, the COVID-​19 international pandemic crisis interrupted the scheduled research, and the resultant restrictions on travel and gatherings prevented kanohi ki te kanohi (face to face) community interactions that are consistent with the methodology of the project. As a result, in this chapter we have sought to explore only the initial preliminary themes emerging from the early community gatherings and focus groups with Māori that took place prior to the COVID-​19 outbreak. The project is exploring research with rangatahi and whānau experiences of New Zealand’s youth justice system, as well as knowledge from community-​based service providers and kaimahi (workers) offering support with justice issues. The study has engaged a kaupapa Māori research methodology (Smith, 1999). kaupapa Māori theory is said to have “its roots in two intellectual influences—​the validity and legitimacy of Māori language, knowledge and culture, as well as critical social theory” (Smith, 2012, p.12). Kaupapa Māori relates to a Māori approach, principles, and philosophies. Academic research has often discounted or dismissed Māori knowledges as “perspectives,” with a preference for research methods that are “non-​engaging,” or do not privilege the need for face to face (kanohi ki te kanohi) research approaches and active researcher engagement in the research storying or research/​data gathering process (see Tauri, 2013). The project moves beyond a social control paradigm that problematizes Indigenous and ethnic minority communities, and instead values community knowledge by following a decolonizing, empowering research protocol for Māori (Smith, 1999; Tauri, 2014). We have sought to acknowledge the importance of Indigenous methodologies and utilize their approaches and methods to prioritize the community voices who are impacted by state policies (see Suaalii-​Sauni et al., 2018). Our initial hui were publicly advertised to the local community, and ranged in size from approximately 10 to 30 participants. These included community or youth workers, whānau or families, and youth. It is important to note that, unlike quantitative research parameters, the size of a hui is unimportant in recognizing the value of the discussion. The research considers all voices at a hui to be of equal importance according to our collective cultural precedents of coming together to discuss matters. This is an important aspect, as Māori voices have often been silenced as only minority views in the formulation of policies that impact them.

Findings This chapter focuses on the theme of marginalization of rangatahi and whānau by the criminal justice sector. Participants involved at all the hui and focus groups in this part

160    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb of the research spoke directly to either their whānau or their experiences of marginalization. Community and youth workers also reflected upon the ways this occurred to rangatahi and whānau. Within the theme of marginalization, five subthemes—​tokenism, whānau and rangatahi constrained, the lack of alternatives to the mainstream, privileging of the individual over the collective, and silencing rangatahi and whānau voices—​emerged to show how marginalization impacted the lives of the youth within the criminal justice sector. Our objective is to explain this main theme through these different elements to reveal the extent to which rangatahi and their whānau are often marginalized, and arguably criminalized, by criminal justice agencies in the New Zealand context.

Marginalization of Whānau and Rangatahi The first area we explore is tokenism within the criminal justice system. This deals with rangatahi and whānau experiences of the way criminal justice agencies and actors utilize elements of tikanga (Māori cultural norms) in superficial or tokenistic, and sometimes disempowering, ways.

Tokenism The research participants spoke about cultural co-​option by state institutions and agents of crime control. In effect, cultural aspects were seen to be partly utilized for “cultural responsiveness” to Māori, when in reality the disempowering process of the Pākehā system remains (see also Tauri & Webb, 2012). Several processes were identified, including court processes and FGC, as representing systemic forms of co-​option. This issue was emphasized by participant’s narratives regarding the language used at an FGC where the process co-​opts cultural terms to empower institutional actors, rather than supporting Māori participants: What we’re hearing now is . . . these so-​called great ideas in terms of how to respond to Māori or Pasifika kids . . . and I heard this in the frickin terrible FGC 2 weeks ago . . . and they start acting it, “We’re about whānau, we’re about manaakitanga” [spoken softly—​and shows action with arms like embracing]. And I’m thinking, you’re not about whānau, you’re not about manaakitanga, cause you couldn’t even see the child that was being broken by everything that every adult was saying in the room. (Community worker)

Similar comments were made about the Rangatahi Court, and the concern that instead of creating more community controlled justice alternatives, they extended the reach of the state court processes further into communities. Concerns for the token nature of the court being the same as other courts were expressed at a hui in this way: We wanna know what’s gonna happen inside Rangatahi Court, and then we get there, and we’re like, “Oh, this is just like adult court. Like no real difference here.” The process is almost identical. (Whānau member)

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     161 He got caught and went through the Rangatahi Court process and I said . . . “ ‘How was it?” and he said, “Oh it’s just like court just on a marae.” (Whānau member)

Comments such as these show how whānau expected the Rangatahi Courts to be different from the general youth court, as they were instituted to meet community concerns over monoculturalism in court processes (Taumaunu, 2014). However, these participants felt let down once they realized the new process was “almost identical” to the general youth court, except for it being “on a marae”: They pilot an initiative and they give it a Māori or Pasifika name so then it means it must be trying harder to work with those people when it’s still the same system. (Community worker)

This participant speaks of how state agencies adopt Māori names, implying that it may be a Māori process or that it is a process working toward the betterment of Māori people, but the inner workings of the system remain the same. Another participant mirrors these sentiments: I’m fed up with government organizations that adopt Māori sayings or words . . . because I know that they don’t mean it. (Community worker)

Tokenism was also spoken about in terms of the process. For example, some participants referred to the ways tikanga was used in Rangatahi Court sittings. In the following excerpt, the participant speaks to how delivering a pepeha (introduction based on genealogy) was an expectation regardless of its appropriateness: That’s all I really know about Kōti Rangatahi in terms of tikanga, is that it’s an expectation everyone shares. . . the Iwi and Community Panels, we give a pepeha template but we don’t encourage them to say their pepeha . . . because . . . [they] know their pepeha and know where they come from and they know the importance of their whakapapa and know how . . . uncomfortable sometimes it might . . . be to share your whakapapa or to share your pepeha. And a person has a right to be able to do that . . . but it’s always well-​known that you don’t have to get up and say your pepeha . . . Cause that’s what’s important to us, not about getting up and sharing it. . . because . . . mai rānō it used to be dangerous, and so if you’re not comfortable then that’s OK. (Community worker)

In these instances, despite changes to court venues to allow rangatahi the opportunity to engage with aspects of Māori culture, this has been viewed by some whānau and community workers as not aligning with the broader values of Te Ao Māori (the Māori world). Similar concerns over the Rangatahi Courts were also raised by Dickson (2011). At the different hui, participants raised concerns about processes being delivered from the Pākehā model of justice (the same issue of monoculturalism in state-​controlled forums is raised by Moyle and Tauri [2016] in their research on family group conferences).

162    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb They spoke of how rangatahi reciting their pepeha was one part of tikanga Māori, and that more had to be addressed beyond the court processes. Another participant made comparisons with how tikanga is incorporated into the Iwi Community Panels, where the focus is on establishing connections to one’s whakapapa through pepeha, though there is no expectation for that mātauranga (knowledge) to be shared with others. The use of language to co-​opt was seen to be a tool of the state to control Māori communities. For example, a participant commented on how government agencies adopt Māori words and sayings as part of responsiveness strategies. This strategy of borrowing cultural terms for extending state control processes further was viewed as detrimental to Māori communities. This is highlighted in the following comments: I’ve got this term around borrowing. It’s when . . . Pākehā systems. . . actually make a Māori word a Pākehā word. . . . So all of a sudden, whakawhanaungatanga [collective relationships and obligations] is actually a Pākehā word . . . they will never know what whakawhanaungatanga is . . . the essence of it, because you’re not Māori . . . you’re borrowing it and plonking in your Pākehā paradigm. It doesn’t work. It will never work. Don’t try and make it work. And by the way, stop using our stuff against us. (Community worker)

The findings indicate that the current responsiveness strategies in place that see aspects of Te Ao Māori incorporated into existing state models are interpreted as being ineffective and harmful to the wider Māori community. This leads into the second area, whānau and rangatahi constrained by the system.

Whānau and Rangatahi Constrained This theme explains the way participants see the justice system as constraining communities rather than supporting the potential of positive alternatives for rangatahi. Marginalization in this sense is described by whānau, and some community workers, as feelings of inevitability of the same predetermined interventions based on the values and preferred outcomes of the system. Participants observed that: It was more like a, “oh cool. Here’s another one over here.” Make it streamlined and easy as possible for the system rather than for the people in it. (Whānau member) It’s like the systems are not built . . . to support someone to not do it again, they’re just supportive of them to go through this process and the system and end up at the point where the system ends up. (Whānau member)

Comments like this speak to a perception—​fixed in experience—​of an inevitability of marginalization, whereby participants interpret the system as prioritizing its needs over those of the people in it. Some participants reflected upon the difficulty of navigating the youth justice system, for the whānau and rangatahi going through the processes: That’s definitely what I think the young people hear when they shrug their shoulders when you ask them, “What do you wanna do?” They go [shrugs]. Because they feel the weight of, that they’re never gonna get out of this system. (Community worker)

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     163 There is an element of inevitability of predetermined system pathways, which is spoken of in terms of never escaping the system itself. The participants that speak to this concept are reflective of the community voice on the difficulty in navigating the youth justice processes, and the feeling of being trapped in the system. As one rangatahi observed, the assumptions and mistrust by authorities form part of their everyday negative experiences of state crime control practices. The assumption of criminality meant they were constantly being policed when in public spaces: They just need to stop thinking, um, I don’t know, that we’re criminals, that we’re up to no good, yeah. Cause sometimes they just drive around K Road watching us, watching us, watching us. Yeah. We’re not even doing anything, we’re just standing there. (Rangatahi)

Discussions at hui reflected upon being constrained by the system in terms of potentiality. It was observed that there is potential in Māori and community-​based initiatives, but the state system limits the overall impact of justice initiatives: I know the concept of Rangatahi Court was wider than what it’s actually turned out to be, but, it’s a little bit constrained I guess by the system and the processes it uses. (Whānau member) I think they [Rangatahi Court] probably are trying to make it more responsive, but . . . they’re very much limiting . . . how much more responsive it can become while it’s still under the justice system as we know it? (Whānau member)

Some also questioned why it is that rangatahi have to enter the justice pipeline in order to receive meaningful support. They spoke to the unwillingness of the system to understand tikanga and Te Ao Māori or to change for the better. Their reflections upon the inability of the system to understand Māori values also speaks to the concepts of tokenism and co-​option previously discussed. The concept of being constrained by the system was also discussed in terms of language (in particular the use of technical terms) and understanding. Participants referred to the language used in the court system that inhibits rangatahi and whānau from understanding: In a justice system there’s big words. They love clauses and quoting. . . . All the justice rhetoric. And families just go, “what did he do wrong?” (Community worker) You’re already in a space where you’re feeling embarrassed, you’re belittled in that sense, and then you don’t fully understand stuff, and so by saying, “I actually have no idea what you’re talking about?” just reinforces to that group that, “Oh, ok. We’ve gotta take it right back.” (Community worker)

We interpret these findings as examples of the system constraining the ability of rangatahi and whānau to understand unnecessarily technical dialogue. This then marginalizes them further as they become reliant upon the professionals with power. This empowers professionals in the system, from those who set policy and interpret the meanings of the criminal justice system, to the state actors that enact processes for them.

164    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb

The Lack of Alternatives to the Mainstream The lack of supported alternatives to mainstream state-​controlled processes (courts and programs), specifically from whānau and community youth workers, who describe how the constraints imposed upon rangatahi, results in feelings of hopelessness of being trapped in the system: It doesn’t seem like there’s any alternative to going to Rangatahi Court and then having to . . . whatever your conditions are after that . . . it’s just, like once you’re in it, it’s just a straight track . . . to the big house basically. (Whānau member)

This is reiterated when describing how rangatahi interpret their offending as failure, in turn perceiving their lives to be in constant failure, thus continuing the cycle of offending. The state criminal justice system then enforces negative life cycles through its overemphasis of a deficit gaze, creating an internalization that the rangatahi are predetermined to be criminal. You’re dealing . . . in a moment in time when a young person’s committed a crime and you’re dealing with a situation where there’s layers of a story that the system doesn’t often give you time to unpack. Why have we arrived here? (Community worker)

The participant describes how the system is insistent on labeling rangatahi as “criminals” or “bad” after committing an offense. They described instances of informing the court of the potential and skills of a rangatahi and how state agents would disregard these, instead focusing solely upon the offending behavior. One community worker also commented upon how vulnerability and poverty are common in the life stories of the rangatahi, whom he comes into contact with: Youths that I have dealt with . . . recently . . . the general . . . issue I get from the youths is . . . poverty, vulnerability, has huge impact on . . . their offending. (Community worker)

Here the conditions of poverty and vulnerability experienced by many rangatahi often result in a lack of prosocial activities for them, ultimately leading to offending.

Privileging the Individual Over the Collective Another example of marginalization is the criminal justice sector’s obsession with the individual as the focal point of crime control (Anthony, 2013; Jackson, 1988). Participants discussed the collective nature of Māori social practice, and the tensions they have experienced when confronted with state processes. In commenting on Oranga Tamariki, the state’s Ministry for Children, it was noted by a participant that whānau background is ignored, to the detriment of understanding the actions of rangatahi: . . . Then you get . . . this offense . . . . So, then you start to talk to her about, “What’s going on? What’s been going on with you?” Nowhere in it said that the mother had died last year . . . the father had died the year before that. (Community worker)

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     165 The participant describes how the system focuses solely upon the offense, ignoring the social positioning and cultural context that surround the rangatahi and offer the potential for meaningful social support. They describe the causes of offending for a rangatahi that was a result of losses within their whānau. This participant reflects on how the state was resistant in acknowledging the impact that the loss had had and was seen to only be interested in addressing the immediate offending. At hui, there were comments on the state’s lack of recognition of Māori collective social structures that rangatahi and whānau belong to: We’ve been saying this forever and ever, whānau, hapū, iwi . . . we’re not seeing that reflected in these stupid processes . . . for me, those are the things that I wanna change. (Community worker) We should be talking whānau-​centric, whānau. There might be a history of shame that might be carried over generation to generation. There might be something that’s never been talked about in the family that’s created all of these uncertainties. I don’t know. (Community worker)

The discussion of the need to delve deeper into the life stories of rangatahi in order to fully understand the reasons behind their offending, also acknowledges the importance of whānau-​centric processes and responses in achieving this endeavor, as Pākehā systems are unable and limited in their scope to understand the cultural and justice-​related needs of Māori. Other research into the Family Courts in Aotearoa has raised similar concerns about processes not meeting Māori and whānau cultural needs (Boulton et al. 2020). The focus on the individual by the state is problematic as it marginalizes the collective impact that whānau can have as well as marginalizes the potential of whānau and communities to have the solutions themselves (see Jackson 1988; Tauri and Webb 2012).

Silencing Rangatahi and Whānau Voices The silencing or ignoring of whānau voices was another element of the ways participants felt marginalized and not being heard in the system. This is apparent in the following narratives: There really isn’t much opportunity for these kids to have a voice and even when they did have meetings, no one really talked to . . . the kids, they’re talking around them about them. (Whānau member) You have all these people in there saying “this is what’s good for you,” but they don’t really ask the families or youth what’s good for them. (Community worker)

These participants illustrate the marginalization of the voices of rangatahi and whānau in the youth justice system, a process that silences them. The participants describe how the system and its processes disallow the voices of rangatahi and whānau to be heard. As one observed, this also describes the outcomes of this marginalization that can lead to a difficulty in navigating the system and the sense of helplessness that can develop in rangatahi and whānau at the lack of support and information being provided to them.

166    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb For example, a rangatahi expressed distress at not being provided with a support person to talk to when arrested, despite requesting support: I asked to speak to, um, a Liaison Officer but every time you go somewhere they asked who, what is that, who is that? Like nobody knows. But I know what that is, a Liaison Officer. I learnt that when I was younger. (Rangatahi)

The silencing of rangatahi and whānau voices is also discussed in terms of the system not providing space for rangatahi and whānau to present their narratives, and for the community and state agents to delve deeper into the causes of offending. A participant partly speaks to this issue in the following statement: We wanted to be able to speak about the good things that were happening, and . . . for him to accept responsibility . . . we weren’t glossing over the fact that he actually did something wrong. . . . But the rest of it was well . . . so he is a terrible person in every other aspect of his life, and we were more about, well, let’s whakamana the things he is good at, and recognize what this is that he’s done, and let’s have that opportunity here. (Whanāu member)

The participant is describing how their whānau wanted the opportunity to whakamana (enhance the mana) the successes of the rangatahi at the Rangatahi Court, but there was no space provided for this to happen. They drew comparisons between the state’s perspective of individuals as offenders and labeling a rangatahi as “a terrible person,” versus the view of the whānau thinking holistically about addressing accountability and the harm caused by an offense while also remedying the mana of the rangatahi offender. Another participant iterates, in the following, the lack of space provided for the narratives of rangatahi and whānau to be seen and heard: This family has been in the court system for generations. So an ownership to the given is that we will continue to see the same Māori whānau before the court systems. They present the same issues. But no one’s ever stepped back and said, “Why are we here again? What is the story? What is the layer of the story behind this?” (Community worker)

This narrative reflects a view of the inevitably that rangatahi and whānau would become involved in the justice system. They discuss how there is a need to question and uncover the reasons why a rangatahi or whānau are involved in the system, but there is no space given for in-​depth discussions of social circumstances and meaningful remedies to be explored. The concept of rangatahi and whānau voices and experiences being silenced is also felt in the practice of Māori youth workers and organizations constantly having to bend to the will of the system, even in instances where it is inefficient in addressing the cultural and justice-​related needs of Māori: It’s a racist discourse. It’s a discourse that does not acknowledge . . . a Samoan voice, or a Māori voice. (Community worker)

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     167 This participant touches upon tokenism when they state that Māori solutions are ignored and marginalized, as the system is still a Pākehā system that prioritizes a Pākehā agenda. Overall, the theme of marginalization is apparent in the data, as seen with the positioning of Pākehā knowledges and understandings over those of Māori.

Discussion In response to criticisms raised by earlier reports (e.g., Jackson, 1988), various responsiveness policies have been introduced into the Aotearoa youth justice system in seemingly belated efforts to achieve more direct community control over, and recruitment into, the formal justice system. Despite these efforts, our preliminary findings identify that concerns remain about tokenism in the responsiveness approach. Participants have raised concerns about marginalization, expressing sentiments of inevitability, invisibility, and overbearing system control. Programs like the FGC forum have demonstrably fallen short of empowering communities to address the issues facing rangatahi, including the underlying causes of their offending. Our research adds to previous findings regarding the operation of FGC in relation to Māori, and the Family Courts, and the ways these constrain whānau participation in justice and enhance state control (see Boulton et al., 2020; Moyle and Tauri, 2016). In addition, we argue that these policies and processes actually expand the state’s ideological and systemic reach into Māori communities through use of the process of co-​option, such as the FGC forum and the Rangatahi Court. One specific criticism to this end is that, as the theoretical and ideological bases of criminal justice practice remains unchanged, these policies both wittingly and unwittingly implement co-​optive strategies in an attempt to address rangatahi Māori engagement with the youth justice system. As the participants’ narratives have illustrated, some justice programs and initiatives are not seen as an alternative to the mainstream processes, and these may be constrained within the wider state apparatus and directed toward government goals. We note that Māori organizations that work alongside the justice system, and the members who are recruited into state agencies, also often face the pressures of facilitating community-​ based values and expectations, within a process that is heavily focused on supporting the state’s agenda, and delivering outcomes specified by government. Such criticisms are not new, and it is with some frustration that we find ourselves once again reporting similar findings to those contained in Jackson’s (1988) seminal report over 30 years ago. The community narratives speak to a need to expose the blatant and subtle subjugations of the state over Indigenous or community values if decolonization of the justice system, and aspirations for self-​determination in community-​led and -​ operated justice, are to be realized. They point to the focus on individualistic and deficit approaches by state agencies and in youth justice processes, and to the need for further recognition of collective experiences and responses that value rangatahi and whānau. Mihaere (2015) similarly found that Māori adult cultural rehabilitation programs within

168    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb the state sector are dominated by institutional philosophies that prioritize individual accountability. Marginalization of Māori in the adult criminal justice system has been identified previously (McIntosh, 2011), and the different elements identified in our research points to the existence of marginalization in the youth justice system also.

Conclusion This chapter has explored the ways that various responsiveness policies into the youth justice system have sought to introduce more direct community involvement in a formal centralized justice system. The chapter identifies ongoing concerns regarding the failure to adequately empower communities to address the issues of rangatahi and the underlying causes of their offending. More broadly, the chapter gives much needed voice to community-​level critiques of the efficacy of extant state responses to youth offending and victimization. It recognizes the importance of these to a meaningful and critical criminological enterprise, and provides researchers with a template for how to engage with knowledge and understandings of justice from the communities themselves.

Notes 1. This research project is supported by the Marsden Fund Council from New Zealand Government funding, and is managed by the Royal Society Te Apārangi. The fund is contestable and supports research excellence in investigator initiated research projects, and is comparable to the Australian Research Council funding. 2. See, for example, the Ministry of Social Development (2008) report into youth gangs in South Auckland, and the update of this report by Bellamy (2019). 3. Te Tiriti o Waitangi is seen as a foundational treaty from 1840 between the British Crown and rangatira (Māori chiefs) as representatives of iwi (tribes), and is the Māori-​language version of the Treaty of Waitangi. Self-​determination is recognized in this document.

References Anthony, T. (2013). Indigenous people, crime and punishment. London: Routledge. Beals, F. (2006). Reading between the lines: Representations and constructions of youth and crime in Aotearoa/​New Zealand [Unpublished doctoral thesis, Victoria University of Wellington]. Becroft, A. (2015). Playing to win—​youth offenders out of court (and sometimes in): Restorative practices in the New Zealand youth justice system [Paper presentation]. Queensland Youth Justice Forum, Brisbane, Australia. https://​www.you​thco​urt.govt.nz/​ass​ets/​Docume​nts/​ Publi​cati​ons/​Youth-​Court-​play​ing-​to-​win-​youth-​offend​ers-​out-​of-​court.pdf Bellamy, P. (2019). Youth gangs in New Zealand. Wellington, New Zealand: Parliamentary Service.

Rangatahi Māori and Youth Justice in New Zealand     169 Boulton, A., Wikaira, M., Cvitanovic, L., & Williams Blyth, T. (2020). Te taniwha i te ao ture-​ ā-​whānau: Whānau experience of care and protection in the family court. Whanganui: Whakauae Research for Māori Health and Development, Whāia Legal, Te Kōpū Education. Dickson, M. (2011). The Rangatahi Court. Waikato Law Review, 19, 86–​107. Jackson, M. (1988). Māori and the criminal justice system: He whaipaanga hou: A new perspective part 2. Wellington, New Zealand: Department of Justice. https://​safe​ande​ffec​tive​just​ice .govt.nz/​resea​rch/​a-​new-​pers​pect​ive-​part-​2/​ Kaipuke, J. W. (2012). Evaluation of Ngā Kooti Rangatahi, Report to the Ministry of Justice. Wellington, New Zealand: Ministry of Justice. Kidman, J. (2014). Representing Māori youth voices in community education research. New Zealand Journal of Educational Studies, 49(2), 205–​218. McCreanor, T., Rankinem, J., Moewaka-​Barnes, A., Borell, B., Nairn, R., & McManus, A. (2014). The association of crime stories and Māori in Aotearoa New Zealand print media. Sites, 11(1), 121–​144. https://​doi.org/​10.11157/​sites-​vol1is​s2id​240 McIntosh, T. (2011). Marginalisation: A case study: Confinement. In T. McIntosh & M. Mulholland (Eds.), Māori and social issues (Vol. 1, pp. 263–​282). Wellington, New Zealand: Huia Publishers. Mihaere, R. (2015). A kaupapa Māori analysis of the use of Māori cultural identity in the prison system [Unpublished doctoral thesis, Victoria University of Wellington]. Ministerial Advisory Committee. (1988). Puao-​ te-​ ata-​ tu (day break): The report of the Ministerial Advisory Committee on a Māori perspective for the Department of Social Welfare. Wellington, New Zealand: Department of Social Welfare. Moyle, P., & Tauri, J. (2016). Māori, Family group conferencing and the mystifications of restorative justice. Victims & Offenders, 11(1), 87–​106. Roguski, M., & Tauri, J. (2012). The politics of gang research in New Zealand. In K. Carrington (Ed.), Crime, justice and social democracy: An international conference proceedings (2nd ed., pp. 26–​44). Brisbane, Australia: School of Justice, Queensland University of Technology. https://​epri​nts.qut.edu.au/​55600/​ Smith, G. (2012). Interview: Kaupapa Māori: The dangers of domestication. New Zealand Journal of Educational Studies, 47(2), 10–​20. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous peoples. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Suaalii-​Sauni, S., Tauri, T., & Webb, R. (2018). Exploring Māori and Samoan youth justice: Aims of an international research study. Journal of Applied Youth Studies, 2(5), 29–​40. Taumaunu, H. (2014, October). Rangatahi Courts of Aotearoa/​New Zealand—​An update [Paper presentation]. Healing Courts, Healing Plans, Healing People: International Indigenous Therapeutic Jurisprudence Conference, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. http://​www .cou​rtso​fnz.govt.nz/​publi​cati​ons/​speec​hes-​and-​pap​ers/​#spee​chpa​per-​list-​2014 Tauri, J. (2013). Indigenous critique of authoritarian criminology. In K. Carrington, M. Ball, E. O’Brien, & J. Tauri (Eds.), Crime, justice and social democracy: International perspectives (pp. 217–​233). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Tauri, J. (2014). An Indigenous, critical commentary on the globalisation of restorative justice. British Journal of Community Justice, 12(2), 35–​55. https://​ro.uow.edu.au/​cgi/​view​cont​ent .cgi?arti​cle=​4203&cont​ext=​sspap​ers Tauri, J. (2016). The state, the academy and Indigenous justice: A counter-​colonial critique [Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Wollongong].

170    Arapera Blank-Penetito, Juan Tauri, and Robert Webb Tauri, J. (2019). Indigenous perspectives and experience: Māori and the criminal justice system. In T. Bradley & R. Walters (Eds.), Introduction to criminological thought (3rd ed., pp. 183–​204). Auckland, New Zealand: Pearson Education. Tauri, J., & Webb, R. (2012). A critical appraisal of responses to Māori offending. International Indigenous Policy Journal, 3(4), 1–​16. Williams, C. (2001). The too-​hard basket: Māori and criminal justice since 1980. Wellington, New Zealand: Institute of Policy Studies, Victoria University of Wellington. Williams, A., Clark, T., & Lewycka, S. (2018). The associations between cultural identity and mental health outcomes for Indigenous Māori youth in New Zealand. Frontiers in Public Health, 6, 319. https://​doi.org/​10.3389/​fpubh.2018.00319

Chapter 11

Making Space i n C a na dia n So ciol o g y Human and Other-​Than-​Human Lifeworlds Vanessa Watts

Introduction In North America, Indigenous Peoples have been studied by governments and social scientists (largely anthropologists) for over two centuries. For the most part, Indigenous People were the objects of study rather than researchers; and thus Indigenous voice was largely absent in the articulation of indigeneity within social scientific research (Smith, 1999; Wilson, 2008). The majority of social science research on or about Indigenous Peoples in North America uses theories and metrics designed by non-​Indigenous social scientists in the assertion of pathologies associated with Indigenous Peoples and communities (Absolon, 2011; Kovach, 2010: Watts et al., 2020; Wilson, 2008). The pathologizing of Indigenous Peoples in social scientific research in effect produces a research-​rich environment wherein Indigenous Peoples have consistently been viewed (and continue to be viewed) as a complex problem that must be solved (Tuck, 2009). The delimiting of Indigenous ways of knowing in research about Indigenous Peoples alongside the reduction of our complexities as Indigenous Peoples (i.e., pan-​Indigenous and/​or sweeping taken-​for-​granted understandings of “Indigenous”) has resulted in an ongoing legacy of privileging Euro-​Western research metrics over Indigenous ones. For example, in Canada, “Indigenous” is used to denote three groups: First Nations, Métis, and Inuit (FNMI). Within and between these three groups there is a diversity of historical, social, political, linguistic, spiritual, and cultural place-​based differences and norms. Further, sociopolitical relations between and across these groups with the state are regionally and temporally varied. Yet the way statistical data is gathered by Statistics Canada does not account for these differences, thus creating a repository of data that

172   Vanessa Watts can be used by social scientists to make claims about Indigenous Peoples that are often devoid of important particularities and differences. With the history of mainstream academia in North America, the inclusion of Indigenous knowledge as part and parcel of distinct disciplinary theoretical and methodological norms (such as Indigenous studies) was virtually nonexistent, though the recent emergence of a reconciliation era has begun to open these discussions in Canada. Our cosmologies and related intellectual and theoretical contributions have largely been unengaged with other-​than-​human as ethnographically interesting, especially within the field of anthropology (Deloria, 1969; Todd, 2016) Yet Indigenous knowledge has found its way into the academy—​more specifically, into the social sciences. Upon entry, Indigenous ways of knowing have been consistently abstracted into culturally relevant epistemic stances or are engaged with methodologically, as more socially just research. I do not mean to assert that there is an absence of social theorists engaging with Indigenous cosmologies, but rather that Indigenous cosmologies have still not gained currency within the academy outside of the ethnographic or mythic (Watts et al., 2020). Indigenous cosmologies refer to the origins of how human beings relate to the world around us. Cosmologies contain elements such as origin stories, scientific practices, and relationship dynamics that exist between humans and other humans, between humans and other-​than-​humans, and between other-​than-​human beings themselves. Cosmologies are often grounded by particular places; that is, Indigenous cosmologies are distinct and vary across the diverse Indigenous territories that exist. Oftentimes, Indigenous origin stories are viewed as creation “myths” rather than historical events by the scientific and social scientific community (Watts, 2013). This sort of orientation can de-​value or de-​authorize Indigenous stories as invalid or illegitimate. Some may argue that as Indigenous scholars increase in numbers, so too will discussions about our cosmologies and related theoretical and methodological norms. However, the legacy of indigeneity remains widely regarded as social and cultural phenomena, and in this function of social scientific research we do not pose a threat to more conventional sites of knowledge production. Indigenous scholars have frequently referenced that Indigenous knowledge in academia has often been viewed from a place of “mythicism” (Deloria, 2016; Kovach, 2010; Smith, 1999) and scrutinized thus forth. Considering our close and intimate cosmological relationships with other-​than-​human lifeworlds, the knowledge produced out of these relationships is only beginning to gain currency within the social sciences, and specifically the discipline of sociology. Other-​than-​human relations are foundational to many Indigenous cosmologies in North America (Cajete, 2000; Todd, 2016). These relations denote the context of the formation of “society” between humans and other-​ than-​humans, and the intellectual and principled scaffolding therein (e.g., Belcourt, King, Watts). Often regarded as “mythical” or “cultural,” human and other-​than-​human relations have historically been taboo rather than taken seriously as markers of “society” within a social scientific paradigm. This chapter examines Indigenous-​based theorizing about other-​than-​human social lifeworlds alongside social scientific constructions of the “social” in an effort to tease out both resonant and divergent ideas.

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    173

The Myth of the Academy Myths, assumptions, and stereotypes about Indigenous Peoples continue to pervade society. The context of these representations is important. Understanding how and why certain types of representations exist can produce insights into both the motivations behind particular research orientations in the academy and how representations impact the wider social world around us. With this in mind, we will focus on how settler colonialism in North America and the academy has produced Indigenous pathologies in scholarship over time. The centuries-​ old legacy of academic scholarship about Indigenous Peoples has been underscored by settler-​colonial fantasies of the “Other” (Smith, 1999) and how it has produced “damage-​ centered” (Tuck, 2009) research that often leads to pathologizing narratives about Indigenous Peoples and communities. Herein lie the pitfalls of exclusionary thought: the absence of Indigenous-​informed theorizing can contribute to skewed representations about Indigenous Peoples, which in turn have wider social consequences. The imperialist era is intimately connected to settler colonialism. The arrival of settlers and establishment of settler-​colonial governing structures relied on imperialist pursuits of Indigenous lands (Smith, 1999; Wilson, 2008). Therefore, Indigenous Peoples were largely viewed as an obstacle to the establishment of a colonial state. Beginning in the 18th century, a research focus on Indigenous Peoples began to emerge. This focus was primarily anthropological, motivated by the desire to capture the “Vanishing Indian” (Deloria, 1998). As Standing Rock Sioux scholar Philip Deloria (1998) writes: “In conjunction with Indian removal, popular American imagery began to play on earlier symbolic linkages between Indians and the past, and these images eventually produced the full-​blown ideology of the vanishing Indian, which proclaimed it foreordained that less advanced societies should disappear in the presence of those more advanced” (p. 64). The legacy of Indigenous Peoples in academic scholarship is largely influenced by the desire to capture an idea of who Indigenous People are, often filtered through a settler-​ colonial lens. The “Vanishing Indian” trope, alongside race-​based settler colonial policies toward Indigenous Peoples and communities, worked to produce misrepresentations of Indigenous Peoples by fueling the myth that they need(ed) “modern” interventions for salvation (Coulthard, 2014; Morgensen, 2011; Wolfe, 2006). Put another way, because the Canadian state established race-​based policies like the Indian Act, which then produced inequities for Indigenous societies, these same conditions are reflected in Indigenous-​focused research and scholarship. Settler colonialism and the academic study of Indigenous Peoples and communities are thus heavily intertwined. A key part of the rationale behind the “need” for settler colonialism is the notion that Indigenous Peoples are not “modern”; that is, that European nations were/​ are more advanced on the spectrum of modernity and colonialism was/​is therefore ultimately justified. As Smith (1999) notes: “Our colonial experience traps us in the project of modernity” (34). What this sort of dynamic produces is a focus on a “modern” versus “amodern/​pre-​modern” binary in thinking about Indigenous-​settler

174   Vanessa Watts relations, which continues to infuse the academy. Indeed, the imperialist pursuits of Europe in North America simultaneously shaped the ideological underpinning of research agendas (Smith, 1999). Moreover, the conditions produced out of settler colonialism (e.g., land theft, lack of healthcare access, racist policies) became the basis of the study of Indigenous Peoples. In short, imperialistic attitudes are connected to the pursuit of research about Indigenous Peoples and communities in academic research (Wilson, 2008). The standards by which settler-​colonial cultures are measured and studied are thus also informed by settler-​colonial norms, values, and ways of thinking and knowing (Moreton-​Robinson, 2009). This extends to the interpretation of social phenomena within the academy, since the norms, values, and objectives associated with particular academic disciplines are not divorced from social realities. The erasure of Indigenous ways of knowing by academic disciplines meant that Indigenous-​related research largely proceeded without Indigenous voices, theories, and methods (Watts et al., 2020). This long-​standing trend has led to what Unangax̂ scholar Eve Tuck refers to as “damage-​centered” research (Tuck, 2009, p. 409). One of the core activities associated with damage-​centered research is to “document pain or loss in an individual, community, or tribe. Though connected to deficit models—​frameworks that emphasize what a particular student, family, or community is lacking to explain underachievement or failure” (p. 413). Without centering Indigenous ways of knowing and epistemologies as vital to understanding Indigenous Peoples and societies, settler-​colonial thinking proceeds as the norm or pinnacle of societal conditions, and Indigenous Peoples and societies are thus regarded as deficient. This sort of positioning as “deficient” reinvigorates the notion that we as Indigenous Peoples are indeed in need of salvation, for our ways are not robust enough. Or that adaptability in of itself should even be a goal.

Ontology and Epistemology How one comes to know, or the nature of how knowledges are formed, are epistemic questions that have traditionally rested on distinguishing being from beingness. My work relies on the understanding that “knowing beingness” is akin to “beingness as knowing.” Within this nondistinction lies the contention that place (i.e., land) is necessary to the formation of stories and thus of societies (Coulthard & Simpson, 2016; Hunt, 2014; Todd, 2016; Watts, 2013). That is, Indigenous stories are real and historical, not simply mythical or moralistic. I engage ontology in assumed-​to-​be understandings such as these—​ontology framed as moments of questioning what it is that grounds social beings. How ontology is then thought to be distinguishable from epistemology will be central to my discussion in terms of how Euro-​Western ideas about indigeneity have abstracted Indigenous cosmologies by distinguishing ontology from epistemology. Indigenous stories contain ideas, information, and theories that are material and locatable (Kovach, 2010; Manitowabi, 2017), and thus Indigenous places serve as sites

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    175 of material knowledge production. For example, Blackfoot scholar Leroy Little Bear (2009) articulates how Indigenous nations across North America have sacred sites, places where origin stories occurred. Ceremonies, rituals, and other spiritual activities are observed on these places in temporal cycles. Entire worldviews, value systems, and teachings have been and continue to be communicated and rearticulated during sacred activities with place. Imposing an analysis onto Indigenous place-​based knowledges in which ontology and epistemology are exclusive can result in the abstraction of Indigenous knowledge systems from their places (or discourse from the “stuff ” of the earth). Rongomaiwāhine scholar Margaret Forster (2019) deploys the Māori concept of whakapapa, a form of genealogy, to trace the kinship relations between the environment, humans, and ideologies. Similarly, therefore, knowledge dislocation has material impacts on Indigenous lifeworlds or societies, augmenting space for settler colonialism to proceed via a delocation of beings (both human and other-​than-​human) from their material places. I use the term “ontology” as sociologists have contemplated it, as a form of social “beingness” (Durkheim et al., 1982; Hegel, 1979; Mill, 1886). As distinguished from Euro-​ Western philosophers who have traditionally engaged with this idea as the study of what grounds all being, I am concerned with how the “social being” is grounded. White German philosopher Nietzsche’s claim that “the subject as multiplicity” is relevant to this distinction in ontology. For Nietzsche, the beingness of a subject is reducible only to other assemblages of multiplicities, whether they be affects, bodies, will, and so on. This is significant to how I engage the social being and its ontological limits and subsequently depart in my assertions about the beingness of humans and other-​than-​humans as materially connected to cosmologies. In my previous work, I imagine philosophical distinctions between Euro-​Western and Indigenous worldviews, as seen in Table 11.1. On the left, I represent an Indigenous worldview of the social, and on the right, a Euro-​Western framing of the social world. This philosophical distinction carries material implications, as Indigenous cosmologies are material, historical, and place-​based. Thus, a worldview (such as that exemplified on the right) that acts to separate knowledge

Table 11.1 “Indigenous and EuroWestern Social Worlds” Spirit World Place-Thought Agency across creation (humans and other-thanhumans)

Obligation to communicate Extends to the formation of societies

Epistemology/Ontology divide

Separates constituents of the world from how the world is understood

Limits agency to humans Exclusionary relationship with nature

176   Vanessa Watts from nature, or humans from other-​than-​humans, delimits Indigenous ways of being in the world (Todd, 2016; Watts, 2013). White French philosopher Bruno Latour (1999), known for his contributions to science and technology studies, presents a similar ontological dilemma. Latour recounts a story of accompanying a research team to an Amazon forest in Brazil. He is there to observe botanists and pedologists as they attempt to answer the question: “Is the forest advancing . . . or retreating?” (Latour, 1999, 27). The answer to this question, we are told, is reliant on the digging up, removal, and testing of the soil in a laboratory in France. Latour (1999) contends that in the reduction of the soil into a smaller sample, it is also amplified in terms of its rearticulation in the world laboratory. Thus, the referent (the soil) circulates throughout space and time, rearticulating its voice in consistently amplified forms through immutable mobilities (i.e., translations of the soil through calculations and mappings while still containing particularities of the soil). By traveling to France, the local-​to-​global soil that Latour describes, along with the lab technicians, underwent a similar mutually transformative process. The soil got to “see” the world, while the scientists got to “know” this other-​worldly soil. These research activities are quintessentially indicative of actor-​network theory, which holds that humans and other-​than-​human actants are inextricably engaged in transformative processes with one another. But what about power? Despite Latour’s placement of the soil within a network of circulating reference and articulated meaning, the story of the soil remains unfinished. What would happen if the soil had been taken back to its origin/​ test site in the Amazon? We can assume that this does not happen very often (I mean that Scientists/​scientists return their evidence to its original location). After the soil’s emergence into the world laboratory Latour envisions, can it ever return to its original place, relations, etc.? Are the removal of other-​than-​humans and consequent increased interaction with new humans and places considered fundamentally good, fundamentally civilizing, fundamentally progressive? Latour’s collapsing of the epistemological and ontological can be seen as part of an effort to achieve more realistic and equitable relations between human and other-​than-​ human actors, but this achievement comes along with particular absences in the analysis of power relations. My work contends that this collapse was never present in Indigenous ways of knowing until after the imposition of European thought. As our stories and histories have entered a more global space and pace, they have either been given special forms of recognition within established norms and conventions of knowledge production, or been pushed down as local, fantastical figurations, thereby romanticizing settler colonialism. In both circumstances, we must be like them but we can never be like them.

Other-​Than-​Humans and the Social Other-​than-​humans are not limited to the animal world, an interest of which has gained traction in the social sciences and humanities in the form of animal studies.

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    177 Rather, other-​than-​humans extend to the lands, the waters, plants and medicines, the winds, rock and minerals, and the spirit world, to name a few. They are not separate from the political, the social, the private, or the public. They are not the collateral damage of bodies of accumulation. They are not objects of interesting ruminations and myths. Animals, the sky world, the water world, the plant world, the rocks, the spirit world preexisted humankind. They are not species and elements reacting to instinct. Rather, these worlds represent sophisticated, functioning societies. These societies have ethical structures, interspecies treaties and agreements (Borrows, 1995; Simpson, 2008). Further, they possess the ability to interpret, understand, and implement. As human beings are the more recent beings to arrive on earth, according to many Indigenous cosmologies in North America, other-​than-​humans are founders of multiple societies and have directly influenced how humans organize themselves into a given society. Ojibwa scholar Basil Johnston (1976) describes Fish People as aiding in the development of youth mentally and spiritually, as well as acting as intermediaries between Crane and Loon clans, who are responsible for chieftainship (Johnston, 1976). It was through first contact between animals and humans that humans received teachings on how to organize and emulate a societal structure similar to the animal world. The Crane clan is traditionally viewed as one of the clans that possess many leadership qualities. People of the Crane clan are described by Johnston (1976) as possessing “eloquence for leadership” (p. 61). Johnston elaborates, saying “of all echo-​ makers the crane was most eminent and for this reason was selected to symbolize leadership and direction. The call that he uttered was as infrequent as it was unique” (p. 61). Because the crane’s sound is so distinctive, it commanded attention from the rest of the animal world in its infrequent call. A leader should thus embody the crane in terms of exercising their prerogative in rare but appropriate instances. Johnston also writes that one of the responsibilities of a leader is to be first in action, so as to not merely possess the voice of a commander. The relationship between the leader and their people is not, then, one of authority and rule. The power and ability of a leader thus also rested in the hands of Anishinaabeg, and could be removed from a particular leader if they failed the people. Just as migratory birds have the opportunity, twice annually, to change the leader under which they flock to and from the south, Anishinaabeg are given frequent occasions to shift or change leadership. A leader’s position is never regarded as permanent. The process of renewal remains constant in terms of not only the qualities and guiding principles of a leader, but the leader themselves. This comparison between the behavior of birds and the leadership practices of the Crane clan makes the connectedness of human and animal interaction more obvious. Indeed, in Johnston’s writing on various clan responsibilities, it is apparent that striving for a way of governing as reflected in the animal world is fundamental. Many Indigenous nations rely on kinship systems to structure legal orders, resolve conflict, and achieve decision-​making within governance systems. Kinship includes immediate and extended family, members of the same clan, as well as other-​than-​humans who might be associated with particular kinship ties. For example, Ojibwa legal scholar

178   Vanessa Watts John Borrows tells the story of a legal order (in this case, a treaty) between the Deer Nation and Crow Nation. Though not related through marriage, group, or clan, the two are in a kinship relation because of a living agreement they have made with one another. It is important to note that this understanding of contact is not mythical. Rather, it is a historical account of how humans were negotiated and welcomed into preexisting societies. Nishnaabe scholar Leanne Simpson (2008) elaborates further on the relationship between humans and other-​than-​humans in a retelling of a story between the Fish Nation and Mississauga Nishnaabeg: In Mississauga territory, for example, the people of the fish clans, who are the intellectuals of the nation, met with the fish nations twice a year for thousands of years at Mnjikanming, the small narrows between Lake Simcoe and Lake Couchiching. The fish nations and the fish clans gathered to talk, to tend to their treaty relationships, and to renew life just as the Gizhe-​mnido had instructed them. . . . Our relationship with the fish nations meant that we had to be accountable for how we used this “resource.” Nishnaabeg people only fished at particular times of the year in certain locations. (p. 33)

The relationship-​making between humans and other-​than-​human nations and the protocols that inform responsibilities therein are historical and grounded in particular places/​territories. Simpson emphasizes the reciprocal nature of the relationship, and the recognition of mutual agency across human and other-​than-​human worlds. The composition of kinship-​based councils that are responsible for decision-​making ensures that governance structures are both democratic and community-​driven. This is in distinct contrast to traditional Western democracies, wherein individual citizens are much removed from decision-​making after a vote is cast. It is important to remember, of course, that clan systems across Indigenous nations differ, and so, too, do formalized systems of governance. Indeed, even within one Indigenous nation, clan systems may vary depending on the territory in which a community is located. Posthumanists and ecofeminists are establishing an emerging tradition of critiquing the patriarchy inherent in discourse with regard to other-​than-​human beings/​nature and marginalized populations and related ideologies. Indigenous stories, ideas, and theories are often cited within ecofeminist and posthumanist thought as avenues to interrupt patriarchal notions of the feminine and nature (Sturgeon, 1997). For example, White American feminist scholar Donna Haraway (2004) situates Coyote as a “Navaho figuration” involved in “quite distressing kinds of trickster work” (p. 328). Coyote or Trickster can be a shapeshifter, rule-​breaker, lesson-​maker, etc. In an interview with Haraway on the issue of Coyote, she states: “Certain figures like the raven and the coyote do work in Anglo culture, as well as in Native culture. We do live in a world that is made up of complexly webbed layers of locals and globals, and who is to say that Native American symbols are to be less global than those produced by Anglo-​Americans? Or who is to say that one set of symbols has got to stay local, while all the other ones get to figure so-​called

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    179 globalization? So I think there is a way in which this cross-​talk between figurations is politically interesting, although certainly not innocent.” (p. 329)

The “global” space is not all-​encompassing, nor should it be. Something that is local or situated does not necessarily possess these qualities only because of marginalization or othering; it could be an active choice of deliberate disengagement. Haraway would likely agree that, historically, the cultural appropriation and concomitant acculturation of Indigenous Peoples and places has been unjust. The historical salvation narrative that has run through discourse aligned with a rationalization of domination is an insult not only to our many ontologies but also a direct assault on the soil that our feet tread upon. The space in which Coyote appears is amid Western referential points in which the “center” and the “periphery” are relationally bound by power. It is worrisome that in an attempt to (in)appropriate, Haraway may unwittingly appropriate by the globalizing and thus redefining of situated categories. For example, White literary scholar Stacy Alaimo et al. (2008), while discussing Haraway’s claim that Coyote should be globalized, notes that “we may imagine, perhaps, that the trickster coyote needs some sort of space, or habitat, to thrive” (p. 251). The space Alaimo et al. (2008) thinks Coyote needs is the epistemological and ethical space that Haraway offers in her work “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of the Partial Perspective.” But to suggest that Coyote needs such a space is to assume that Coyote has not already been thriving, since the beginning of time as we understand it, and amid continued occupation and oppression, is a gross misrepresentation. If Coyote wanted entrance into a globalized epistemological space, then Coyote would have (and probably already has) done so. These common misguided beliefs reinforce the notion of so-​called subjugated knowledge, which implies that an idea cannot or does not exist until the so-​called dominant are able to hear it. Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate scholar Kim TallBear (2015) contends that both sides of the nature-​culture divide in Western scholarship are defined as manageable categories. This is why Indigenous stories wherein other-​than-​human beings do not fit the comfortable Western category of “animal” are troubling. I would add that this unmanageability of Indigenous stories and ways of knowing also comes to be represented as “uncomfortable” or “interesting” in ecofeminist and new materialism discourses. That is, our stories are opportunities for new insights and criticisms of the old world. Even if taken seriously intellectually, often our stories are viewed as a lens to see an already established (old) world, reinscribing the vanishing-​ness of Indians, and simultaneously breathing life into the vanishing-​ness of Indians; a virtual salvation through global resuscitation. The critique of this trend to globalize is extended further by White American gender studies scholar Scott Morgensen (2011, 67), who argues that settler colonialism is a process of universalization that “naturalizes . . . our ‘colonial present.’ ” In his analysis of Foucault and Agamben, Morgensen resituates biopower and governmentality within a settler-​colonial context. In his analysis, he examines how Western governance offers a “nominal inclusion” of Afghanis and Iraqis into law in order to eliminate difference. If we apply this critical framing of governmentality to Indigenous Peoples in Canada,

180   Vanessa Watts this nominal inclusion is achieved through an explicit inclusion of Indians-​only law: the Indian Act. The only law in Canada that explicitly governs one particular race, it acts to produce assimilation in its exclusion. That is, in its specificity on governing Indigenous Peoples, it reaffirms statist dominance over Indigenous Peoples and incites resentment from Indigenous Peoples about the act itself, thereby encouraging an abandonment of this colonial policy through piecemeal amendments and, finally, granting entrance into the greater libertarian body politic. Morgensen’s critique is helpful in situating how these similar relational frames intensify liberalism as a product of settler colonialism within Indigenous communities.

Places and Cosmology Indigenous languages can be seen as maps of core systems of belief for Indigenous nations (Battiste, 2008). For example, Basil Johnston (1976) writes that humans and animals once shared the same language—​that is, they could communicate with one another and understand one another using one singular language. In terms of how this point informs a broader worldview, we can glean that animals and humans carried out meaningful relationships that extended beyond simply hunting, for example. From this perspective, then, animals and humans both share in what constitutes “society”—​although this conception of society differs considerably from the more Western idea that society is composed of humans only. This is further illustrated by considering how animate words are used in the Anishinaabemowin language. For instance, the word for “rock” in Anishinaabemowin is sin. This word is animate, rather than inanimate, as it is in English. In Anishinaabemowin, then, rock or sin is regarded as alive, a being that can be interacted with or related to. Epistemologies contain a similar sort of conceptual scaffolding—​they demarcate how something we might observe is interpreted. The key point, then, is that from an Indigenous perspective, epistemologies and ontologies are inextricably linked; they cannot be separated. For Indigenous Peoples, epistemologies are place-​based—​they depend on materiality, they are locatable. In this way, Indigenous epistemologies are not that different from what we would consider as ontology. Recall that ontologies relate to the “stuff ” of the world, the nature of being, while epistemologies are the theories of knowledge, or how we come to know something. This represents an important contrast to Western philosophy, where the two are definitively separated. Place is material and immaterial. Many accountings from Indigenous cosmologies describe humans as emerging from place, and as such we belong to place. The discourse of land and ownership has been fraught with problems of acceptance and interpretation. Many Indigenous Peoples describe our relationship to land as one of stewardship rather than ownership (McCarthy, 2016). Yet in a liberal rights paradigm we are often forced into describing this relationship as one of ownership so that our historical relationship with the land can be organized within a Lockean liberal framework of private and/​or

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    181 collective property. A way beyond this impossible negotiation is to perhaps consider that we as Indigenous Peoples belong to land and to territory. Our very existence is determined by land, and how we operate within the world is through communication with land. Land is physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual, as are we. In this relationship of belonging arises obligations and responsibilities to ensure land’s survival, and ultimately our survival. This is not to say Indigenous Peoples do not have claim to land, but rather that land also has claim to us. It is in this claiming that our sovereignty and continued fight to restore land can be articulated. Finally, place is central to knowledge production. The material aspects of place act as anchor to knowledge; Indigenous knowledges are not intended to be abstracted from their material beginnings. The concept of a place-​based knowledge system is in some sense self-​explanatory—​ that particular places have particular knowledge systems associated with them. There is great diversity across Indigenous nations with respect to cosmologies. This diversity is strongly influenced by the territories from which Indigenous nations come. Consider, for example, this short story from Cherokee scholar Jace Weaver: Imagine two Indian communities who live in close proximity to each other, separated by a mountain. A non-​Native visitor arrives at the first community. In the course of the stay, she is informed that the tribe’s council fire is the center of the universe and creation myths are told to demonstrate this concept. The following day, the outlander and representatives of the first tribe travel to the other community. The elders of the new tribe declare that their council fire is the center of the universe, and the members of the first tribe nod their assent. Confused, the visitor asks her host, “I thought you said that your fire was the center.” The Indian replies, ‘When we’re there, that is the center of the universe. When we are here, this is the center.’ ” (Weaver, 1997, p. 33)

Rather than a univocal approach to knowledge among Indigenous Peoples, Weaver argues for a recognition of polycentrism across Indigenous societies and nations. Land is crucial to this polycentric view. The emphasis on “here” and “there” in the story refers to the importance of place and territory, and that it is place and territory that denote and anchor cosmologies or knowledge systems. It is also important to note that it is not the people that are considered the “center”; it is the creation stories associated with a particular territory that are central to how the universe and/​or world is understood. Land is therefore not something is simply “owned” or lived upon. Rather, land is fundamental to multiple knowledge systems. Standing Rock Sioux scholar Vine Deloria (2003) further emphasizes this point. He argues that it is the particular, and not the general, that facilitates comprehensive Indigenous knowledge systems, writing that “[c]‌ertain stories about the stars could not be told when the constellations in question were overhead. Some other kinds of stories involving animals, plants, and spirits could only be told at a particular time of year or in a specific place” (p. 21). Thus, the acquisition, caretaking, and expression of knowledge are dependent on the delineation of particular places, spaces, and time. In lands where

182   Vanessa Watts there is a coastline present, for instance, place-​based knowledge will be distinct from lands where there is no coastline present. It is these shifting boundaries that indicate differences in knowledge systems, and the protection of these boundaries is essential to maintaining place-​based knowledge systems. Plains Cree and Saulteaux scholar Margaret Kovach (2010) summarizes Oneida scholar Pam Colorado’s (1988) account of the philosophical axioms that underscore the European/​Western scientific paradigm’s approach to cosmology: (1) the universe is empty space, where atoms and particles live autonomously and independently of each other; (2) the universe is static, and atoms and particles do not shift or change; (3) God, through Newtonian physics, no longer has a role in the cause and effect of the universe; (4) prophecy or greater purpose does not exist, life is simply a cause and effect mechanistic dynamic; (5) all energy patterns can be measured and accounted for by human intellect, hence humans are all-​knowing. In this conception of scientific-​based knowing (or epistemology), Indigenous ways of knowing would be viewed as superstitious because of the connection in many Indigenous stories between humans, spirits, and other-​ than-​humans, which implies that knowing extends beyond the capacity of human intellect (Deloria 2016). Similarly, Tewa scholar Gregory Cajete (2000) notes: “Many thousands of years ago, the interplay of humans with the natural world and the cosmos, as seen in Native peoples’ creation stories, depict the lines separating humans, animals, and forces of nature as rather fluid, instead of rigid” (p. 40). This fluidity between humans and other-​than-​ humans is foundational to Indigenous cosmologies. That is, they are not presented as characters that are passive or secondary to the major events in the stories.

Conclusion Does Indigenous knowledge belong in the academy? Is the academy too limited to realize it? Is the academy too colonial to respect it? These are all questions that must be interrogated and problematized, but Indigenous paradigms must first be engaged with as sophisticated and valid ways of knowing. Important debates about how and if Indigenous knowledge should be granted space in academia are happening, but they happen on the presumptive basis of predetermined limits of productive, hegemonic knowledge bases. Sociology, in particular, continues to regard indigeneity as cultural-​ and/​or population-​based (Watts et al., 2020). In the cultural sense, indigeneity is observed or wrestled with, but carries no responsibility in terms of its recognition or protection as a material and place-​based mechanism. Indigenous ontologies and epistemologies are foundationally connected to place—​ that land, for example, is of core importance to Indigenous thinking and how the social is formed. Further, we examined the role of other-​than-​humans in the formation and function of Indigenous societies. Through the act of storytelling, for instance, Indigenous cosmologies are often centrally concerned with the relationships with and

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    183 between other-​than-​humans, and this connects to the governance systems and legal orders of various Indigenous societies. In short, land is not simply about rights to territory (though it is this, too); land has local, varied, place-​based systems of knowledge production embedded within it. Land is also a central concern of settler colonialism, in terms of establishing a nation-​state. Indigenous-​led social movements intervene across all of these stakes by asserting Indigenous presence, governing authority, and clan responsibilities. In sum, Indigenous ways of knowing, epistemologies, and ontologies are inextricable from land or place. The diversity of Indigenous thought across Indigenous nations is emblematic of the diversity of landscapes across Indigenous lands and territories—​in other words, the diversity of land delineates the diversity of Indigenous thought. Yet the ongoing legacy of Indigenous-​focused scholarship and policy has ignored this diversity (and, in many cases, actively eroded it), first by analyzing Indigenous nationhoods and accordant social phenomena using metrics that are absent of Indigenous theorizing, and second by implementing policy that separates Indigenous Peoples from their territories. Questions of ownership and sovereignty are further problematized if we accept that other-​than-​humans, and specifically land, are agents. Then, the problem of how Indigenous sovereignty is articulated is further complicated outside of Canada’s legal-​political system when the conclusion might be that place holds its own sovereignty. As stewards, Indigenous Peoples have the responsibility to protect the dignity of places. Perhaps as descendants of these places, Indigenous Peoples bear the responsibility of protecting the sovereignty of these places. When we protect these places we are viewed as disruptive, anti-​statist protestors. It is the mechanisms of the state that are more certainly reductive and anti-​Indigenous. Throughout the continued machinations of settler colonialism, Indigenous Peoples and societies have consistently asserted their Indigenous ways of knowing and thereby enacted resistance to settler colonialism. Our cosmologies, and the human/​other-​than-​ humans relations inherent within them, can continue to deploy Indigenous thought as forms of social theory that are all at once present, complex, and unrelenting.

References Absolon, K. E. (2011). Kaandossiwin: How we come to know. Winnipeg, MB: Fernwood Publishing. Alaimo, S., Hekman, S., & Hekman, S. J. (Eds.). (2008). Material feminisms. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Battiste, M. (2008). The struggle and renaissance of Indigenous knowledge in Eurocentric education. In M. Villegas, S. R. Neugebauer, & K. R. Venegas (Eds.), Indigenous knowledge and education: Sites of struggle, strength, and survivance (pp. 85–91). Cambridge, MA: Harvard Educational Review. Borrows, J. (1995). With or without you: First Nations law (in Canada). McGill Law Journal, 41, 629. Cajete, G. (2000). Native science: Natural laws of interdependence. Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Publishers.

184   Vanessa Watts Colorado, P. (1988). Bridging native and Western science. Convergence, 21(2), 49. Coulthard, G. S. (2014). Red skin, white masks: Rejecting the colonial politics of recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Coulthard, G., & Simpson, L. B. (2016). Grounded normativity/​ place-​ based solidarity. American Quarterly, 68(2), 249–​255. Deloria, P. J. (1998). Playing Indian. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press Deloria, V. (1969). Custer died for your sins: An Indian manifesto. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Deloria, V. (2003). God is Red: A Native view of religion. Golden, CO: Fulcrum Publishing. Deloria, V. (2016). Evolution, creationism, and other modern myths: A critical inquiry. Golden, CO: Fulcrum Publishing. Durkheim, E. (1982). The rules of sociological method (S. Lukes, Ed.; W. D. Halls, Trans.). New York: Macmillan. Forster, Margaret. (2019). “He Tātai Whenua: Environmental Genealogies.” Genealogy, 3(3), 42. Haraway, D. J. (2004). The Haraway reader. New York: Routledge. Hegel, G. W. F. (1979). Phenomenology of spirit (A. V. Miller, Trans.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hunt, S. (2014). Ontologies of indigeneity: The politics of embodying a concept. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 27–​32. Johnston, B. (1976). Ojibway heritage. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Kovach, M. (2010). Indigenous methodologies: Characteristics, conversations, and contexts. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Latour, B. (1999). Pandora’s hope: Essays on the reality of science studies. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Little Bear, L. (2009). Naturalizing indigenous knowledge. Synthesis paper. University of Saskatchewan, Aboriginal Education Research Centre, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and First Nations and Adult Higher Education Consortium, Calgary, Alberta. https://​www.afn.ca/​ uplo​ads/​files/​educat​ion/​21._​20​09_​j​uly_​ccl-​alkc_​leroy_​littlebear_​natura​lizi​ng_​i​ndig​enou​ s_​kn​owle​dge-​rep​ort.pdf Manitowabi, J. (2017). It sometimes speaks to us [Doctoral dissertation, McMaster University]. McCarthy, T. (2016). In divided unity: Haudenosaunee reclamation at Grand River. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Mill, J. S. (1886). A system of logic ratiocinative and inductive: Being a connected view of the principles of evidence and the methods of scientific investigation. London: Longmans, Green. Moreton-​Robinson, A. (2009). Imagining the good Indigenous citizen: Race war and the pathology of patriarchal white sovereignty. Cultural Studies Review, 15(2), 61–​79. Morgensen, S. L. (2011). The biopolitics of settler colonialism: Right here, right now. Settler Colonial Studies, 1(1), 52–​76. Simpson, L. (2008). Looking after Gdoo-​naaganinaa: Precolonial Nishnaabeg diplomatic and treaty relationships. Wicazo Sa Review, 23(2), 29–​42. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed Books. Sturgeon, N. (1997). Ecofeminist natures: Race, gender, feminist theory and political action. New York: Routledge. TallBear, K. (2015). An indigenous reflection on working beyond the human/​not human. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 21(2), 230–​235.

Making Space in Canadian Sociology    185 Todd, Z. (2016). An indigenous feminist's take on the ontological turn: ‘Ontology’ is just another word for colonialism. Journal of historical sociology, 29(1), 4–​22. Tuck, E. (2009). Suspending damage: A letter to communities. Harvard Educational Review, 79(3), 409–​428. Watts, V., Hooks, G., & McLaughlin, N. (2020). A troubling presence: Indigeneity in English‐language Canadian sociology. Canadian Review of Sociology/​Revue canadienne de sociologie, 57(1), 7–​33. Watts, V. (2013). Indigenous place-​thought and agency amongst humans and non-​humans (First Woman and Sky Woman go on a European world tour!). Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, 2(1), 20–​34. Weaver, J. (1997). That the people might live: Native American literatures and Native American community. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wilson, S. (2008). Research is ceremony: Indigenous research methods. Winnipeg, MB: Fernwood. Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–​409.

Chapter 12

Dec ol oni z i ng Climate Ada p tat i on by Reac qu i ri ng Fractionat e d Tribal L a nd s Melissa Watkinson-​S chutten

Colonial Impacts to Climate Adaptation The greatest projected risks of global climate change to the Pacific Northwest coast of the United States are widespread impacts of sea level rise (SLR), flooding, and land erosion (Huppert et al., 2009; Mote & Salathe, 2010). With variations along the coast, SLR in Washington State is projected to increase up to 43 inches by 2100 (Mote et al., 2008). This projection is higher than the global mean SLR projection of up to 23 inches used by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) (Nicholls et al., 2007). Tribal nations with communities along coastal areas are faced with additional hazards as a result of climate change, particularly because of the cultural relationship Indigenous Peoples have as traditional stewards of lands and waters. Additionally, the limited geographic scope of reservation lands can restrict a tribal nation’s capacity to adapt to climate change (Cordalis & Saugee, 2008; Thom, 2009). When tribes become displaced or experience a loss of land due to the impacts of climate change, their sovereignty to make decisions for adaptation and resettlement may be challenged because of their limited relocation options. Coastal communities that are affected by climate change impacts may relocate as a climate change adaptation strategy (Krishnamurthy et al., 2010). For tribal nations along

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    187 coastlines, relocation could occur by moving further inland within their reservation. The selection for an area of relocation would rely on the tribe’s individual land use needs, which might include areas for commercial and residential use, agriculture or other production, and cultural and spiritual practices. White anthropologist Maldonado and colleagues (2013) expressed that at the time of the study, no US federal government agency is mandated to manage relocation efforts, and that few funding options exist to support such an adaptation strategy. Navajo attorney Cordalis and Cherokee attorney Saugee (2008) suggested that a government-​implemented program to support tribal relocation might include the consolidation of tribal lands. As a result of the 1887 Dawes Act, all land that was previously tribal trust land was reclassified into individual trust land, allotted on a per capita basis to tribal members. After the passing of an original allottee, the land was divided among their heirs unless it was “gifted” to a single heir within the owner’s will or sold to the tribe to put back as tribal trust land. The result of the divided land parcel is referred to as “fractionated land,” where up to 90 individuals can have an interest (fraction) in a single parcel of land. Ultimately, tribal reservations may be left with hundreds or thousands of fractionated acres of land that are not owned or governed by the tribe (Indian Land Tenure Foundation, 2015). Tribal governments cannot utilize, manage, or pursue social or economic development and infrastructure on land parcels within their reservation unless they are owned by the tribe or are within the tribal trust land classification (Connor, 2014). Further, allotted lands are often not consolidated to a particular region, and an area within a reservation might be “checkerboarded” with different land classifications, or an area with a checkered arrangement of land use classifications and ownership across parcels. Reacquiring fractionated land may be a critical step toward consolidating lands within a reservation, and toward addressing the social and economic opportunities for tribes to plan for long-​ term climate change adaptation. Consolidating lands can allow tribal nations to exercise their sovereignty by determining where and how they will relocate.

Reacquiring Land to Assert Sovereignty The sovereign status and federal government trust obligations to American Indian tribal nations grant the inherent rights to self-​determination and self-​governance for each federally recognized tribe (Flanders, 1998; Ranco & Suagee, 2007; Riley, 2013). These rights affirm tribes are able to make policies and govern their land and natural resources to suit their cultural practices and economic endeavors (Ranco & Suagee 2007; Whyte 2013). However, tribal nations are still under US federal jurisdiction, restricting these rights to their reservation boundaries (Flanders, 1998; Riley, 2013; Thom, 2009). The use of tribal sovereignty to make claims about their communities, how their land is used, and how the environment and natural resources around them should be governed is

188   Melissa Watkinson-Schutten necessary to empower the tribe in its opportunities to adapt to the loss of land caused by climate change (Coombes et al., 2012; Gross, 1978; Ranco & Suagee, 2007). Fulfilling this self-​determination depends on the federal government’s ability and willingness to provide access to funding and to honor their trust obligation (Gross, 1978; Ranco & Suagee, 2007). The Land Buy-​Back (LBB) Program for Tribal Nations, managed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA), is an effort on behalf of the US federal government to restore tribal homelands by facilitating the acquisition of fractionated lands (Connor, 2014). In many cases, these are the traditional homelands of the tribe in which these acquisitions would occur. This process of “reacquisition” is a result of the Cobell Settlement, which has $1.9 billion set aside for federally recognized tribes to consolidate allotted lands on their reservations that are highly fractionated (Connor, 2014). While tribes themselves determine which land parcels should be prioritized to purchase through the LBB program, the BIA facilitates the purchase of these lands. Once the tribe identifies which fractionated land parcels are prioritized, the BIA will contact the owners who have interest on the parcel, ask if they will voluntarily sell at fair market value, and then facilitate the purchase of the land parcel (anonymous interviewees, personal communication, 2015). Facilitating the reacquisition of allotted, fractionated lands through the LBB program can aid in adapting to climate change while tribes are able to exercise their sovereignty over the lands and resources within their reservation boundaries. It is evident that many tribes and Indigenous communities are experiencing the need to relocate, and it is possible that relocating within the reservation will increase these options if reacquiring and consolidating fractionated lands can reduce barriers to adaptation. Guided by an Indigenous worldview and in partnership with a coastal tribe in Washington State, this chapter uses spatial analyses and interviews to determine the effectiveness of the reacquisition of land on a tribes’ ability to adapt to climate impacts. This chapter also explores social and cultural considerations that should be considered when identifying potential relocation options for a tribal community. The chapter will close with a discussion on providing funding and increasing participation in reacquisition programs that may serve as a tool for climate change adaptation.

Case Study: Quinault Indian Nation Tribal Community The IPCC defines vulnerability to climate change as “the degree to which a system is susceptible to, or unable to cope with, adverse effects of climate change, including climate variability and extremes” (Nicholls et al., 2007). This study addresses climate change vulnerability for the Quinault Indian Nation (QIN) by analyzing the risks associated with the potential impacts of climate change (SLR, flooding, and land erosion). This research builds on the concept of tribal coastal vulnerability and the need for

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    189 resources that enable tribal governments to enhance their adaptive capacity in relocation processes. White climate change policy advisor Berger and colleagues (2014, p. 22) have suggested that the “institutions and networks of relationships that determine the nature of achievable change” are a focus of adaptive capacity. Adaptive capacity in this study is measured by the level of ability for the QIN tribal community to adapt to the cumulative vulnerability of the loss of land caused by SLR, flooding, and land erosion. Reacquiring fractionated land through the LBB program can represent a critical part in the adaptive capacity for QIN. The QIN tribal community, located within the Quinault Indian Reservation (QIR), is along the central coast of Washington State in the southwest corner of the Olympic Peninsula. The Olympic National Park and Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary lie just outside QIR, with the entirety of QIN’s usual and accustomed fishing areas within the Marine Sanctuary. QIR has an area of over 200,000 acres and its land encompasses forests, rivers, lakes, and 23 miles of Pacific coastline (Quinault Indian Nation, 2015). Much of this coast has a climate of full humidity and warm temperatures. With a population of about 500, most community members live in the Lower Village of Taholah, which has experienced an increase in flooding and coastal erosion (Walker, 2014). Taholah lies along the coast of the Pacific Ocean and at the mouth of the Quinault River, with elevation ranging between seven and 21 feet above sea level (Walker, 2014). In addition to climate change impacts, the Taholah community, like many other communities along Washington’s outer coastline, is concerned with the potential risk of a tsunami (Montreuil, 2014). Because of the immediate climate change impacts and the tsunami risks, QIN is developing plans to relocate the community of the Lower Village of Taholah to the “Upper Village,” which is just southeast of the current location (inland from the coast and south of the river) and at an elevation of at least 120 feet above sea level (Montreuil, 2014). QIN also has a high proportion of fractionated land on the reservation. The allotment of land began on the QIR in 1907, when all “fish eating” Indians were given, on average, an 80-​acre parcel of land (Allottees Association and Affiliated Tribes and Bands of the Quinault Reservation, n.d.). Over 1,400 parcels, or nearly 68% of all QIR trust land, are fractionated with two or more owners (Dickson, 2013). Other coastal tribes in Washington State, including the Quileute and Hoh tribes, who each have reservations along the coast, are experiencing similar immediate climate change impacts and have made plans to relocate or have already relocated some of their infrastructure (Winters, 2014). The data used in this case study relied on a holistic perspective of the community to determine if other factors might be relevant in relocation efforts as it explored other potential land-​based and community limitations to climate change adaptation through literature and interviews. This study used a GIS framework to analyze climate change vulnerability to loss of land. Specifically, a land suitability spatial analysis was conducted to identify potential areas on the reservation that may be most suitable for future commercial and residential development, and to find out to what extent these areas are impacted by fractionated land. To incorporate the tribal value aspects identified as a best

190   Melissa Watkinson-Schutten practice by White social scientist Montag and colleagues (2014), the analyses considered a cultural site identified by tribal members. I use mixed-​methods for data collection and analyses. First, spatial data was analyzed to identify the impact of fractionated land on potential relocation development. The aim of the spatial analysis is to support climate-​related decision-​making by the QIN tribal government. Second, expert interviews were conducted to collect primary qualitative data used to supplement the results of the spatial analysis and to identify other variables that might be present in the support or limitation of tribal adaptation. The Quinault Division of Natural Resources (QDNR) partnered on this research to ensure appropriate data management and to incorporate participatory research methods. The primary goal of creating this partnership was to ensure best practices of (1) addressing community identified needs, (2) having results useful for making decisions by the tribe, and (3) incorporating other ethical considerations. Participatory approaches can be a useful method for working with communities to identify strategies that may have direct implementation, and to support decisions related to climate change adaptation. Further, participatory research practices with tribal communities are recommended by scholars and professionals, who argue that additional principles should be implemented when research with tribal communities incorporates climate change issues. For example, The Climate and Traditional Knowledges Workgroup (2014), a group of Indigenous and non-​Indigenous climate scholars, created a set of guidelines for incorporating multiple knowledge systems, including how to appropriately communicate with a tribal community, and acknowledge sovereignty and tribal traditional knowledges in climate change initiatives. Identification and examination of these principles are critical steps when building relationships for participatory research with tribal communities facing climate change impacts. The partnership with QDNR was created with the goal that this study would have a direct supportive impact on the tribe’s decision-​making processes regarding climate change adaptation, the reacquisition and consolidation of fractionated lands, and their participation in the LBB program. The partnership began after a draft proposal of the study was presented to the QDNR. Feedback was given in multiple iterations to reach a project proposal that was meaningful to the tribe and its planning purposes. A data storage and confidentiality statement and study consent form were then developed and incorporated into a nondisclosure agreement (NDA) between the researcher and the QIN. Approval of the project proposal and NDA was provided by the Quinault Business Committee (the tribe’s governing body) after formally presenting the material in person. From the inception of the partnership with the QDNR, communication was necessary to ensure that the study accurately addressed community needs and QDNR requests, that the study had the essential and appropriate data for addressing the research questions, and to maintain a positive relationship that recognizes tribal self-​ determination and sovereignty. Visualizations, maps, and results that were developed in this study were given to the QDNR and QIN. To protect the data sovereignty and cultural knowledge of the QIN, maps have been removed from the presentation of the analysis and results of this study.

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    191

Data Sources and Analyses The land suitability spatial analysis was conducted to analyze the impact of fractionated land on QIN’s ability to relocate or develop long-​term community infrastructure. The analysis included only the southwest quadrant of the QIR, and encompasses both the Lower and Upper Villages of Taholah. The model was created to identify to what extent fractionated land affects the availability of suitable land for future development. This is a necessary first step to identify the impact of fractionated land on the tribal government’s adaptive capacity. The adaptation strategy observed in this model is relocation within the reservation, where “suitable lands for future development” are areas that may be suitable for relocation. This study defines suitable land for future development as land that (1) is outside of climate change vulnerability to SLR and flooding, (2) has a slope degree of 20 or less, and (3) does not interfere with a significant cultural site (cultural wetland) that QDNR identified as inappropriate to disturb with any future development of infrastructure. I used a digital elevation model (to measure slope and risk of tsunami) and spatial vector data provided from the QDNR with features on the QIR, including the 100-​year floodplain of the Quinault River (flooding), the study area’s land parcels with classifications of fee land, Quinault-​owned land, or individual trust land (fractionated parcels), and a cultural wetland with traditional and subsistence significance to the tribe. A Land Suitability Index was created using GIS spatial analysis tools. Multi-​criteria evaluations (MCEs) were used to develop a map that is consistent with the criteria for suitable land for future development and to weight the spatial data layers that reflect the criteria, resulting in a Land Suitability Index. MCEs are conceptual frameworks of models that incorporate a number of factors that might influence a phenomenon, and the “combined impact of all of the factors is obtained by weighting and adding them” (Longley et al., 2011). The Land Suitability Index considers factors of distance thresholds from the stream network (weighted more heavily because of more immediate tsunami risks) and elevation values based on sea level rise projections. Because this model is concerned with long-​term development planning, and climate change is a slow-​progressing phenomenon, SLR projections from White climate scholar Mote and colleagues (2008) for the year 2100 were used. They projected that by 2100, sea levels in the central coast of Washington could rise by two inches (very low estimate) to 43 inches (very high estimate). These projections were used in this study because they are created based on regional factors of Washington’s varying coast, including ocean expansion and melting of land-​based ice from global SLR, and “local dynamical SLR” driven by wind changes and movement of land (Mote et al., 2008). Final values for the Land Suitability Index ranged between one (least suitable) and ten (most suitable). Values from this index were reclassified to create Suitability Classifications with values between one (not suitable) and six (most suitable). The Suitability Classification layer was then overlaid with the fractionated lands layer to

192   Melissa Watkinson-Schutten identify the correlation of these data, and to assess which fractionated lands lie within suitable areas. Qualitative data was collected through expert interviews of Quinault tribal members and various departmental staff (including tribal and nontribal members). The purpose of the interviews was to supplement the results of the spatial analyses with qualitative data regarding how climate change is impacting the QIN and how consolidating fractionated land can increase the capacity to make decisions about climate change adaptation. Information gathered from the interviews was used to inform the study of observed climate change impacts and adaptation strategies, to clarify the processes related to fractionated land ownership and consolidation, and to identify the decision-​ making processes that the results of the study might engage in. Interviews were conducted on the Quinault reservation at a location designated by the participant. Each interview was audio-​recorded and transcribed with the permission of the interviewee. An interview guide, adapted from White ecologist MacKendrick (2009), was used to conduct semi-​structured interviews, and each participant was asked questions that best suited their role with QIN. The analysis did not seek to generalize responses. Questions included requests to describe meanings of “land” and “community” in relation to QIN, how the participant felt that climate has changed in the region over time, what adaptation strategies had previously been used at QIN, what are the existing barriers to cope with climate change, and what are the processes for decision-​ making and planning within the community.

Study Findings The purpose for the Land Suitability Index was to identify regions within the study area of the QIR that would be most suitable for future development, or areas where the tribe may safely relocate to or develop plans for long-​term commercial or residential uses. The Land Suitability Index was transformed into the Suitability Classifications Map by reclassifying values to a range between one (not suitable) and six (most suitable). Classification values one through three were designated as areas that are not suitable for future development and were not further assessed for suitability. These areas reflect the cultural wetland, Quinault River, and major streams and coastal features. Classification values four through six were designated as areas that are suitable for future development. Suitability Classification six is the most conservative land suitability estimate, with an area of 1.3 square miles. These areas are furthest away from streams, rivers, and the coastline, and are the least vulnerable to SLR and flooding. They also have minimal slopes and do not intersect with the cultural wetland. Expert interviews indicate that these areas are remote from where current communities live on the reservation, and do not currently have access to power or water. Additionally, little infrastructure exists to get to most of these areas. Taholah’s Lower Village and the village relocation site in the Upper Village are not suitable in this conservative estimate.

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    193 Suitability Classification five is a less conservative estimate for land suitability, and covers a total area of 7.3 square miles. Much of the Upper Village is now suitable at this estimation. Because the Lower Village is within the 100-​year floodplain of the Quinault River, it will not be suitable at any estimate. While this value is a less conservative estimate for land suitability, its locations are outside of areas that have the highest vulnerability to climate change. Similar concerns regarding lack of infrastructure also pertain to most of the areas within Suitability Classification five; however, the area does extend to locations that are closer to current communities and along the coast. Suitability Classification four has a total area of 19.6 square miles, or almost half of the entire study area. It is also the least conservative land suitability estimate of the classifications that were considered for suitability assessments. All of Upper Village is included in this estimate, and it has more areas closer to the Quinault River and the coast than the other suitable land values. This estimate is the least concerned with climate change vulnerability and slope values, but the extent of this area is still classified as suitable for the purposes of providing a range of suitability estimates. Overall, the analysis of all three suitable land values can provide multiple results and perspectives to QIN decision-​makers. Depending on how climate change vulnerability weighs against other critical factors, including community desires and infrastructure costs, these results can give decision-​makers a broad range of impacts to consider when planning for future development. The next phase of the analysis identified the extent of the impact of fractionated land on the Suitability Classification values. The quantitative results in Table 12.1 indicate a correlation between fractionated land parcels and suitable land; there is an increase in the number of fractionated land parcels per square mile as the land becomes more suitable for future development. Put another way, areas that are less vulnerable to climate change have higher rates of land parcels that are fractionated. There are seven parcels of fractionated land per square mile of the entire study area. However, there are 56 intersecting fractionated land parcels per square mile of the most conservative Suitability Classification six. The fractionated land parcel area and number of

Table 12.1 Land Suitability Analysis Results

Suitability Value

Suitable Land Area (sq mi)

# of Fractionated Parcels

Fractionated Land Parcel Area (sq mi)

# of Fractionated Parcels per Suitable square mile

Study Area

(total area) 50

340

33.3

7

6

1.3

73

8.2

56

5

7.3

188

20.3

26

4

19.6

305

31.2

17

194   Melissa Watkinson-Schutten fractionated parcels per suitable square mile decrease with less suitability values. These results indicate that fractionated land does have an impact on climate change adaptation because suitable lands for future development are disproportionately affected by allotment and fractionation of land, and are classified as individual trust land.

Expert Interviews Results To protect the identification of participants, no names or departmental affiliations are revealed. The length of work and community tenure of participants ranged between one year and over 60 years. Participants included Native Americans from Quinault and other tribal communities, and non-​Natives. Some participants discussed climate change impacts they have personally observed, while others were only able to comment on impacts they have learned about from community members and elders. No participant was asked all the questions in the interview guide, as interviews were structured to reflect the role of the participant in the community and in relation to climate change adaptation and fractioned land. Table 12.2 is a summary of reflections about barriers to relocating the QIN community. Some interview responses also guided the information outlined in the introduction chapter, particularly because the interviews were conducted to (1) clarify factors pertinent to this study and (2) provide responses about how the results of the analyses can influence decision-​making at the local and national levels.

Table 12.2 Summary of Expert Interview Reflections on Barriers to Relocation Barriers to Relocating

Limitations

Funding

• Crossing parcels can cost the tribe money due to associated fees. • Getting permission to develop infrastructure such as water lines and power can take many years and incurs additional expenses. • Cost of developing new infrastructure.

Policies

• Concern that state and federal government regulations and Western knowledge systems infringe on tribal sovereignty rights. • Administrative burden and capacity of BIA to process acquisitions.

Infrastructure

• Most areas are remote and have little to no infrastructure, including power or water sources.

Community Perspectives

• Some community members do not have a desire to relocate because of their relationship to the land and water where they are. • Big changes might not be observable, and some question whether observed impacts are caused by climate change or by person-​made changes to the local environment (i.e., seawall construction and dams).

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    195

Reacquiring Land for Improved Adaptive Capacity The Land Suitability Analysis indicates the locations within the southwest quadrant of the QIR that are most ideal for relocation or future development. Suitable lands for future development have a high proportion of fractionated land parcels compared to the entirety of the study area. Suitable Land Classification six includes areas where the tribe could develop when the greatest criterion for long-​term planning of community expansion is to develop away from all areas that are vulnerable to SLR and flooding caused by climate change. These are also areas least likely to be affected by a tsunami, although Suitability Classifications four and five are also at minimal risk of being affected by a tsunami, with the exception of those areas closest to the mouth of the Quinault River, not including the Upper Village (Grays Harbor County Emergency Management, n.d.). Suitability Classifications four and five show less conservative estimates of land suitability, but provide an additional range of suitability levels that may be more appropriate when considering other factors, such as the cost of developing infrastructure and community connections to place. Ultimately, fractionated land greatly limits the options for relocation or future development on suitable lands, but reacquiring and consolidating these lands through the LBB can increase the available options. The range of results in suitable land for future development provides decision-​makers with multiple concepts of land suitability. This is critical because there may be several additional factors that the tribe must consider when making decisions for future development and community planning. For example, long-​term community desires to relocate away from the river and coastline are necessary to consider, particularly for Indigenous populations who are uniquely connected to the lands and waters in which they have stewarded since time immemorial. One interview participant stated, “Most of us say we’re going to stay. I’ve made my life living off of the land and the water and it if it’s my turn to give something back I’ll go with it.” It is unclear what proportion of the community in the Lower Village will want to stay there because of their long-​term place-​ based connection, and what proportion has a desire to relocate to the Upper Village to decrease their vulnerability to climate change impacts or tsunamis. Weighing the desires for relocation and the tribal connection to the coast and rivers may present a challenge for QIN leaders engaged in decision-​making processes for future development. Many individual descendants of tribal members have an interest within these allotted lands and do not wish to sell the land, either because they have a connection to the family members who once owned it or because they themselves have developed the land (anonymous interviewees, personal communication, 2015). Many others, however, do not have this same sentiment to the land, or may not even be aware of their fractional ownership (anonymous interviewees, personal communication, 2015). It will be necessary to engage the community in the decisions regarding

196   Melissa Watkinson-Schutten relocation that may affect them, as indicated in the expert interviews. Prioritizing the reacquisition and consolidation of fractionated lands in suitable areas that are near the places that fit community desires would allow for the QIN to improve their adaptive capacity while protecting tribal members’ place-​based connections to land and natural resources. There are also additional barriers to adaptation beyond the impact of fractionated land that must be addressed for long-​term planning. Access to public utilities or resources to develop the appropriate infrastructure within the suitable lands is one example. Interview participants all indicated that the areas in the Suitability Classification six are remote, and most regions have limited to no access to current infrastructure, power, or water sources. In thinking about some of the implications of the Land Suitability Analysis, one participant said, “You can’t develop on it because of lack of utilities,” while another stated, “I would be looking at areas that are associated with the population and the existing infrastructure that we have.” QIN is currently collaborating with other Pacific Northwest tribes to advocate for funding to address adaptation to climate change, and federal agencies have recently announced funds specifically set aside for American Indian tribes (Cama, 2015; Walker, 2015). It will be necessary for the use of these funds to allow for consolidation of fractionated lands, and to incorporate the needs and desires of the Indigenous Peoples it is meant to support. Planning for community relocation and development in the long-​term future for year 2100 can be a challenge. This is particularly true for American Indian tribal communities who have not previously had the opportunity to plan this far into the future, due to the imposition of many historical policies since colonization. However, many Indigenous communities often value living a sustainable life that considers the future seven generations. Reacquiring and consolidating fractionated lands can increase the adaptive capacity of tribal governments to develop and manage the infrastructure on the suitable lands to consider the next seven generations. The analysis has found that fractionated land impacts the capacity for QIN to adapt to climate change. However, prioritizing which lands to reacquire and consolidating fractionated lands will require additional efforts to address the challenges of the administrative burden on the BIA. The BIA has limited capacity to facilitate the purchasing of fractionated lands in a timely manner. This is particularly true because contacting and getting approval from all owners with interests (there is a 50% minimal rate of those with interest to voluntarily sell their land) in the prioritized fractionated land parcels can take a lot of time and resources. The BIA would also benefit with increased capacity to facilitate the LBB program so that tribes can reach the full potential of the lands on their reservations, including climate change adaptation and economic opportunities. Without an option to reacquire and consolidate these fractionated land parcels through a program such as the LBB program, QIN would have limited capacity to adapt to the climate change vulnerabilities identified in this study.

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    197

Policy Recommendations Based on the analysis of this study, the following policies are recommended with regards to management of fractioned land and climate change adaptation: (1) The federal government should continue to fund programs and provide resources for tribal climate change adaptation, and should do so in a way that allows tribal nations to practice their sovereignty rights, particularly where they can plan for the next seven generations into the future. (2) The LBB program and similar land reacquisition and consolidation programs should be further funded to transfer land back to tribes as a strategy to increase the capacity for tribes to adapt to climate change. (3) Future land reacquisition and consolidation programs must incorporate the opportunity for tribes to practice their traditional ways of doing and implement their traditional ways of knowing into their strategies for climate change adaptation or land consolidation.

Conclusion The results of this study can have a direct and immediate impact on the decision-​making processes of the QIN tribal government and the funding agencies of land acquisition and consolidation programs. The Land Suitability Analysis should assist in providing additional criteria for prioritization of fractionated lands to be purchased through the LBB program. Additionally, this study found that fractionated land is a barrier for tribal self-​ determination and climate change adaptation because it limits reservation lands that may be available for relocation or future development. Reacquiring and consolidating land through the LBB program can support the adaptive capacity in regard to climate change for the QIN tribal government, particularly when decisions about future development in areas not vulnerable to climate change must be made. There are many impacts of climate change beyond loss of land that should be evaluated when considering place-​based climate change adaptation, particularly with Indigenous communities whose cultural practices and traditional knowledges may also be at a loss. This study only incorporates SLR and flooding projections because there are limited methods to spatially analyze other climate change impacts, and more resources would have been needed to incorporate them. Therefore, this study can only address SLR and flooding in the analysis for climate change vulnerability. Additionally, Indigenous ways of knowing and traditional ecological knowledges are a significant aspect of tribal adaptation and self-​determination. While the review of literature briefly addressed these aspects in this study, the data analysis methods do not fairly incorporate them. It was evident in the expert interviews that these knowledges are critically impacted by fractionated land and climate change. Future research should analyze the direct and indirect impact of the relationship between fractionated land and climate change on Indigenous knowledges through a decolonial lens.

198   Melissa Watkinson-Schutten Finally, an exploration of why coastal Indigenous Peoples have a preference to continue to live in the coastal regions, even with the risk of tsunamis and climate change impacts, should be conducted. While this may not contribute to the knowledge of the impact of fractionated land on adaptive capacity, it may help to identify other adaptation strategies that would support Indigenous Peoples who have an intrinsic desire to continue to live in coastal regions.

Acknowledgments I would like to express my deep gratitude to the Quinault Division of Natural Resources for their partnership and with whom this research would not be possible. Special thanks to the many other Indigenous scholars near and far who have guided and advised me throughout this research study and in my personal and professional endeavors that followed.

References Allottees Association and Affiliated Tribes and Bands of the Quinault Reservation. (n.d.) What are Quinault Allotted Lands? Olympia, WA: Allottees Association and Affiliated Tribes and Bands of the Quinault Reservation. http://​www.aa-​at.org/​owner​ship​_​of_​the%20q​uina​ult.html Berger, R., Ensor, J., Wilson, K., Phukan, I., & Dasgupta, S. (2014). Adaptive capacity. In J. Ayers, L. F. Schipper, H. Reid, S. Huq, & A. Rahman (Eds.), Community-​based adaptation to climate change (pp. 22–​35). New York: Routledge. Cama, T. (2015, February 17). Feds offer $8M for American Indian climate adaptation. The Hill. http://​theh​ill.com/​pol​icy/​ene​rgy-​envi​ronm​ent/​233​017-​feds-​offer-​8m-​for-​ameri​can-​ind​ ian-​clim​ate-​ada​ptat​ion Climate and Traditional Knowledges Workgroup. (2014). Guidelines for considering traditional knowedges in climate change initiatives. https://​cli​mate​tkw.wordpr​ess.com/​ Connor, M. (2014). Op-​ ed: Making strides to restore Native American homelands. Washington, DC: US Department of Interior. Coombes, B., Johnson, J., & Howitt, R. (2012). Indigenous geographies I: Mere resource conflicts? The complexities in Indigenous land and environmental claims. Progress in Human Geography, 36(6): 810–​821. Cordalis, D., & Saugee, D. (2008). The effects of climate change on American Indian and Alaska Native tribes. Natural Resources and Environment, 22(3): 45–​49. Dickson, A. (2013). Quinault’s to participate in $1.9 billion land buyback. Daily World. Flanders, N. (1998). Native American sovereignty and natural resource management. Human Ecology, 26(3): 425–​449. Grays Harbor County Emergency Management. (n.d.). Hazard mitigation planning. http://​ www.co.grays-​har​bor.wa.us/​depa​rtme​nts/​emerg​ency​_​man​agem​ent/​Haz​ard_​Miti​gati​on _​P​lann​ing.php Gross, M. (1978). Indian self-​determination and tribal sovereignty: An analysis of recent federal Indian policy. Texas Law Review, 56(1195): 1195–​1244. Huppert, D., Moore, A., & Dyson, K. (2009). Impacts of climate change on the coasts of Washington State. In Washington climate change impacts assessment: Evaluating Washington’s future in a changing climate. Seattle: Climate Impacts Group, University of Washington.

Decolonizing Climate Adaptation    199 Indian Land Tenure Foundation. (2015). Fractionated ownership. Little Canada, MN: Indian Land Tenure Foundation. https://​iltf.org/​land-​iss​ues/​iss​ues/​ Krishnamurthy, K., Fisher, J., & Johnson, C. 2010. Mainstreaming local perceptions of hurricane risk into policymaking: A case study of community GIS in Mexico. Global Environmental Change, 21: 143–​153. Longley, P., Goodchild, M., Maguire, D., & Rhind, D. (2011). Geographic information systems and science (3rd ed.). Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. MacKendrick, K. (2009). Climate change adaptation planning for cultural and natural resource resilience: A look at planning for climate change in two native nations in the Pacific Northwest U.S. [Master’s thesis, University of Oregon]. Maldonado, J., Shearer, C., Bronen, R., Peterson, K., & Lazrus, H. (2013). The impact of climate change on tribal communities in the US: Displacement, relocation, and human rights. Climatic Change, 12: 601–​614. Montag, J, et al. (2014). Climate change and Yakama nation well-​being. Climatic Change, 124: 385–​398. Montreuil, B. (2014, June 4). Quinault’s Taholah Lower Village to relocate due to ocean threats. Tulalip News. https://​www.tula​lipn​ews.com/​wp/​2014/​06/​04/​quinau​lts-​taho​lah-​lower-​vill​ age-​to-​reloc​ate-​due-​to-​ocean-​thre​ats/​ Mote, P., Peterson, A., Reeder, S., Shipman, H., & Binder, L. (2008). Sea level rise in the coastal waters of Washington State. A report by the University of Washington Climate Impacts Group and the Washington Department of Ecology. Mote, P., & Salathe, E. (2010). Future climate in the Pacific Northwest. Climatic Change, 102: 29–​50. Nicholls, R., et al. (2007). Coastal systems and low-​lying areas. In M. L. Parry, O. F. Canziani, J. P. Palutikof, P. J. van der Linden, and C. E. Hanson (Eds.),Climate Change 2007: Impacts, Adaptation and Vulnerability. Contribution of Working Group II to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (pp. 315–​ 356). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Quinault Indian Nation. (2015). People of the Quinault. http://​www.quina​ulti​ndia​nnat​ion.com/​ Ranco, D., & Suagee, D. (2007). Tribal sovereignty and the problem of difference in environmental regulation: Observations on “measured separatism” in Indian Country. The Antipode, 39: 691–​707. Riley, A. (2013). The history of Native American lands and the Supreme Court. Journal of Supreme Court History, 38: 369–​385. Thom, B. (2009). The paradox of boundaries in Coast Salish territories. Cultural Geographies, 16: 179–​205. Walker, R. (2014, April 2). Quinault President Fawn Sharp heads to D.C. to lobby for flood protections. Indian Country Today. https://​ind​ianc​ount​ryto​day.com/​arch​ive/​quina​ult -​presid​ent-​fawn-​sharp-​heads-​to-​dc-​to-​lobby-​for-​flood-​prot​ecti​ons Walker, R. (2015, April 1). ‘Fawn Sharp discusses steps to stemming the tide of climate change. Tulalip News. https://​www.tula​lipn​ews.com/​wp/​2015/​04/​01/​fawn-​sharp-​discus​ses-​steps-​to -​stemm​ing-​the-​tide-​of-​clim​ate-​cha​nge/​ Whyte, K. (2013). Justice forward: Tribes, climate adaptation and responsibility. Climatic Change, 120(3): 517–​530. Winters, C. (2014, December 1). Flood concerns may force Sauk-​Suiattle Tribe to move reservation. HeraldNet.com. http://​www.herald​net.com/​arti​cle/​20141​202/​NEW​S01/​141209​858.

Chapter 13

Cl osing t h e G a p Negotiating Indigenous Power and the Council of Australian Governments Ian Anderson

Introduction Every year since 2009, the Australian prime minister has tabled the Closing the Gap Report in the Australian Parliament during the first parliamentary sitting of the year (Australian Government, 2020). Over the years, this has become such a key moment in the Indigenous public policy calendar that an established set of political performance rituals has grown around it. The Australian government hosts a week of events for Indigenous leaders, and Indigenous organizations host advocacy events in response. In some years it has also included the launch of a Close the Gap Indigenous community report, which provides a counter-​narrative to that of the government (see, for example, Australian Human Rights Commission, 2020; Close the Gap Steering Committee, 2020). In 2020, the tabling in February of the annual Closing the Gap Report was a more muted affair than in previous years (Commonwealth of Australia, 2020). It had been a summer from hell. The nation was still reeling from bushfires that had devastated many communities, particularly on Australia’s east coast. Canberra, the national capital, had for weeks suffocated in the smoke generated by these fires, the intensity of which caused a smoke plume that extended across the Southern Hemisphere. Just a few weeks earlier, parts of the city had also been deluged by a damaging hailstorm that heralded the end of a long, continent-​wide drought. And ominous news of a novel and highly infectious coronavirus epidemic had led Prime Minister Scott Morrison to announce, just a few weeks earlier, the closure of Australia’s national borders to any foreign visitors who had recently been to China (BBC News, 2020). In his speech to the Parliament on February 12, the prime minister acknowledged the presence in Parliament House of Indigenous leaders, including Pat Turner,

Closing the Gap    201 a Gudanji-​Arrernte woman and convenor of the Coalition of Peaks (CoP). Since the beginning of 2019, the CoP (originally known as the National Coalition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peak Organisations) had been negotiating a new National Agreement for Indigenous affairs with all Australian governments. For the first time in Australia’s history, this agreement was being negotiated directly with Indigenous nongovernmental organizations. Reflecting on this change, the prime minister laid out his thoughts on Indigenous disempowerment: . . . to rob a person of their right to take responsibility for themselves; to strip them of responsibility and capability to direct their own futures; to make them dependent: this is to deny them of their liberty—​and slowly that person will wither before your eyes. . . . This must change. We must restore the right to take responsibility. The right to make decisions. The right to step up. The opportunity to own and create Australian’s own futures.

During this speech, I was in the public gallery of Parliament’s House of Representatives with a number of colleagues from the CoP and from the National Indigenous Australians Agency (NIAA), of which I was then Deputy CEO. The NIAA had been established in July 2019, as part of the prime minister’s portfolio, by an administrative order that carved out the Indigenous Affairs Group from the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet (PM&C). In my role both within the PM&C and the NIAA, I led the Australian government negotiating team responsible for forging this new National Agreement to Close the Gap. The negotiations, which commenced following a COAG decision in December 2016, were referred to as Closing the Gap Refresh (CtG Refresh). In this chapter I chart the CtG Refresh negotiations, which lasted for more than three years. For the first 18 months or so, we followed the standard format of multilateral negotiations between governments in the Australian federation. However, in the latter half of this period we were joined by Indigenous nongovernment stakeholders, represented by the CoP, who now had a decision-​making seat at the negotiating table. I argue that their inclusion made a significant difference to the social dynamics of these negotiations, their policy outcomes, and the framing of accountability, and provides insights into how Indigenous Peoples can, within the context of liberal governmentality, negotiate with governments. It also raises questions that go to the nature of Indigenous power, including which Indigenous interests are represented in negotiations with governments, which are not, and why.

The Close the Gap Policy Agenda The Close the Gap agenda arrived in 2008 at an inflection point in relations between Indigenous Peoples and the Australian government, with the newly elected Rudd Labor government setting out a bold new policy agenda. In February of that year, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd made an apology to the Stolen Generations (Indigenous children

202   Ian Anderson removed from their families by earlier Australian governments and church missions), which had been resisted for years by previous conservative governments. He then leaned into the Indigenous policy agenda through his leadership of the Council of Australian Governments. His ambitions for a connected and collaborative national policy framework provided a fresh and ambitious approach to addressing Indigenous disadvantage. In 2007 and 2008, COAG settled a series of agreements in Indigenous affairs referred to collectively as “Closing the Gap,” which included the overarching National Indigenous Reform Agreement (NIRA) and related national partnership agreements (Council of Australian Governments [COAG], 2008). The NIRA set Indigenous policy targets for life expectancy; infant mortality; early childhood education in remote communities; reading, writing, and numeracy achievements; retention rates to Year 12; and employment outcomes. National partnership funding agreements were struck for a total of $4.6 billion in areas such as early childhood development, health, housing, economic development, and remote service delivery. COAG’s adoption of this agenda was in direct response to the political advocacy campaign of a coalition of Indigenous and non-​Indigenous organizations to Close the Gap in Indigenous disadvantage. The campaign was led by the Australian Human Rights Commission under the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner, Tom Calma. In his 2005 Social Justice Report, Commissioner Calma, a Kungarakan and Iwaidja man, laid out a human rights approach to Indigenous health equality (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner, 2005). The campaign advocated for Australian governments and leading nongovernmental organizations to sign a statement of intent (see, for example, Indigenous Health Equality Summit, 2008), and held workshops to develop Indigenous policy targets. As I was involved in setting the health targets, Commissioner Calma explained to me that policy targets provided a mechanism by which to set transparent policy objectives based on human rights standards. COAG continued with this agenda until December 2016, when it agreed to work with Indigenous leaders, organizations, and communities to renew these agreements. In December of that year, COAG approved a “refresh” of the Closing the Gap framework, in consultation with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples, emphasizing “collaborative effort, evaluation and building on what works in each jurisdiction” (COAG, 2016). Ultimately, the National Cabinet, which replaced COAG in March 2020 in response to the COVID-​19 pandemic, agreed in July of that year to a new National Agreement on Closing the Gap, to which the CoP was also a party (Closing the Gap in Partnership, 2020). There was a significant point of difference with both CtG Refresh and the new National Agreement from the original set of agreements reached in 2008. This time, Indigenous nongovernment stakeholders were negotiators. In the first phase (2017 to December 2018), government negotiations were informed through consultation with Indigenous nongovernment and community stakeholders. However, the second phase saw the CoP as equal negotiating partners with the federal, state, and territory governments and the Australian Local Government Association. This phase of negotiations occurred through

Closing the Gap    203 the Joint Council on Closing the Gap, which had been established as an outcome of the December 2018 COAG meeting under a formal partnership with the CoP (COAG, 2019). In this chapter, I draw on publicly available policy documents supplemented by my experience as a negotiator employed by the Australian government over most of this period. My sociological interest is in the negotiation of power within the Australian federation and with the Indigenous Australian nongovernment sector. To that end, I have drawn on a sociological analysis of the relations between Indigenous Peoples, state systems, and governmentality, one that emphasizes the dynamic nature through which Indigenous political agency has been contested and renegotiated, and how this has ultimately transformed these relationships.

Indigenous Peoples and the State There is a significant body of scholarship in the social sciences that analyzes contemporary relationships between Indigenous Peoples and settler-​colonial states. The term settler-​colonial state is a construct used for those states in which nonviolent responses to Indigenous rights claims have evolved to manage dispossessed Indigenous populations through a combination of administrative, juridical, and political structures (Morris-​ Suzuki, 1994; Watson, 2012). In 1967, amendments to the Australian constitution enabled the Commonwealth to play a direct role in Indigenous policy and program delivery. Since this time, there has been a significant elaboration and proliferation of such structures in the Australian federation. Indigenous governance mechanisms are evident in Native title and land rights systems, environment and land management, social services, welfare transfer payment systems, and data collection and storage. More recently, economic agencies have developed specific Indigenous policy mechanisms. This structural transformation has emerged in parallel with a growing Indigenous nongovernment sector, with which government systems interact as policy agents and organizational vehicles for the delivery of social services and policy regulation. One strand of this scholarship sharply emphasizes the ongoing colonial and coercive imperative of this relationship. The non-​Indigenous academic Patrick Wolfe, for example, charted the dimensions of colonial logic within the structures of the Australian state, and observed more generally that settler colonialism has both negative and positive dimensions. Negatively, it strives for the dissolution of native societies. Positively, it erects a new colonial society on the expropriated land base—​as I put it, settler colonizers come to stay. Invasion is a structure, not an event. (Wolfe, 2006, p. 388)

In a similar vein, Cathy Eatock, a Kairi and Gubbi Gubbi woman, characterized the Western Australian government’s 2014 announcement of the closure of 150 remote

204   Ian Anderson Aboriginal communities as a paternalistic and colonizing gesture (Eatock, 2018). A number of other authors writing in the same Howard-​Wagner, Bargh, and Altamirano-​ Jimenez (2018) anthology, documented the impact on Indigenous organizations of neoliberal public management, the marketization of public services, and the introduction of administrative technologies such as performance-​based contracting, competition, market incentives, and deregulation (Howard-​Wagner, 2018; Sullivan, 2018), welfare transfer payments (Bielefeld, 2018; Habibis, 2018), and remote housing policy (Habibis, 2018). Although some of this literature overdetermines the colonial dimension of much broader trends in public sector management, there are still many examples of colonial tropes in some of the political and media commentary about Indigenous issues. There is another thread to social sciences scholarship that documents the realization of Indigenous rights, particularly over the past 50 years (Beckett, 1988; Cowlishaw, 2006; Chesterman & Galligan, 1997; Peterson, 1998). Taking this into account, and following the non-​Indigenous scholar Virginia Watson (2012), I am inclined to an analysis of governance in settler-​colonial states that is primarily realized through the freedom and agency of Indigenous Peoples. I do so for similar reasons to Watson, as such an approach enables social analysis to move past simple binaries of Indigenous and non-​Indigenous agency. It does this by providing a nonbinary social space in which Indigenous political agency can be imagined, negotiated, and enacted through state structures to create new institutional structures and discursive forms. I would add that this allows for a more multifaceted analysis of Indigenous power. Indigenous interests can both accommodate as well as resist the interests of the state. At times Indigenous interests have different and conflicting policy objectives. Not all the peak organizations represented by the CoP, for example, were aligned on all issues; there were different views on policy priorities and the role of targets in public policy, for example. Similarly, not all Indigenous political interests were aligned with the arrangements that the CoP negotiated with Australian governments. A multifaceted analysis of Indigenous power focuses our attention on which Indigenous interests are represented in negotiations with governments, which are not, and why.

Australian Federalism and Indigenous Australians COAG was established in 1992 to replace the Special Premiers Conference, and to move intergovernmental relationships away from a narrow focus on fiscal issues to the broader view of shared policy objectives. Successive Australian governments have evolved COAG’s collaborative policy dimension of intergovernmental relationships, albeit with varying degrees of success. A policy apparatus was developed to service COAG activity within and between the central agencies of all governments (for example, between the PM&C and Treasury and their jurisdictional equivalents). These central agencies then

Closing the Gap    205 coordinated intergovernmental activity across their respective services (such as health, education, social services, etc.). This approach forged strong professional relationships between officials across governments, which have been key to the successful navigation of complex policy agendas, particularly where the political terrain requires deft handling (Davis & Silver, 2015). Although the Commonwealth had begun to develop a direct role in Indigenous policy and program delivery after it was enabled by constitutional amendments passed in 1967, there was little focus on Indigenous policy in its intergovernmental relationships. This began to change in the 1990s, but was limited to specific policy sectors such as health and education (Anderson, 2004). Thus, the COAG reforms of 2007–​2008 led by the Rudd Labor government represented the first significant attempt to develop an intergovernmental Indigenous policy agenda with a system-​wide focus. It was a bold policy reform. The COAG Reform Council, established as an independent body in 2010, monitored the agreements developed in this context until it was disbanded in 2014 by the Abbott government (Glenday, 2014). Thereafter, reporting responsibility was assumed by the Australian government through PM&C. This included the tabling of an annual Closing the Gap Report in the Australian Parliament, as described earlier in this chapter.

The Indigenous Nongovernment Sector The Aboriginal community-​controlled sector emerged in the early 1970s. It grew from the Indigenous rights movement that coalesced around issues such as land rights and self-​determination. Today these organizations are mainly government-​funded services with governance drawn from the local Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community. The largest of these sectors is health, an area I know well. In my early career, I worked for the Victorian Aboriginal Health Service, first as an Aboriginal health worker and later as a general practitioner, and then as its chief executive officer. The community-​controlled sector also extends to legal, education, and family violence prevention services, along with Aboriginal statutory land rights and Native title organizations. A number of the organizations in this sector are represented by the Coalition of Peaks, the national body formed in 2019. There is also an emerging Indigenous business sector, but at this stage it does not have sectoral representation and is not connected to the CoP. In 1989 the Hawke Labor government created the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) as an administrative structure for Commonwealth programs. It had an elected Indigenous governance including a nationwide regional council structure. In 2005 the Howard coalition government abolished ATSIC (Anderson, 2007). Although there were well-​documented criticisms both of ATSIC’s design and governance, its regional council structure did provide an effective mechanism for local decision-​making that has not found an enduring structure to replace it (Sanders, 2018). A number of Indigenous leaders, in both the public and the community-​controlled

206   Ian Anderson sectors, were involved in ATSIC during their early careers, including the current convenor of the CoP, Pat Turner. In the wake of the abolition of ATSIC, several different local Indigenous decision-​ making structures have arisen (such as Murdi Parkii in New South Wales or the NSW government-​sponsored Ochre program). Although not formally engaged in the COAG negotiations around the new National Agreement on Closing the Gap, except through some of the broader consultation mechanisms, it is likely that these local decision-​ making structures may be involved in developing the state or territory processes for its implementation.

Australian Federalism: The COAG Theater of Negotiation Intergovernmental negotiations are performative and enacted through multiple theaters, each with its own set of policy actors, and slightly different sets of motivations and normative behaviors. In a hierarchical system such as COAG, the different theaters are tiered in their decision-​making power, with the prime minister, premiers, and chief ministers table at the apex. There is a complex set of negotiations that lays the groundwork for COAG meetings, and these are led by public service officials from all governments. Over my three years in the Australian Public Service, I attended three COAG meetings: Hobart on June 9, 2017, Canberra on February 9, 2018, and Adelaide on December 12, 2018 (COAG 2017, 2018a, 2018b, respectively). Hobart and Adelaide were more traditional intergovernmental meetings, in which all processes were a complex set of scripted negotiations, collegiality, and personal friendships. The Canberra meeting, however, was preceded by the Special Gathering of Indigenous leaders, a group that met in the Cabinet Room at Parliament House. This Special Gathering introduced a new and potentially disruptive element to the COAG meeting processes. To appreciate the importance of this, it is first useful to understand the more traditional theater of the Hobart and Adelaide meetings. At the three COAG meetings in Hobart, Canberra, and Adelaide, senior bureaucrats and politicians congregated the evening before to attend a layered set of dinners that would bring together players with back-​pocket negotiating scripts. These dinners are also always hierarchical, with the prime minister, premiers, and chief ministers at one, the secretaries at another, and the deputy secretaries at yet another. Other officials would gather in more informal settings. Over the evening, texts and phone calls would be exchanged to keep the different sets of policy actors informed of discussions and predictions about how the “main performance” would play out the next day. At some point prior to this performance, Commonwealth officials would come together with the prime minister and draw together the “intel” gathered at the various dinners. Elsewhere,

Closing the Gap    207 state and territory leaders and senior officials would convene as the Council of the Australian Federation to finalize their shared positions. The main stage of a COAG negotiation was the performance set-​piece in which the leaders would usually meet for half a day, sometimes a little longer. All actors in the COAG system were engaged in this performance, with teams back home providing on-​ call support to the main arena, which in both Hobart and Adelaide was actually a sports arena: the Blundstone Arena and the Adelaide Oval, respectively. As a COAG agenda would cover a range of topics—​health, education, transport, population—​those scheduled for discussion would determine the composition of the backroom support. Leaders would negotiate in the central arena, with their senior officials sitting either next to them or in the seats behind. More junior players in the system were outside running errands, negotiating on details, or providing administrative or communications support. In the theater of an actual COAG meeting, very little is actually negotiated. There are last-​minute tweaks to positions, and sometimes dramatic closures of agreements on the eve of the meeting. The Meeting Communiqué is drafted in the hours prior to the actual event by groups of about 30 senior bureaucrats who review and negotiate wording line by line, phrase by phrase. Strategic blanks are left in the Communiqué to allow for some last-​minute finalization of positions, and there are constant maneuverings between the various jurisdiction camps as wording and content are tweaked. The real negotiations, however, are undertaken in the months and sometimes years prior to a COAG decision point. During this time, senior officials are given clear negotiating positions—​which set out such things as redlines and give points—​but final positions were always a Cabinet decision. The more junior the negotiating team, the lower their policy flexibility. As a result, the negotiations between officials could entail months of meetings with apparently little movement over key points of negotiation. Officials spent most of 2017 reaching agreement on how to consult with Indigenous Australians. Much of that time was wasted on failing to reach consensus on the framework for the high-​level discussion paper that would inform the consultation process. Some Labor-​aligned jurisdictions favored an approach that was based on a well-​being framework. This approach took a view of well-​being that reflects a person’s substantive freedom to lead a life they have reason to value beyond narrow measures of living standards (Gorecki & Kelly, 2012). Initially, the Australian government had supported this, but it then moved to a position that more strongly emphasized Indigenous wealth creation. In the second half of 2018, several months were also spent on negotiating targets ahead of the December meeting. Much of this was technical in nature: mapping data trajectories and defining both targets and high-​level outcomes for which targets were measures. Officials debated whether there would be targets for culture or racism, with some of these options ruled out for technical reasons, including a lack of data. At this time, the most contested elements of these negotiations were around the framing of accountability, with an ongoing policy debate on how responsibility for delivering the targets’ outcomes would be framed. At its narrowest, this was a debate on whether they would be described as “state” or “Commonwealth targets,” or alternatively

208   Ian Anderson as “national” targets (with jurisdictional trajectories), with states and territories preferring the latter. However, the Australian government wanted targets to be designated as either “state” or “Commonwealth” to reflect its political desire to make state and territory governments more visibly accountable for Indigenous outcomes within their purview. The state and territory position preferred a shared accountability framework that better reflected the interconnected nature of governmental responsibilities. Negotiations at the deputy secretary level over many months did not resolve this point, and the issue was referred twice to the Senior Officials Meeting (secretaries of PM&C and premiers and Cabinet). Eventually, a position was agreed to, but to get there we did have to draw down on the professional and trust networks of senior officials. It was, in the end, a semantic policy compromise, but one that was absolutely critical to reaching agreement at the December COAG meeting later in 2018, with the following position: While overall accountability for the framework is shared, different levels of government will have lead responsibility for specific targets. The lead jurisdiction is the level of government responsible for monitoring reports against progress and initiating further action if that target is not on track, including through relevant COAG bodies. (COAG, 2018c)

Indigenous Policy Actors in the COAG System The presence of Indigenous actors in the COAG system through the first half of these negotiations was limited to a small number of senior Indigenous public servants. I was, at the time, the most senior Indigenous bureaucrat in the Australian Public Service, while there were only a couple of Indigenous public servants at a similar level of seniority in premier and Cabinet departments. As most senior Indigenous bureaucrats tended to be in Indigenous or other line area portfolios, such as health and education, they were not directly involved in COAG negotiations. At the COAG meeting on June 9, 2017, in Hobart, I was struck by the fact that I was the only Indigenous person in attendance. Nor can I recall seeing anyone of Asian heritage or another person of color in the entire COAG contingent. I found it difficult to sleep the night before that meeting as I pondered the overwhelming Whiteness of COAG as an institutional structure. The next morning, I had a small speaking role at the head of the Closing the Gap item, so I opened with an acknowledgement in my traditional language, Palawa Kani, as seemed appropriate given who I was and where we were. The response seemed overly polite. The premiers and prime minister actually clapped. Toward the end of 2017, the idea of a Special Gathering of Indigenous leaders began to emerge as a strategy to facilitate Indigenous engagement in the COAG process. This

Closing the Gap    209 model had previously been used to enable nongovernment stakeholders to have input into a COAG summit on domestic violence (Office for Women, 2018). In February 2018, the Special Gathering came to fruition, with each government nominating a small number of Indigenous leaders—​taking into account issues such as gender balance, breadth of expertise, and youth representation—​to attend. Delegates to the Special Gathering were asked to identify high-​level priorities that would later be tested with Indigenous communities through subsequent engagement processes, and a group of leaders then presented the agreed-​upon priorities to the COAG meeting (Closing the Gap Refresh, 2018). Although the Special Gathering did provide a way through the engagement impasse in which senior officials had become trapped the previous year, it also provoked significant anxieties within the Australian government as well as some state and territory governments. At the time, the relationship between the Australian government and some national Indigenous leaders was under significant strain as a consequence of the government’s rejection, in October 2017, of the proposition for a constitutionally enshrined Voice to Parliament. This had been a key plank in the Uluru Statement from the Heart, a consensus statement made in May 2017 at a gathering of Indigenous leaders at Uluru, which had been produced by the Referendum Council earlier that year. On reflection, the proposal for the Special Gathering was somewhat bolder than we had anticipated—​so bold in fact that it managed to disrupt the theater rules of COAG. As I sat in the COAG room in the back row behind then Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull during discussions about the item, I recall misting up as 10 Indigenous leaders pitched the ideas and deliberations of the Special Gathering. It demonstrated the power that is created through a lived presence, and could not have been more starkly different than my experience six months earlier in Hobart. It also laid the ground for a more profound disruption that was to be realized later in 2018.

A Coalition of Aboriginal Peak Organizations Throughout 2018, there was significant engagement and consultation with Indigenous stakeholders to test the priorities identified by the Special Gathering. A call for public submissions resulted in 170 being received by April of that year (Commonwealth of Australia, 2019). The Commonwealth hosted 18 National Roundtables from November 2017 to April 2018, with more the 1,000 participants (Commonwealth of Australia, 2019). State and territory governments also led engagement processes within their jurisdictions, but the extent of these varied. The Commonwealth also hosted two technical workshops, on May 14–​15 and June 14–​15, 2018, at which more than 200 participants developed evidence-​based targets and performance indicators. These were then tested during a further phase of consultations that took place during August.

210   Ian Anderson However, on October 4, 2018, a newly formed Coalition of Aboriginal Peak Organisations wrote a letter to the prime minister and all premiers and chief ministers with a specific claim: We write concerning the Closing the Gap Refresh, a joint initiative of the Council of Australian Governments (COAG), to ask that you not endorse any revised approach at COAG without the necessary input and support from Indigenous communities; and that you put in place a mechanism for those representing Indigenous communities to be able to negotiate and reach agreement on the new Closing the Gap framework and for a continued role in its implementation. (Coalition of Peaks, 2018)

The CoP was, at this time, an alliance of 13 organizations, the members of which came from across the health, legal, family violence prevention, and land rights/​Native title sectors. All of the organizations that were signatories to this letter had been engaged in the various processes for setting priorities and developing targets. However, the CoP was correct in its claim that that their members had not been involved in the setting of the agenda, the drafting of policy documents for COAG or, ultimately, the decision making process. With this letter they reset the relationship and moved beyond a process of consultation and engagement to one that would lead to a partnership agreement. On December 18, 2018, the Council of Australian Governments agreed to draft targets and a policy framework as a basis for further negotiation. In recognition of the political intervention of the CoP, its Communiqué stated: COAG is listening to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, communities and their peak and governing bodies. . . Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples must play an integral part in the making of the decisions that affect their lives—​this is critical to closing the gap. (COAG, 2018b, p. 2)

Following this decision, the CoP took the initiative and began drafting a formal partnership agreement over the Christmas break. On March 3, 2019, the recently appointed prime minister Scott Morrison wrote to COAG leaders and the Coalition of Peaks seeking their formal endorsement of a newly minted partnership agreement (COAG, 2019). For the first time in Australian history, a COAG Council included members from outside the government. Accordingly, it was called the Joint Council on Closing the Gap (COAG, 2019). This marked the beginning of the second phase of the CtG negotiations.

A New Partnership This new partnership was to have a significant impact on this second phase, with the composition of the negotiating teams and their social dynamics substantively different.

Closing the Gap    211 However, the most profound effect of this partnership was on the policy objectives and the framing of accountability in the drafting of a new National Agreement in 2020. The newly established Joint Council, cochaired by the Federal Minister for Indigenous Australians, the Hon. Ken Wyatt (a Noongar man and the first Indigenous Australian government minister), and Pat Turner representing the CoP, had oversight of this round of negotiations. However, most of this negotiation work was undertaken by the Partnership Working Group, which comprised federal, state, and territory government officials and representatives of the CoP. It was cochaired by the Australian government’s most senior Indigenous affairs official (which was either myself or my non-​Indigenous CEO, Ray Griggs) and Pat Turner as the convenor of the CoP. One obvious difference in the social dynamics of the negotiations during this second phase was the significant increase in the number of parties negotiating. While the organizations in the CoP were, in a sense, a single party, they also had to navigate their internal policy differences. However, all of the positions the CoP brought to a meeting were scripted and pre-​agreed. There was also notably less policy debate between government stakeholders than there had been in the first phase. Instead, much of the focus of the negotiating dialogue was on the interventions brought to the table by the CoP. Throughout the second phase of the negotiations, trust between government and nongovernment stakeholders had to be built and rebuilt. The composition of the government stakeholders also changed during this time, with a greater involvement from Indigenous portfolios and less of a direct role for senior government officials from central agencies. In part, this shift in the dynamic reflected the transition of leadership from within the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet to the National Indigenous Australians Agency, the line agency created following the 2019 election. While the NIAA remained within the portfolio of the PM&C, it was disconnected from a direct relationship both with the prime minister and his office. This meant that government stakeholders had to do more checking back with central agencies on policy positions. Accountability in COAG agreements is usually framed in terms of the relationship between the Australian government and state and territory governments, and had been a key sticking point in the first phase of negotiations. However, in the second phase, issues around “state/​territory” and “Commonwealth” targets versus “national” targets were barely discussed. In fact, the dynamic significantly shifted from a discussion of how governments held each other to account to a debate about the accountability of governments to Indigenous Peoples, and vice versa. It had been proposed in the first half of the negotiations that a third-​party mechanism, the Australian Productivity Commission, would provide independent reporting on the progress of targets and key performance measures to strengthen the accountability of all parties. However, in the second phase, the CoP took a stronger position, one that drew from a broader movement on Indigenous data sovereignty and its focus on improving the quality of Indigenous access, control, and use of data (Walter & Russo Carroll, 2021). As a result, the final National Agreement on Closing the Gap (Closing the Gap in Partnership, 2020) made provision for a priority reform agenda on shared access to data and information with Indigenous organizations at a regional level. It was also

212   Ian Anderson agreed that Indigenous-​led reviews highlighting the lived experiences of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples and communities would be carried out within 12 months of each independent review by the Productivity Commission. The CoP also consistently advocated for the framing of the National Agreement through a system reform agenda as opposed to a policy framework based on targets. As a result, the final National Agreement on Closing the Gap (Closing the Gap in Partnership, 2020) included the following objectives: • A significantly stronger focus on Indigenous-​led data and evaluation processes. • Building and strengthening structures that empower Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples to share decision-​making authority with governments to accelerate policy-​and place-​based progress. • A much stronger and defined role for the Aboriginal community-​controlled sector. • A clearer policy objective in the reform of government systems. Although some of these reforms (such as shared decision-​making) had been anticipated in the positions reached by government in 2018 (COAG, 2018c), it would be fair to say that the CoP pushed further and harder than any of these previous government-​agreed positions. In their negotiations with the Australian, state, and territory governments, the Coalition of Peaks pursued a policy framework that integrated an Indigenous rights agenda with traditional neoliberal paradigms of targets and measurement. In 2019, when the CoP undertook an engagement process on these policy reforms, it concluded there was broad support for the priority areas in which targets had been developed, with just over 65% of its survey respondents supporting the draft CtG targets agreed to by COAG in December 2018 (Coalition of Peaks, 2019, p. 77). However, the CoP did not realize all of its political objectives in this phase of negotiations. When the National Agreement on Closing the Gap was finally settled in July 2020, it did not have funding tied to it, but then neither did the original National Indigenous Reform Agreement—​those funding commitments flowed through the subsequent partnership agreements. The Australian government did, however, commit to an additional $44 million on the signing of the National Agreement to support its implementation. Both the CoP and state and territory governments have continued to press for a funding agenda, even after the agreement was finalized, within the context of developing implementation plans.

From Agreement to Implementation The Indigenous political world is multifaceted. Given this, COAG would not have been able to engage with Indigenous stakeholders if the CoP had not formed a single

Closing the Gap    213 negotiating entity. Even then, during the second phase of the CtG Refresh negotiations, there were plenty of internal differences in the CoP’s approximately 50 organizations (it had grown significantly from its starting position in 2018). However, as it also represented the Indigenous service delivery sector, and as the CtG Refresh was essentially a service reform framework, the CoP was able to provide COAG with an opportunity to align the reform of government services across the entire Indigenous service delivery ecology. Besides which, there were, at this point, no politically credible alternatives with whom COAG could engage. However, one of the questions I was interested in when setting out to write this chapter was whether there were any organizations that could have been at the negotiating table but were not. Regional Indigenous interests, for instance, were not decision partners during the second phase of negotiations but are likely to become more relevant as Australian governments turn to implementation. They include a range of different local decision-​making structures across the country, such as the Murdi Paaki Regional Assembly in western New South Wales (Jeffries & Menham, 2008; Murdi Paaki Regional Assembly, 2020); the NSW government’s OCHRE Local Decision-​Making program (Aboriginal Affairs NSW, 2018; New South Wales Government, 2013); the Australian government’s Empowered Communities (Empowered Communities, 2015; NIAA, 2020); and North Queensland’s local government councils, many of which were formerly Aboriginal reserves, and so are, in essence, Indigenous councils. In addition, some state and territory governments (Queensland, Victoria, and the Northern Territory) have instituted treaty processes, which if successfully concluded will result in another set of local institutional arrangements (Aboriginal Victoria, 2020; Department of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Partnerships, 2020; Northern Territory Treaty Commission, 2020). Despite the large number of different political structures, the legitimacy of these different structures or organizational structures is contested among Indigenous leaders, including the leadership of the CoP. Another significant Indigenous political development that will impact on the implementation of the National Agreement will be the co-​design of a Voice to (the Australian) Parliament, which emerged from the Uluru Statement from the Heart, and the desire for constitutional reform (McKay, 2017). The Turnbull coalition government rejected the idea of a constitutionally enshrined Voice to Parliament in 2017, but committed to further work in designing Indigenous representative structures (Parliament of the Commonwealth of Australia, 2018). A co-​design process was subsequently initiated by the Morrison coalition government following its election in 2019, with a Senior Advisory Group tasked with forming both a National Group and a Local/​Regional Co-​Design Group (Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2019). It is worth observing that some Indigenous leaders who have advocated for constitutional reform have been skeptical about the significance of the National Agreement on

214   Ian Anderson Closing the Gap and its significance for self-​determination. According to one of them, Cobble Cobble woman Professor Megan Davis, this is because the peaks are contracted service providers. The peaks rely on government funds to run their organisations and these monies are pegged to the governments’ outcomes, not ours. Government can defund service deliverers and dismiss them with a wave of a pen or defund them when it chooses. (Davis, 2020)

Nevertheless, having nongovernment partners at the COAG table certainly allowed for a significant disruption to the traditional Commonwealth/​state and territory dynamics. It also led to a distinct difference in COAG’s policy objectives and the framing of accountability.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have shown how a multifaceted approach to Indigenous power demonstrates that the path to realizing Indigenous rights is as contested a territory for Indigenous leaders as it is for governments. A nonbinary analysis of Indigenous and government power gives greater visibility to Indigenous agency and the fact that Indigenous leaders contest the political legitimacy of different representative structures. I have also shown how Indigenous nongovernment stakeholders can successfully shape negotiation outcomes. Although the long-​term impact of the National Agreement on Closing the Gap is yet to be realized, it does provide a useful case study of how the negotiation of power by Indigenous nongovernment actors can exploit the possibilities of liberal governmentality for the benefit of the communities they serve.

References Aboriginal Affairs NSW. (2018). Ochre five years on. Sydney: Aboriginal Affairs NSW. https://​ www.aborig​inal​affa​irs.nsw.gov.au/​media/​websit​e_​pa​ges/​our-​age​ncy/​stay​ing-​acco​unta​ble/​ ochre/​ochre-​ann​ual-​repo​rts/​OCHRE-​5-​YEARS-​ON-​rep​ort-​2019.pdf Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner. (2005). Social justice report 2005. Sydney: Australian Human Rights Commission. Aboriginal Victoria. (2020). Treaty bodies. Melbourne: Government of Victoria. https://​www .abo​rigi​nalv​icto​ria.vic.gov.au/​tre​aty-​bod​ies Anderson, I. (2004). The framework agreements: Intergovernmental agreements and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander health. In M. Langton, M. Tehan, L. Palmer, and K. Shain (Eds.), Honour among nations? Treaties and agreements with Indigenous People (pp. 254–​257). Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Anderson, I. (2007). The end of Aboriginal self-​determination? Futures, 39(2–​3), 137–​154.

Closing the Gap    215 Australian Government. (2020). History of Closing the Gap 2020. Canberra: Australian Government. https://​www.closin​gthe​gap.gov.au/​hist​ory Australian Human Rights Commission. (2020). Close the Gap: Indigenous health campaign. Sydney: Australian Human Rights Council. https://​huma​nrig​hts.gov.au/​our-​work/​abo​rigi​ nal-​and-​tor​res-​str​ait-​islan​der-​soc​ial-​just​ice/​proje​cts/​close-​gap-​ind​igen​ous-​hea​lth BBC News. (2020, February1). Coronavirus: US and Australia close borders to Chinese arrivals. BBC News. https://​www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​51338​899 Beckett, J. (1988). Aboriginality, citizenship and nation state. Social Analysis, 24, 3–​18. Bielefeld, S. (2018). Indigenous Peoples, neoliberalism and the state: A retreat from rights to “responsibilisation” via the cashless welfare card. In D. Howard-​Wagner, M. Bargh, & I. Altamirano-​Jimenez (Eds.), The neoliberal state, recognition and Indigenous rights (pp. 147–​ 165). CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Chesterman, J., & Galligan, B. (1997). Citizens without rights: Aborigines and Australian citizenship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Close the Gap Steering Committee. (2020). We nurture our culture for our future, and our culture nurtures us. Sydney: Australian Human Rights Council. Closing the Gap in Partnership. (2020). National Agreement on Closing the Gap: July 2020. Canberra: Coalition of the Peaks and all Australian Governments. https://​www.closin​gthe​ gap.gov.au/​sites/​defa​ult/​files/​files/​natio​nal-​agreem​ent-​ctg.pdf Closing the Gap Refresh. (2018). Special Gathering statement. Canberra: Australian Government. Coalition of Peaks. (2018). Letter to prime minister, premiers and chief ministers. Canberra: Coalition of Peaks. Coalition of Peaks. (2019). 2019 community engagements. Canberra: Coalition of Peaks. https://​ coali​tion​ofpe​aks.org.au/​downl​oad/​2019-​commun​ity-​enga​geme​nts/​ Commonwealth of Australia. (2019). Closing the Gap—​Prime minister’s report 2019. Canberra: National Indigenous Australian Agency, Australian Government. Commonwealth of Australia. (2020). Closing the Gap report 2020. Canberra: Australian Government. Council of Australian Governments. (2008). Council of Australian Governments meeting, Canberra, 29 November 2008: Communiqué. Canberra: COAG. Council of Australian Governments. (2016). COAG Communiqué (Canberra: COAG. Council of Australian Governments. (2017). COAG Communiqué. Canberra: COAG. Council of Australian Governments. (2018a). Meeting of the Council of Australian Governments, Canberra, 9 February 2018: Communiqué. Canberra: COAG. Council of Australian Governments. (2018b). Meeting of the Council of Australian Governments, Adelaide, 12 December 2018: Communiqué. Canberra: COAG. Council of Australian Governments. (2018c). COAG statement on the Closing the Gap Refresh, 12 December 2018. Canberra: COAG. Council of Australian Governments. (2019). Partnership agreement on Closing the Gap: 2019–​ 2029. Canberra: Coalition of the Peaks and COAG. Cowlishaw, G. (2006). Rednecks, eggheads and blackfellas: A study of racial power and intimacy in Australia. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Davis, G., & Silver, H. (2015). Intergovernmental relations and the role of senior officials: Two case studies and some lessons learned. Australian Journal of Public Administration, 74(4), 467–​483. Davis, M. (2020, July 8). New agreement won’t deliver the change Indigenous Australians need. Sydney Morning Herald. https://​www.smh.com.au/​natio​nal/​new-​agreem​ent-​won-​t-​deli​ver -​the-​cha​nge-​ind​igen​ous-​aust​rali​ans-​need-​20200​705-​p55​93d.html

216   Ian Anderson Department of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Partnerships. (2020). Tracks to Treaty. Brisbane: Queensland Government. https://​www.dat​sip.qld.gov.au/​progr​ams-​init​iati​ves/​ tra​cks-​tre​aty Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. (2019). A voice for Indigenous Australians [press release]. Canberra: Australian Government. https://​minist​ers.pmc.gov.au/​wyatt/​ 2019/​voice-​ind​igen​ous-​aust​rali​ans Eatock, C. (2018). Resisting the ascendancy of an emboldened colonialism. In D. Howard-​ Wagner, M. Bargh, & I. Altamirano-​Jimenez (Eds.), The neoliberal state, recognition and Indigenous rights (pp. 59–​75). CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Empowered Communities. (2015). Empowered communities, empowered peoples: Design report. Sydney: Wunan Foundation Inc. https://​empow​ered​comm​unit​ies.org.au/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ ads/​2018/​04/​EC-​Rep​ort.pdf Gorecki, S., & Kelly, J. (2012). Treasury’s Wellbeing Framework 2012. Canberra: The Treasury, Australian Government. https://​treas​ury.gov.au/​publ​icat​ion/​econo​mic-​roun​dup-​issue-​3 -​2012-​2/​econo​mic-​roun​dup-​issue-​3-​2012/​treasu​rys-​wellbe​ing-​framew​ork Glenday, J. (2014, May 12). Budget 2014: Axe to fall on government agencies in search for savings. ABC News. https://​www.abc.net.au/​news/​2014-​05-​12/​doz​ens-​of-​agenc​ies-​to-​fall-​under -​fede​ral-​bud​get-​axe/​5445​354?nw=​0&r=​HtmlF​ragm​ent Habibis, D. (2018). Ideology vs context in the neoliberal state’s management of remote Indigenous housing reform. In D. Howard-​Wagner, M. Bargh, & I. Altamirano-​Jimenez (Eds.), The neoliberal state, recognition and indigenous rights (pp. 167–​184). CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Howard-​Wagner, D. (2018). Aboriginal organisations, self-​determination and the neoliberal age: A case study of how the “game has changed” for Aboriginal organisations in Newcastle. In D. Howard-​Wagner, M. Bargh, & I. Altamirano-​Jimenez (Eds.), The neoliberal state, recognition and indigenous rights (pp. 217–​237). CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Howard-​Wagner, D., Bargh, M., & Altamirano-​Jimenez, I. (Eds.). (2018). The neoliberal state, recognition and indigenous rights. CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Indigenous Health Equality Summit. (2008, March 20). Close the Gap: Indigenous health equality summit—​Statement of intent. Canberra: Australian Government. Jeffries, S., & Menham, G. (2008). The Murdi Paaki Regional Assembly: Indigenous governance in action. Journal of Indigenous Policy, 9, 3–​13. McKay, D. (2017). Uluru Statement: A quick guide. Canberra: Parliamentary Library Commonwealth of Australia. Morris-​Suzuki, T. (1994). Collective memory, collective forgetting. Meanjin, 55, 597–​612. Murdi Paaki Regional Assembly. (2020). Home. Cobar, NSW: Murdi Paaki Regional Assembly. https://​www.mpra.com.au National Indigenous Australians Agency. (2020). Empowered communities. Canberra: Australian Government. https://​www.niaa.gov.au/​ind​igen​ous-​affa​irs/​empowe​red-​comm​ unit​ies New South Wales Government. (2013). OCHRE: Opportunity, Choice, Healing, Responsibility, Empowerment: NSW government plan for Aboriginal affairs—​Education, employment & accountability. Sydney: NSW Government. https://​apo.org.au/​sites/​defa​ult/​files/​resou​rce -​files/​2013-​04/​apo-​nid2​6705​1_​1.pdf

Closing the Gap    217 Northern Territory Treaty Commission. (2020). Home: NT Treaty Commission. Darwin: Northern Territory Government. https://​treat​ynt.com.au/​home Office for Women. (2018). 2018 COAG national summit on reducing violence against women and their children. Canberra: Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. Parliament of the Commonwealth of Australia. (2018). Final report: Joint Select Committee on Constitutional Recognition relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia. Peterson, N. (Ed.). (1998). Citizenship and Indigenous Australians: Changing conceptions and possibilities. Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Sanders, W. (2018). Missing ATSIC: Australia’s need for a strong Indigenous representative body. In D. Howard-​Wagner, M. Bargh, & I. Altamirano-​Jimenez (Eds.), The neoliberal state, recognition and indigenous rights (pp. 113–​130). CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Sullivan, P. (2018). The tyranny of neoliberal public management and the challenge for Aboriginal community organisations. In D. Howard-​Wagner, M. Bargh, & I. Altamirano-​ Jimenez (Eds.), The neoliberal state, recognition and indigenous rights (pp. 201–​215). CAEPR Research Monograph no. 40. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Walter, M., and Russo Carroll, S. (2021). Indigenous Data sovereignty, governance and the link to Indigenous policy. In M. Walter, T. Kukutai, S. Russo Carroll, and D. Rodriguez-​Lonebear (Eds.). Indigenous data sovereignty and policy (pp. 1–​20). New York: Routledge. Watson, V. (2012). Governing Indigenous alterity: Towards a sociology of Australian Indigenous issues. In D. Howard-​Wagner, D. Habibis, & T. Petray (Eds.), Theorising Indigenous sociology: Australian perspectives. Sydney: The Australian Sociological Association and The University of Sydney. https://​ses.libr​ary.usyd.edu.au/​han​dle/​2123/​8788 Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–​409.

Chapter 14

Indigenou s S o c i et i e s and Disast e rs Simon Lambert

Introduction They say this is the end of the world. The power’s out and we’ve run out of gas and no one’s come up from down south. The say the food is running out and that we’re in danger. There’s a word they say too –​ah . . . pock . . . ah . . .” “Apocalypse?” “Yes, apocalypse! What a silly word. I can tell you there’s no word like that in Ojibwe.” Moon of the Crusted Snow, Waubgeshig Rice (2018, p. 22)

Disasters punctuate all societies, but we could be forgiven in thinking that Indigenous societies are inherently disastrous. Take the film Blood Quantum (2019, dir., Jeff Barnaby, Mi’kmaq), an overdue Indigenous contribution to the zombie genre. The plot revolves around an immunity that all the Indigenous characters have to whatever turns their non-​Indigenous (White) neighbors into your classic undead cannibal. For all their faults, it is not the residents of Red Crow Reservation who (spoiler alert) have an insatiable hunger for intestines, penises, and babies, but rather the descendants of colonizers. And so we tell ourselves, and the non-​Indigenous world, that we may live in a bad way, but a zombie attack is just one more thing to deal with, and maybe not even the worst thing that week. The premise at the heart of Blood Quantum has not aged well in relation to the COVID-​19 pandemic. Many Indigenous communities were disproportionately impacted (International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs & International Labour Organization, 2020; Steyn et al., 2020), with the Navajo Nation in the southwestern United States experiencing perhaps the highest infection rate and mortality, and in the world’s largest economy (Jim, 2020). However, many Indigenous communities

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     219 have—​ so far—​ avoided their predicted decimation; the rate of COVID-​ 19 for Indigenous communities in Canada was initially lower than that for the general population (Richardson & Crawford, 2020), as it was in New Zealand for Māori (McMeeking & Savage, 2020). Yet as the virus mutates and continues to infect and kill people, Indigenous communities remain extremely vulnerable. In the words of Nigerian researcher Victor Okerie, “Every disaster is a story teller” (Athayde et al., 2015), and the ending of COVID-​19 for Indigenous Peoples has yet to play out. What can be said of COVID-​19 is that Indigenous experiences of this latest disaster continue the story told in the research literature, a curious amalgam of vulnerability (Indigenous communities are the most at risk to disasters) and resilience (epitomized by our communities living with environmental hazards over extended timelines). Pākehā sociologist Steve Matthewman (2015, p. 4) argues that disasters “lift the veil” on how a society works or doesn’t work; we see what is tolerated and what is not. Indigenous observers well know that a disaster strips a society bare to the challenges of hazard, risk, and survival in a world of inequities and inequalities. Indigenous endurance (a more apt term than resilience) has been based on cultural institutions that mediate between biophysical environments and the evolving needs and desires of communities through inclusive, relationship-​based processes. We see this in the work of Durie (2005), Louis et al. (2012), Purdy (2020), and many other Indigenous scholars who are considerably outnumbered by the ranks of non-​Indigenous scholars who support, and do not support, Indigenous discourses. Surely, this vision of a more intelligent approach to life describes what is desperately needed in the 21st century. But despite the growing insights of disaster risk reduction science and policy, Indigenous societies are more exposed to risk (United Nations General Assembly, 2014). I argue there are two obvious reasons why Indigenous sociologists should be interested in disasters: first, to better recognize a key feature of Indigenous worlds; and second, to support these worlds in reducing the risks they face. With disasters projected to increase in occurrence and severity (World Bank & United Nations, 2010), this might even be seen as an urgent requirement of Indigenous sociology.

An Indigenous Sociology of Disasters: Resilience and Vulnerability Mainstream disasterologists rarely acknowledge their discipline is an atheoretical space of great importance to society but with limited success in reducing disasters (Alexander, 2017). Instead, most disaster-​related literature is a rapidly growing collection of empirical case studies and their “lessons learned.” I admit this literature does accommodate an expanding role for Indigenous Knowledges, and multilateral disaster risk reduction (DRR) agreements allow for the integration of Indigenous Knowledges into Western ones (Lambert & Scott, 2019); empowering Indigenous knowledge-​holders, however,

220   Simon Lambert remains difficult and contentious (Lambert & Mark-​Shadbolt, 2021). The justification of a role for Indigenous Knowledges in managing disasters is that despite many generations of marginalization and violent oppression, Indigenous communities still retain knowledges and practices that enable their survival in the face of traumatic and recurring events. And so Indigenous Peoples are the epitome of resilience. The term itself has a venerable history in several disciplines, notably engineering (a property of materials and structures), psychology (displayed by individuals, particularly children in distressing circumstances), and ecology (the stability or recovery of ecosystems). As a system property such as a community might hold, we can interpret resilience as the ability of a system to absorb shocks before altering its own structure in some way, or the speed of recovery of a system following an emergency or disaster (Adger, 2000; Ulanowicz, 2000). Paraphrasing non-​Indigenous researchers Berkes et al. (2003), we can identify three defining characteristics of community resilience: the amount of change a community can undergo while retaining the same controls on function and structure, the degree to which a community is capable of self-​organization, and the ability to build and increase the capacity for learning and adaptation. Yet Indigenous communities also experience ongoing vulnerability in the face of growing environmental and technological hazards (Rivera, 2020, Secretariat of the Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues, 2017). The COVID-​19 pandemic has exposed the frailty of national health systems that were already failing Indigenous Peoples (Jim, 2020). Resource extraction from Indigenous lands and waters continues as companies “seek to shift the burden of recovery and make opportunistic use of the crisis” (Bernauer & Slowey, 2020). Too often, “disaster capitalism” (Klein, 2007) is content to continue without the transparency expected or required to address concerns, and now the private and public sectors seem beset with a franticness bought on by economic decline driven by the shuttering of many aspects of the economy due to COVID-​19. Given the overwhelming impacts of colonization, is Indigenous sociology limited by a lack of attention to the details of disasters, given that modern Indigenous worlds can be described as post-​disaster landscapes? Of course, it is not just Indigenous communities struggling in this new world of resilience. While disaster fatalities in affluent countries are declining—​testament to the efficacy of disaster sciences in mitigating disasters—​the increasing deaths in poorer countries (United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction, 2015) speaks to the ongoing failure of politics to be truly inclusive. The Boxing Day tsunami of 2004 provides evidence of both resilience and vulnerability. The disaster led, rightly, to a massive international response. While cynically we might say this was due to the large number of Western tourists killed and injured (Keys et al., 2006), the role of Indigenous Knowledges in the response received important attention within disaster studies and was credited with saving many lives (see, for example, McAdoo et al., 2006). Most citations refer to Simeulue Island, where estimates of deaths range from seven (Meyers & Watson, 2008) to 44 of the 78,000 residents (United Nations Information Management Service, 2005). The key Indigenous Knowledge

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     221 credited with this result is a traditional song called a smong, the words of which warn people to seek higher ground after severe shaking. Syafwina (2014) reveals the smong (actually a lullaby sung to children) was originally composed after a 7.8 magnitude earthquake on January 4, 1907, which caused the death of 70% of the Simeulue population. Of course, a successful response to one event can arise from an unsuccessful response or nonresponse to a previous event: societies do learn. But while Indigenous Knowledge can be a powerful tool for DRR, as the Boxing Day tsunami shows, “without recognition and utilization, it is merely a part of common things in community” (Syafwina, 2014, p. 573, emphasis added). The limitations of Indigenous Knowledges were also observed by Dutch researcher Thea Hilhorst et al. (2015) in the disaster response to a 2009 cyclone in the Asia Pacific region, noting the knowledge was “neither completely local, nor homogenous, nor shared” (p. 506). Traditional knowledges are just a part of the suite of knowledges accessible by Indigenous Peoples for their development and security. History also records a 10-​year-​old British girl, Tilly Smith, on holiday with her family in Thailand, who noticed the sea behaving strangely while on a walk and realized a tsunami was imminent. Ms. Smith’s knowledge came from a geography class; there is no mention of Indigenous Knowledges on her Wikipedia page (Smith, 2017). Of course, the wider death toll from the 2004 tsunami, the loss and suffering of millions of people and then subsequent events (the area was struck by another large earthquake in March 2005) make a mockery of all knowledges that might presume to inform disaster mitigation. The Simeulue Islanders are doing a lot of work in DRR, in more ways than one. Lest I be thought an Indigenous Knowledges apostate, I acknowledge the sheer endurance of Indigenous communities is proof that something works in the face of the environmental hazards, colonial genocide, pandemics, and so on; it is just not obvious exactly what works. I am intrigued by Indigenous conceptions of time and see disasters challenging simplistic conceptions of circular time, as Indigenous disasters seem to clearly unfold along an irrevocable model of linear time. To better understand Indigenous societies in disasters, and prompt or provoke Indigenous sociology into examining disasters, I open four windows to look at Indigenous disaster sociology. The first two are actually post-​disaster phases: the response and recovery to a disaster. The second two are the readiness of a society, and actions to reduce the vulnerability of this society to future disasters (National Emergency Management Agency, 2021). Each phase is inextricably social, and if any culture can be said to exist, it must exist to inform urgent decisions as much as those decisions made with the benefit of reflection.

Phase 1: Response As the lead characters of Blood Quantum realize the danger—​namely White people—​ they wisely respond by taking steps to exclude all zombies from their community. This characterizes the COVID-​19 response of many isolated communities that, when and

222   Simon Lambert where they could, simply barricaded the roads that led to their settlements. Examples can be seen in Canada (Macyshon & Bogart, 2020) and New Zealand (Williams & Biddle, 2020). The deployment of cultural practices and the mobilization of traditional institutions was also seen in the aftermath of the 2011 Christchurch earthquake, when Māori institutions coordinated a collective deployment of support (Lambert, 2014a; Phibbs et al., 2015). In a similar fashion, the Indigenous response to the 2015 fire season in northern Saskatchewan filled gaps in the official support. Mainstream organizations, principally the Red Cross, set up evacuation centers in major cities, a normal response. But unofficial evacuation sites were also established in several Indigenous communities (Lambert et al., 2019). These Indigenous-​led emergency responses stood out in assisting Indigenous evacuees, particularly Elders, some of whom had experienced racism within the official response. Families were kept together and traditional foods offered, with local hunters and fishers supplying what was called the “Rez Cross” (Betancur, 2019). Indigenous communities are first responders through unprompted and culturally framed practices. Despite the presence of Indigenous communities on the front line of many disasters, legislation and policy often exclude Indigenous voices in emergency responses. Métis researcher Amy Christianson (2011) notes the decline in Indigenous participation in fighting wildfires as regulations increased training and fitness requirements. Many Indigenous communities also lack the capacity and training to respond in a timely, and therefore effective, manner. In the words of one community member, applicable to a variety of hazards and emergencies, “Whenever there’s a problem, you deal with it while it’s small before it becomes big, right?” (Asfaw et al., 2019). Indigenous first responders are operating both formally, as trained front-​line professionals, and informally, by default as community members, as they have from time immemorial. In this supposedly first phase of a disaster, we see Indigenous societies spontaneously helping those in need. Operationalized, such culturally framed responses satisfy all the standard requirements—​shelter, food and water, hygiene, psychosocial support—​with communal bathrooms and kitchens, and sleeping space, with experienced cooks and servers bringing their curious concern and collective chatter channeled through cultural lenses. The logistical nimbleness and empathetic sociality of Indigenous communities are remarkable (Yumagulova et al., 2021). But if colonization is disaster (see, for example, Dunbar-​Ortiz, 2014), is Indigenous sociology, or Indigenous anything, always operating in a post-​disaster context? And if so, what are the implications of this?

Phase 2: Recovery The response phase is the most graphic, with its seemingly endless images and videos of frightening events streamed by subjects in the midst of the disaster to personal computers and handheld devices of a potentially global audience. Yet the recovery phase is the focus of intense and often extended attention as figurative and literal postmortems

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     223 accumulate, and the disputes and controversies over who benefits and who struggles are laid bare. Recovery is also perhaps the most subjective phase of disaster management. When is a disaster over? When are you expected to be “back to normal”? The temporal parameters of emergency powers are as contested as the conditions under which an emergency is declared (Loevy, 2016). Likewise, the relevant political authority and legal jurisdictions are contingent upon historical legacies and concurrent economic forces. States have an obvious and vested interest in the reassertion of the status quo, whereas a family who has lost a loved one is permanently altered. If you accept colonization as the defining disaster of Indigenous Peoples, when are these Peoples recovered? Does it end? Can it end? The 2011 Christchurch earthquakes provide a vital case study in understanding the impacts of a major disaster on an urban Indigenous population. Comprising several major seismic events over many months, and thousands of smaller but still anxiety-​ inducing aftershocks, urban Māori communities struggled to recover. A series of six “well-​being” surveys were conducted (Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2016), over which Māori participants disproportionately reported a decline in their well-​being. Of course, we must be cautious about making blanket generalizations about Indigenous Peoples. In my own work I found Māori individuals and households with pre-​disaster economic security fared better than Māori and non-​Māori without economic security through the recovery phase (Lambert, 2014b). To say that general post-​ disaster well-​being often declines, and that financial security mitigates this, are banal results but deserve mention as a rejoinder to arguments that position Indigenous endurance as prima facie evidence of something more elevated, a resilience somehow emanating from Indigenous DNA. The extended temporal characteristics of Indigenous experiences can be further seen in the precursors and aftermath of the 1917 Halifax, Canada, explosion, the largest human-​made explosion before the atomic era. The natural harbor of Halifax on the Atlantic coast of Canada was a key supply node for the Allies in World War I. On December 6, 1917, two ships, one carrying munitions to the front lines, collided and caught fire. The resulting blast devastated large areas of the city and killed over 2,000 people. Kepe’kek, a Mi’kmaq community also known as Turtle Grove or Cove, was almost directly opposite the explosion (Burke, 1994). All seven households were destroyed and nine of the 21 residents killed (Jeremiah Bartlett Alexis, aka Jerry Lonecloud, in Holmes Whitehead, 1991, p. 304). The community was thrown into an urgent response and difficult recovery. At the time, a White settler had sought the removal of Mi’kmaq and was pursuing this through lobbying government and physical harassment. After the explosion, he and other White settlers saw “[t]‌he Indians were gone, evicted by the explosion rather than by him or the government” (Remes, 2014, p. 457). A local politician thought of the explosion as “the closing scene of Indian life in Dartmouth” (Remes, 2014, p. 457). Like the deliberate destruction of Indigenous populations in the centuries before, the disaster was imagined as a tragic but unavoidable disappearance. The absence of Natives meant that Whites who wanted land could move in without trouble or compunction. Except the

224   Simon Lambert Mi’kmaq were not gone. The majority of that community survived, and Mi’kmaq litigation for their rights, which had begun in the late 1800s, continued. On the centenary of the disaster, a young Mi’kmaq woman announced the revival of her communities’ ownership through the development of waterfront property (Coulter et al., 2018, Demont, 2017). Recovery is in the eyes of the recovered, and the time it takes to achieve is just that. Other experiences of Indigenous recovery can be identified in the disaster literature. A 1951 eruption of Mt. Lamington in Papua New Guinea led to “deep social and cultural changes” for several Indigenous communities (Gaillard, 2007). Of these, the Orokaivans had to leave their ancestral lands on the slopes of the volcano, losing traditional ceremonies as communal land ownership became sole tenure, and new cash crops were adopted. Higher mortality rates among the elderly, perhaps the ultimate indicator of Indigenous vulnerability, were also observed. In Peru, reconstruction after a 1970 earthquake led to significant changes for mestizos and Indian social hierarchies (Bode, 1977) and the saying “first the earthquake, then the disaster” (Oliver-​Smith, 1994) speaks to the role of corruption in disaster recovery. Resettlement of Taiwanese Indigenous communities after Cyclone Morakot in 2009 saw the “interplay between power, resilience and vulnerability . . . reconfigure as displacement or disconnection” (Hsu et al., 2019). These are the same brutal “recovery” decisions made on several Manitoba communities evacuated in 2011 because of flooding. Many community members were housed in hotels and motels; some had not returned to their community after seven years (Indigenous Services Canada Emergency Management, 2018). Again, Elders were particularly vulnerable and the community’s death rate was several percentage points higher than the Manitoba average (Grabish, 2017). Recovery was killing them. Phibbs et al. (2018) label this the Inverse Recovery Law, but at its simplest, Indigenous communities suffer because that is what dominant political-​economic systems deem normal. While the lack of Indigenous self-​determination is laid bare in the constraints put on Indigenous communities, a significant counter to impoverishment is the experience of Ngāi Tahu, the local tribe in whose territories the Christchurch earthquakes played out. Having settled a large treaty claim in the mid-​1990s, the tribe had accumulated significant assets, notably in property and joint ventures across several sectors. While the tribe’s corporate portfolio took a significant hit in the year after the quake, their collective wealth bounced back remarkably quickly, driven by the need for rapid residential rebuilds in which the tribe was able to develop its own land holdings or partner as a keystone investor (Kenney, 2019; Wood, 2015). Treaties, where they exist, articulate sovereignty and demand a voice (preferably multiple voices) in the decision-​making process. Here again, as we see with Ngāi Tahu in Christchurch, there is a need for a critical look at the machinations of capital beyond the platitudes of cultural renaissance. To summarize these first two phases: Indigenous societies respond as they must, and recover as they can. The first phase, that of responding to an event, can have extremely compacted time frames of split-​second life and death decisions. The second and often drawn-​out recovery phase can be measured in months if not years and may never be complete.

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     225

Phase 3: Readiness For emergency and disaster managers, readiness or preparedness is the key period in which a “better world” can be sought as risks are identified and then mitigated. While this involves training and resourcing specialized emergency services, it also includes planning by public and private organizations so that employees at all levels are aware of their roles in the event of a significant disruption to normal operations (Handmer & Dovers, 2007). I have already noted the importance of the community-​centric Indigenous first response observed (but rarely acknowledged) in the immediate aftermath of many disasters (see also McGee & Christianson, 2021). The realization of the need for readiness is evident among many Indigenous leaders. The 2009 H1N1 pandemic prompted an emergency plan by the Beardy’s and Okemasis Cree Nation in Saskatchewan, Canada (Betancur, 2019), and news of an outbreak of a new virus in China led the Pasqua First Nation chief to stockpile supplies and prepare for quarantine (Laskowski, 2020). A nonfatal earthquake in Christchurch on September 4, 2010, prompted a Māori mental health manager in Christchurch to back up client data, a key factor in how her organization maintained services in the fatal February 2011 event (Lambert et al., 2014). Leadership matters in all phases, and readiness is one area where prescient governance and management can save lives. These examples emphasize the deliberate underresourcing of Indigenous efforts to minimize the exposure of their communities to hazards and risks. While the story of COVID-​ 19 remains unfinished, the success of some Indigenous communities in minimizing their exposure to this disaster occurred despite the woefully unprepared wider pandemic readiness (Bell, 2020; Noyes, 2020). Sociologists, Indigenous or otherwise, will find fertile ground in examining the implications of intellectual and political corruption on the decision-​making and social behavior exposed by the window of this latest pandemic. Again, I draw attention to the more specific readiness that Indigenous disaster sociology might inform. Researchers have collected considerable case studies on what was often called Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK), a foundational base to Indigenous Knowledges, as it focuses on the interpretation and manipulation of ecosystems by Indigenous communities (Aitken et al., 2021; Chisholm Hatfield et al., 2018). For instance, communities living near or even on volcanoes (volcanic soil is very fertile) have always integrated volcanic risks into the mythical, genealogical, and pragmatic interactions they have with their environment (Glowczewski, 2020). Indigenous histories include the deployment of techniques through a framework of belief and understanding of these worlds, including their hazards, as familial and therefore not alien relations. The relationships between hazard and culture present two aspects of readiness that can be informed by an Indigenous disaster sociology. The first is the role of the mystical and the prophecy of some individuals who foresee, among other things, disasters and danger. Of this I can say little other than it is barely examined by researchers, and the associated knowledges not easily or safely accessed. Still, it is a topic we should be more familiar with. Kronmüller et al. (2017) claim an enactment of a Mapuche ceremony, a

226   Simon Lambert ritual human sacrifice “to try to stop the end of the world” after a 1960 earthquake in Chile. There is the story of a ghost canoe on Lake Tarawera in the days before an 1866 eruption that killed many Māori (Tapuke, 2017). While evil portents have been articulated by many religious leaders and their followers in the aftermath of disaster, European philosophy explicitly dismissed metaphysical causation after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake (Coen, 2013; Dynes, 2000). For Indigenous observers, the “metaphysical” is both still present and still interpreted as a causal factor in disasters. How does an Indigenous sociology (re)integrate topics long dismissed by Western sociology? The second aspect of disaster readiness worthy of attention by Indigenous disaster sociology is the explicit knowledge of hazards held by communities. Traditional early warning systems may still be evident in knowledge of the behavior of various animal species, such as floods predicted by insects moving up trees, or birds nesting higher, or weather and climate observations (Armatas et al., 2016; Belay-​As, 2019). These knowledges might be communal—​they are certainly described as such—​but vital expertise still resides within the heads of individuals ( Ataria et al., 2018; Haque, 2019,). How these knowledge keepers collaborate with disaster specialists, government officials, and emergency managers will always contingent on people and systems that too often remain mired in racism and violence (Lambert & Mark-​Shadbolt, 2021). The concept of readying for a disaster requires us to transition into the most surreal phase of a disaster: the time before the event has occurred. But first, can the start of any disaster be easily identified? In the Hollywood hit Titanic (1997, dir. Cameron), an officer of the doomed ship talks to our heroine, informing her that because of the damage sustained after hitting an iceberg, the ship will sink. He reminds her of their previous conversation about the lack of sufficient lifeboats to rescue all passengers. Most of the owners, investors, crew, and passengers of the Titanic assumed the disaster simply could not happen, as the ship was designed to be unsinkable; others saw that the risks could and should have been mitigated (a slower speed, a faster response, more lifeboats). And even after the Titanic had collided with a million tons of ice, most passengers still did not know the disaster had already happened; the ship was catastrophically compromised and was in the process of sinking. The band, as we now say, played on.1 Returning to Indigenous contact experiences—​those years before the disaster of colonization was evident—​we hear how Indigenous People showed curiosity, fear, amusement, attraction, and repulsion (Nabokov, 1999). If colonization is the uber-​disaster of Indigenous societies, is disaster readiness beyond the strategic reach of Indigenous communities? However, rather than resign ourselves to the apocalypse, the way to a better future is through building a better present. How can Indigenous societies implement effective disaster risk reduction?

Phase 4: Reduction Disaster management has transitioned from an emphasis on response and recovery in which hazards were theorized as external to society, to a disaster risk reduction (DRR)

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     227 approach that sees hazards as emanating from society (United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction, 2015). While this paradigm shift coincides with the acceptance of Indigenous Knowledges in DRR, the wider forces at work remain oppressive towards Indigenous Peoples. The lack of a voice in managing Indigenous territories (Walker et al., 2013) is manifested in the recurring losses, evacuations, and negative experiences of Indigenous communities through disasters. For example, flood mitigation planning by successive Manitoba governments meant the 2011 flood waters were directed away from densely populated metropolitan areas toward sparsely populated rural space—​exactly those spaces reserved for Indigenous communities (Thompson, 2015). Spanish colonization of the Americas limited and often destroyed the ability of Indigenous populations to coexist with local hazards (Tory, 1979). Oliver-​Smith (1994) revealed the influence of Spanish materials, design, and settlement patterns in contributing to the vulnerability of Indigenous communities in the 1970 Peruvian earthquake disaster. This particular event gave disaster sociology the memorable line “first the earthquake, then the disaster!” highlighting how the modern corruption of dominant societies continues the disaster risk creation of colonization. Roles for Indigenous communities in managing fire on their lands is often dismissed by policymakers, but a powerful case exists for traditional fire management techniques in light of recurring megafires in the United States, Australia, and elsewhere, ecosystems in which Indigenous Peoples have lived with and managed fire risks for millennia (Richardson & Goll, 2020). Given the urgency of the latest report of the International Panel on Climate Change (2021), it is clear that Indigenous Peoples should not only be front-​line responders but also backroom strategizers in addressing threats to local and global survival.

Discussion With overlapping biophysical and socioeconomic disasters, Indigenous Peoples at community and neighborhood scales are experiencing the physical, economic, social, and cultural collapse of their space and place. Urban Indigenous communities add to the complexity of this landscape as their proportion of Indigenous societies grow, and the risks they face multiply. What is this world? And how can it be safer? Disaster literature has transitioned from a denial of Indigenous histories and abilities to a limited acceptance of Indigenous Knowledges as insightful, accurate, and valuable in mitigating many natural hazards. We can see that Indigenous communities spontaneously and logically extend their support to non-​Indigenous neighbors and strangers as a response to disaster. These communities then struggle to assert their needs in recovering from a disaster, preparing for the next event, and reducing their long-​term exposure to future disasters. Some of these future disasters, such as climate change, have in a sense already happened. Blind acceptance of “resilience” as a label for Indigenous People who are not dead in the face of disaster is to prescribe to Indigeneity an essentialism hardly borne out by lived experiences and empirical evidence. As with the fictional residents of Red Crow

228   Simon Lambert Reserve, Indigenous Peoples perform an endurance that is increasingly interpreted as the last resort for all humanity. Here we risk a reliance on metaphor divorced from the dynamic risk profile any community. The literature is dominated by well-​meaning (or not) non-​Indigenous sociologists and fellow travelers who find what they are looking for in their academic allyship. For example, a 2015 newspaper article (Wannan, 2015) supports the validity of Indigenous Knowledges in describing where a flooded stream is seen as a lizard whose tails flicks from side to side (Evans, 2020; Hikuroa, 2016; Jenkins, 2019). Such publications read as though Indigenous Peoples are trying to convince themselves that Indigenous ancestors knew a thing or two about the world they lived in. Of course, Indigenous Knowledges are not to be known or judged by a single datum or story, and no sound bite or publication can do justice to a culture. While the role of Indigenous Knowledges is important for some hazards, this knowledge is fragmented and its relevance questionable. The appropriate response can be as simple as a lullaby or the intergenerational memory of a quietly meandering stream that may occasionally flood. For some hazards, the knowledge to be mobilized for DRR may be no more complex than a geography lesson mobilized through any physical or online classroom. Returning to the concept of time and change, are the environmental foundations of Indigenous Knowledges changing too rapidly for effective use? Inuit researcher Watt-​Cloutier (2015), discussing climate change, uses the Inuit term uggianaqtuq, which describes “a friend who is behaving unexpectedly, or in an unfamiliar way” (cited in Scott, 2019). The previously predictable weather and sea ice conditions were deteriorating and Inuit knowledge keepers were struggling with the pace of environmental change. I take Matthewman’s (2015, p. 4) interpretation of disasters as “syndromes of our times” and argue that Indigenous societies occupy the front line of past, present, and future disasters. Viewing Indigenous societies through the windows broken open by disaster show our knowledges and cultures are vulnerable to loss, marginalization, and dismissal no matter how revered or practical they may be. The integration of Indigenous Knowledges into DRR (and other) science programs to build resilience “invites a fundamental question that must be continually revisited” (Bohensky & Maru, 2011): What is this integration building the resilience of, for whom, and on which scales in time and space? If risk is some mathematical function of hazard, exposure and outrage (Sandman, 1989), where is the outrage at the conditions which frame Indigenous lives? To paraphrase Engels (1845/​1969), dominant societies are daily committing Indigenous murders (see Hubbard, 2019) that non-​Indigenous people can barely trouble themselves with. Recovery (quick, slow, or never-​ending?) exposes the power structure of any society, and there are too few examples of Indigenous Peoples reclaiming this power. Time and again, when we unpack Indigenous experiences of disaster, we see declines in well-​ being, migrations from traditional territories, loss of resources, marginalization from decision-​making, and not a reduction but an increase in vulnerabilities through the creation of disaster risks. Demands to “build back better” rarely include a revolutionary change in power and control but revolve around better planning and more harmonious,

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     229 “nicer,” urban development (Gunder & Hillier, 2009). The limited acceptance of Indigenous Knowledges in DRR is unable to halt ever greater disasters as Indigenous rights, well-​being, and survival come under renewed pressure from neoliberal systems that are accelerating their extraction of wealth from fragile ecosystems. Indigenous territories are now blessed with newfound value in the currency of biodiversity, carbon, oxygen, and—​the ultimate colonial insult—​conservation parks and cultural havens. In the atheoretical space of disaster studies, let me tentatively propose a law of disaster studies, the discipline’s first, and one sourced from Indigenous experiences. Wherever disasters fall, where the impacted societies include or comprise Indigenous Peoples, then Indigenous communities will be more adversely impacted, and for longer, and with greater vulnerability to future disasters. Let me also offer a caveat: those Indigenous Peoples whose sovereignty is acknowledged can better reduce the risks they are exposed to, ready themselves for whatever might befall them, and, should a disaster occur, respond more effectively and recover quicker and better than might otherwise be the case. The deployment of Indigenous culture and logistics in the Saskatchewan “Rez Cross” and the empowerment of Ngāi Tahu post-​earthquake was built on a platform of continual resistance, community strengths, treaty rights (reiterated in the UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples), and increasingly through legislated authority. The disaster of colonization was foretold by any number of Indigenous leaders and seers (Nabokov, 1999). It had a beginning, we are perhaps now through the middle, and we are trying to bring the whole sorry experience to an end. Returning briefly to Indigenous experiences of time, I do not want colonization to be a recurring feature of circular or otherwise nonlinear time. Dealing with the risk of disasters requires a linear temporality in which preparedness to an event is an explicit requirement of an effective response post-​event. However, although time may be an arrow for DRR, this does not preclude other temporal conceptions of both the order of things—​what happens and when—​and the return and recurrence of past events. While Western-​framed academia and its disciplines may be something of a distraction, if Indigenous societies wish to foretell the future, one would assume Indigenous sociology would be to the fore.

Conclusion Colonization is a disaster with a fixed beginning and an indeterminate end. Imperial, colonial, and neoliberal forces embedded structures whose very purpose was to dispossess, disarm, and, if necessary, destroy Indigenous Peoples. From a disaster studies lens, this history has built societies in which the risks from disasters fall disproportionately on disempowered communities, families, and individuals. In this model, Indigenous vulnerability is the corollary to settler-​colonial, capitalist, neoliberal resiliency. As urban Indigenous communities continue their rapid growth, a growing proportion of Indigenous Peoples will be exposed to new, compounding, and overlapping risks. It is not obvious that the faithful deployment of Indigenous Knowledges will prevent

230   Simon Lambert or even mitigate a disaster for any community or its members. In yet another insult to Indigenous sovereignty, do Indigenous societies need to integrate that original disaster risk-​creation knowledge, Western science? Of course, Indigenous Peoples should not have to be resilient to the level of hatred directed toward them. Positioning resilience as an admirable callus on our collective lives—​built up over generations of oppression—​reifies the status quo of vulnerability and diverts attention from a key sociological component of resilience to disaster, namely sovereignty.

Note 1. The band members all drowned, along with 1,500 of the 2,200 passengers, on the ship’s first and obviously last voyage.

References Adger, N. W. (2000). Sociological and ecological resilience: Are they related? Progress in Human Geography, 24, 347–​364. Aitken, J., Shadbolt, M., Doherty, J., Mark-​Shadbolt, M., Marzano, M., & Ataria, J. (2021, January 5). Empowering the Indigenous voice in a graphical representation of Aotearoa’s biocultural heritage (flora and fauna). Pacific Conservation Biology. ​https://​doi.org/​10.1071/​ PC20​027 Alexander, D. (2017). One hundred years of “disasterology”: Looking back and moving forward (Conference paper), CRHNet Symposium: From Catastrophe to Capacity, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Armatas, C. A., Venn, T. J., McBride, B. B., Watson, A. E., & Carver, S. J. (2016). Opportunities to utilize traditional phenological knowledge to support adaptive management of social-​ ecological systems vulnerable to changes in climate and fire regimes. Ecology and Society, 21(1), Article 16. https://​doi.org/​10.5751/​ES-​07905-​210​116 Asfaw, H. W., Sandy Lake First, N., McGee, T. K., & Christianson, A. (2019). Evacuation preparedness and the challenges of emergency evacuation in Indigenous communities in Canada: The case of Sandy Lake First Nation, Northern Ontario. International Journal of Disaster Risk Reduction, 34, 55–​63. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.ijdrr.2018.11.005 Ataria, J., Mark-​Shadbolt, M., Mead, A. T. P., Prime, K., Doherty, J., Waiwai, J., Ashby, T., Lambert, S., & Garner, G. O. (2018). Whakamanahia Te mātauranga o te Māori: Empowering Māori knowledge to support Aotearoa’s aquatic biological heritage. New Zealand Journal of Marine and Freshwater Research, 52(4), 467–​486. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​ 00288​330.2018.1517​097 Athayde, S., Baudoin, M-​A., Lambert, S., Okerie, V. & Yin, L. (2015). Developing an Inter­ national Network on Indigenous Peoples and Disaster Risk Reduction. Gainesville: Tropical Conservation and Development Program, Centre for Latin American Studies, University of Florida. Belay-​As, M. M. (2019). Disasters through an Indigenous lens in the Philippines. Auckland: University of Auckland.

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     231 Bell, R. (2020). Many Saskatchewan First Nations residents are travelling hours to get coronavirus treatment. Global News. https://​glo​baln​ews.ca/​news/​7 131​970/​saska​tche​wan-​first-​nati​ ons-​coro​navi​rus/​ Berkes, F., Colding, J., & Folke, C. (Eds.). (2003). Navigating social-​ecological systems: Building resilience for complexity and change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bernauer, W., & Slowey, G. (2020). COVID-​ 19, extractive industries, and indigenous communities in Canada: Notes towards a political economy research agenda. The Extractive Industries and Society, 7(3), 844–​846. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.exis.2020.05.012 Betancur, S. (2019). Inside the Rez Cross: An assessment of hosting evacuees during a wildfire disaster in Beardy’s and Okemasis First Nation [Masters dissertation, University of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon]. Bode, B. (1977). No bells to toll: Destruction and creation in the Andes. New York: Scribner. Bohensky, E. L., & Maru, Y. (2011). Indigenous knowledge, science, and resilience: What have we learned from a decade of international literature on “integration”? Ecology and Society, 16(4), Article 6. https://​doi.org/​10.5751/​ES-​04342-​160​406 Burke, J. (1994). Turtle Grove: Dartmouth’s lost Mi’kmaq community. In A. Ruffman & C. D. Howell (Eds.), Ground zero: A reassessment of the 1917 explosion in Halifax harbour (pp. 45–​ 53). Halifax, NS: Nimbus. Chisholm Hatfield, S., Marino, E., Whyte, K. P., Dello, K. D., & Mote, P. W. (2018). Indian time: Time, seasonality, and culture in Traditional Ecological Knowledge of climate change. Ecological Processes, 7(1), 25. https://​doi.org/​10.1186/​s13​7 17-​018-​0136-​6 Christianson, A. (2011). Wildfire risk perception and mitigation at Peavine Métis settlement. Edmonton: University of Alberta. http://​cyber.usask.ca/​login?url=​https://​sea​rch-​proqu​est -​com.cyber.usask.ca/​docv​iew/​115​2032​819?accoun​tid=​14739 Coen, D. R. (2013). The earthquake observers: Disaster science from Lisbon to Richter. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Coulter, A., Ruitenbeek, I., & Rutgers, J-​S. (2018, December 6). The story of Turtle Grove. The Signal. https://​signal​hfx.ca/​the-​story-​of-​tur​tle-​grove/​ Demont, J. (2017). Mi’kmaq returning to Turtle Grove. The Chronicle Herald. http://​the​chro​ nicl​eher​ald.ca/​opin​ion/​1516​679-​dem​ont-​mi%E2%80%99k​maq-​return​ing-​to-​tur​tle-​grove Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. (2016). CERA: Canterbury Earthquake Recovery Authority. New Zealand Government. https://​cera​arch​ive.dpmc.govt.nz/​docume​ nts/​cera-​wellbe​ing-​sur​vey Dunbar-​ Ortiz, R. (2014). An Indigenous Peoples’ history of the United States. Boston: Beacon Press. Durie, M. (2005). Nga Tai Matatu/​Tides of Maori endurance. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dynes, R. R. (2000). The dialogue between Voltaire and Rousseau on the Lisbon earthquake: The emergence of a social science view. International Journal of Mass Emergencies and Disasters, 18, 97–​115. Engels, F. (1969). The condition of the working class in England. New York and London: Panther. (Original work published 1845) Evans, K. (2020, September 14). The river’s lizard tail: Braiding Indigenous Knowledges with geomorphology. Eos. https://​eos.org/​featu​res/​the-​riv​ers-​liz​ard-​tail-​braid​ing-​ind​igen​ous-​kno​ wled​ges-​with-​geomor​phol​ogy Gaillard, J.-​C. (2007). Resilience of traditional societies in facing natural hazards. Disaster Prevention and Management, 16(4), 522–​544.

232   Simon Lambert Glowczewski, B. (2020). Resisting the disaster: Between exhaustion and creation. In Indigenising anthropology with Guattari and Deleuze (pp. 321–​339). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. http://​www.jstor.org/​sta​ble/​10.3366/​j.ctvss4​00j Grabish, A. (2017, April 17). Death toll in flooded-​out Manitoba First Nation hits 92 as evacuees wait to return home. CBC/​Radio-​Canada. http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​can​ada/​manit​oba/​ death-​toll-​in-​f loo​ded-​out-​manit​oba-​f irst-​nat ​ion-​hits-​92-​as-​e vacu​ees-​wait-​to-​ret​urn -​home-​1.4040​365 Gunder, M., & Hillier, J. (2009). Planning in ten words or less: A Lacanian entanglement with spatial planning. Farnham, UK: Ashgate. Handmer, J., & Dovers, S. (2007). Handbook of disaster policies and institutions. London: Routledge. Haque, M. (2019). Indigenous knowledge and practices in disaster management: Experiences of the coastal people of Bangladesh. In B. Zutshi, A. Ahmad, & A. B. Srungarapati (Eds.), Disaster risk reduction: Community resilience and responses (pp. 59–​72). Singapore: Springer. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​978-​981-​10-​8845-​2_​4 Hikuroa, D. (2016). Mātauranga Māori—​the ūkaipō of knowledge in New Zealand. Journal of the Royal Society of New Zealand, 47(1), 5–​10. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​03036​758.2016.1252​407 Hilhorst, D., Baart, J., van der Haar, G., & Leeftink, F. M. (2015). Is disaster “normal” for Indigenous People? Indigenous knowledge and coping practices. Disaster Prevention and Management: An International Journal, 24(4), 506–​522. https://​doi.org/​10.1108/​ dpm-​02-​2015-​0027 Holmes Whitehead, R. (Ed.) (1991). The old man told us: Excerpts from Mikmaw history, 1500–​ 1950. Halifax, Nova Scotia: Nimbus. Hsu, M., Okada, T., Mori, S., & Howitt, R. (2019). Resettling, disconnecting or displacing? Attending to local sociality, culture and history in disaster settings. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 60(2), 163–​174. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​apv.12230 Hubbard, T. (2019). Nîpawistamâsowin: We will stand up. Downstream Documentary Productions, National Film Board of Canada. Indigenous Services Canada: Emergency Management. (2018). Fact Sheet—​2011 Manitoba Flood Evacuees: Update. Ottawa: Indigenous Services Canada. International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs and International Labour Organization. (2020). The impact of COVID-​19 on Indigenous communities: Insights from the Indigenous Navigator. Copenhagen: International Work Group for Indigenous Affair. https://​www.ilo .org/​gen​der/​Infor​mati​onre​sour​ces/​Publi​cati​ons/​WCMS​_​757​475/​lang-​-​en/​index.htm Jenkins, K. (2019). Remember the flicking tail of the lizard. Policy Quarterly, 15(2), 55–​61. https://​doi.org/​10.26686/​pq.v15i2.5371 Jim, J. (2020). Impact of COVID-​19 on Indigenous communities in the Americas: Navajo Nation. Pan-​American Health Organization/​IK-​DRR. Kenney, C. M. (2019). Ahi ka ora, ahi ka roa Otautahi: Maori, recovery trajectories and resilience in Canterbury, New Zealand. In H. James (Ed.), Population, development, and the environment (pp. 375–​ 393). London: Palgrave Macmillan. https://​books.goo​gle.co.nz/​ books?hl=​en&lr=​&id=​nFWID​wAAQ​BAJ&oi=​f nd&pg=​PA375&dq=​Ahi+​Ka+​roa&ots = ​ w - ​ L hzCp- ​ 0 p&sig= ​ f jbYN ​ _ ​ 6 m- ​ 3 DH​AUR_ ​ 0 Dij ​ m HTD ​ o R8#v= ​ onep ​ a ge&q= ​ A hi%20 Ka%20roa&f=​false Keys, A., Masterman-​Smith, H., & Cottle, D. (2006). The political economy of a natural disaster: The Boxing Day tsunami, 2004. Antipode, 38(2), 195–​204. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​ j.1467-​8330.2006.0575a.x

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     233 Klein, N. (2007, October). Disaster capitalism: The new economy of catastrophe. Harpers, 45–​58. Kronmüller, E., Atallah, D. G., Gutiérrez, I., Guerrero, P., & Gedda, M. (2017). Exploring indigenous perspectives of an environmental disaster: Culture and place as interrelated resources for remembrance of the 1960 mega-​earthquake in Chile. International Journal of Disaster Risk Reduction, 23, 238–​247. ​https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.ijdrr.2017.05.007 Lambert, S. (2014a). Indigenous Peoples and urban disaster: Māori responses to the 2010–​12 Christchurch earthquakes. Australasian Journal of Disaster and Trauma Studies, 18(1), 39–​48. ​http://​www.mas​sey.ac.nz/​~tra​uma/​iss​ues/​2014-​1/​AJDTS​_​18-​1_​Lamb​ert.pdf Lambert, S. (2014b). Maori and the Christchurch earthquakes: The interplay between Indigenous endurance and resilience through a natural disaster. MAI Journal, 3(2), 165–​180. http://​www.jour​nal.mai.ac.nz/​sites/​defa​ult/​files/​MAI_​J​rnl_​V3_​i​ss2_​Lamb​ert.pdf Lambert, S., & Mark-​Shadbolt, M. (2021). Indigenous knowledges of forest and biodiversity management: How the watchfulness of Māori complements and contributes to disaster risk reduction. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 17(2), 1–​10. ​http://​ dx.doi.org/​10.1177/​117718​0121​1038​760 Lambert, S., & Scott, J. C. (2019). International disaster risk reduction strategies and Indigenous Peoples. International Indigenous Policy Journal, 10(2), 1–​21. Lambert, S., Stewart, L., Pelletier, T., & Hassler, P. (2019). Prince Albert Grand Council and Red Cross align for better emergency management. HazNet: Magazine of the Canadian Risk and Hazards Network, 12(1), 28–​30. http://​haz​net.ca/​haz​net-​magaz​ine-​spr​ing-​2019-​issue/​ Lambert, S., Wilkie, M., & Mark-​Shadbolt, M. (2014). Kia Manawaroa: Surviving disaster. Lincoln University/​Te Awa o te Ora. https://​hdl.han​dle.net/​10182/​10264 Laskowski, C. (2020, March 17). Sask. First Nation chief prepared for COVID-​19 pandemic weeks before it hit. CBC News. https://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​can​ada/​saska​tche​wan/​pas​qua -​ f irst-​ nat​ i on-​ chief- ​ prep ​ are- ​ l ockd ​ own- ​ c oro​ navi​ r us-​ 1 .5499​ 3 74?fbc​ l id=​ IwAR​ 3 Sn1​ Z IH -​o4vIAJ2aMflgIxbtLTUVlT​uy8T​ozGy​l8Ql​2NDi​Eb6w​Nogd​cwc Loevy, K. (2016). Emergencies in public law: The legal politics of containment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Louis, R. P., Johnson, J. T., & Pramono, A. H. (2012, Summer). Introduction: Indigenous cartographies and counter-​ mapping. Cartographica, 47(2), 77–​79. http://​cyber.usask.ca/​ login?url=​http://​s ea​rch.ebscoh​ost.com/​login.aspx?dir​e ct=​t rue&db=​a9h&AN=​7 5344​ 746&site=​ehost-​live Macyshon, J., & Bogart, N. (2020). Indigenous communities close their borders in hopes of preventing COVID-​ 19 spread. CTV News. https://​www.ctvn​ews.ca/​hea​lth/​coro​navi​rus/​ ind​igen​ous-​comm​unit​ies-​close-​their-​bord​ers-​in-​hopes-​of-​pre​vent​ing-​covid-​19-​spr​ead -​1.4863​166 Matthewman, S. (2015). Disasters, risks and revelation: Making sense of our times. London: Palgrave Macmillan. McAdoo, B., Dengler, L., Prasetya, G., & Titov, V. (2006). Smong: How an oral history saved thousands on Indonesia’s Simeulue Island during the December 2004 and March 2005 tsunamis. Earthquake Spectra, 22(S3), 661–​669. https://​doi.org/​10.1193/​1.2204​966 McGee, T. & Christianson, A. (2021). First Nations wildfire evacuations: A guide for communities and external agencies. Vancouver: Purich Books/​UBC Press. McMeeking, S., & Savage, C. (2020). Maori responses to COVID-​19. Policy Quarterly, 16(3), 36–​41. https://​doi.org/​10.26686/​pq.v16i3.6553 Meyers, K., & Watson, P. (2008). Legend, ritual and architecture on the Ring of Fire. In R. Shaw, N. Uy, & J. Baumwoll (Eds.), Indigenous knowledge for disaster risk reduction: Good Practices

234   Simon Lambert and Lessons Learned from experiences in the Asia-​Pacific Region. Bangkok: United Nations, International Strategy for Disaster Reduction. https://​www.uni​sdr.org/​files/​3646​_​Ind​igen​ ousK​nowl​edge​DRR.pdf Nabokov, P. (1999). Native American testimony: A chronicle of Indian-​White relations from Prophecy to the Present, 1492–​2000 (Revised ed.). London: Penguin. National Emergency Management Agency/​Te Rakai Whakamarumaru. (2021). The Four R’s. https://​www.civil​defe​nce.govt.nz/​cdem-​sec​tor/​the-​4rs/​ Noyes, J. (2020, April 7). Northern Sask. health authority says 40 per cent of its sites lack proper PPE to respond to pandemic. PA Now. https://​paher​ald.sk.ca/​2020/​04/​07/​north​ern-​sask -​hea​lth-​author​ity-​says-​40-​per-​cent-​of-​its-​sites-​lack-​pro​per-​ppe-​to-​resp​ond-​to-​pande​mic/​ Oliver-​Smith, A. (1994). Peru’s five hundred year earthquake: Vulnerability in historical context. In A. Varley (Ed.), Disasters, development, and environment (pp. 3–​48). Chichester, UK: Wiley. Phibbs, S., Kenney, C., Rivera-​Munoz, G., Huggins, T. J., Severinsen, C., & Curtis, B. (2018). The inverse response law: Theory and relevance to the aftermath of disasters. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 15(5), 916. https://​www.mdpi.com/​ 1660-​4601/​15/​5/​916 Phibbs, S., Kenney, C., & Solomon, M. (2015). Ngā Mōwaho: An analysis of Māori responses to the Christchurch earthquakes. Kōtuitui: New Zealand Journal of Social Sciences Online, 10(2), 72–​82. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​11770​83X.2015.1066​401 Purdy, D. (2020). Green gatekeeping: Colonial conservation and the Jemez Principles. Sydney: McQuarie. Remes, J. (2014). Mi’kmaq in the Halifax explosion of 1917: Leadership, transience, and the struggle for land rights. Ethnohistory, 61(3), 445–​466. https://​doi.org/​10.1215/​00141​801 -​2681​732 Rice, W. (2018). Moon of the crusted snow. Toronto: ECW Press. Richardson, C., & Goll, H. (2020, January 27). This thousand-​year-​old Aboriginal tradition of lighting fires could be a solution to fight Australia’s devastating bushfires. Business Insider. https://​www.busi​ness​insi​der.com/​austra​lia-​fires-​abo​rigi​nal-​ind​igen​ous-​gro​ups-​2020-​1 Richardson, L., & Crawford, A. (2020). COVID-​19 and the decolonization of Indigenous public health. Canadian Medical Association Journal, 192(38), E1098–​E1100. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1503/​cmaj.200​852 Rivera, D. Z. (2020, September 9). Disaster colonialism: A commentary on disasters beyond singular events to structural violence. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research. Advance online publication. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​1468-​2427.12950 Sandman, P. M. (1989). Hazard versus outrage in the public perception of risk. In V. T. Covello, D. B. McCallum, & M. T. Pavlova (Eds.), Effective risk communication: The role and responsibility of government and nongovernment organizations (pp. 45–​49). New York: Springer. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​978-​1-​4613-​1569-​8_​6 Scott, J. C. (2019). Exploration of Indigenous practices and knowledge concerning natural hazards and risk reduction. Case studies: Aotearoa/​New Zealand and Iqaluit/​Nunavut, Canada. Claiborne, MD: Center for Public Service Communications. https://​ass​ets.irinn​ews.org/​ s3fs-​pub​lic/​new_​ze​alan​d_​ma​ori_​drr_​augu​st_​2​020.pdf Secretariat of the Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues. (2017). Indigenous Peoples and the 2030 Agenda. New York: UN Secretariat of the Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues. https://​www.un.org/​deve​lopm​ent/​desa/​indige​nous​peop​les/​focus-​areas/​post-​2015-​age​nda/​ the-​sust​aina​ble-​deve​lopm​ent-​goals-​sdgs-​and-​ind​igen​ous.html

Indigenous Societies and Disasters     235 Steyn, N., Binny, R. N., Hannah, K., Hendy, S. C., James, A., Kukutai, T., Lustig, A., McLeod, M., Plank, M. J., Ridings, K., & Sporle, A. (2020). Estimated inequities in COVID-​19 infection fatality rates by ethnicity for Aotearoa New Zealand. NZ Medical Journal, 133(1521), 28–​39. Syafwina. (2014). Recognizing Indigenous knowledge for disaster management: Smong, early warning system from Simeulue Island, Aceh. Procedia Environmental Sciences, 20, 573–​582.​ https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.pro​env.2014.03.070 Tapuke, S. (2017). Mapping waiata koroua (traditional prose) of the Tarawera Eruption, 1886; and its relevance to contemporary natural hazards preparedness and response [Masters dissertation, Massey University]. Thompson, S. (2015). Flooding of First Nations and environmental justice in Manitoba: Case studies of the impacts of the 2011 flood and hydro development in Manitoba. Manitoba Law Journal, 38(2), 220–​259. Smith, T. (2017). Tilly Smith. In Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, San Francisco. https://​ en.wikipe​dia.org/​wiki/​Till​y_​Sm​ith Tory, W. I. (1979). Anthropological studies in hazardous environments: Past trends and new horizons. Current Anthropology, 20, 517–​541. Ulanowicz, R. E. (2000). Toward the measurement of ecological integrity. In D. Pimental, L. Westra, & R. F. Noss (Eds.), Ecological integrity: Integrating environment, Conservation and health (pp. 99–​120). Washington, DC: Island Press. United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction. (2015). Sendai Framework for Disaster Risk Reduction 2015–​30. New York: United Nations. United Nations General Assembly. (2014). Promotion and protection of the rights of Indigenous Peoples in disaster risk reduction, prevention and preparedness initiatives. New York: United Nations. United Nations Information Management Service. (2005). Tsunami recovery status report. New York: United Nations. Walker, R., Jojola, T., & Natcher, D. (Eds.). (2013). Reclaiming Indigenous planning. Montreal: McGill-​Queens University Press. Wannan, O. (2015, September 11). Traditional Maori myths may hold clues to natural hazards. Stuff. https://​www.stuff.co.nz/​scie​nce/​7 1971​522/​trad​itio​nal-​maori-​myths-​may-​hold-​clues -​to-​natu​ral-​haza​rds Watt-​Cloutier, S. (2015). The right to be cold. Toronto: Penguin. Williams, C., & Biddle, D.-​L. (2020, March 24). Coronavirus: Iwi across NZ step up tourist blockades, close huts and walkways. Stuff. https://​www.stuff.co.nz/​natio​nal/​hea​lth/​coro​navi​ rus/​120511​786/​coro​navi​rus-​hone-​haraw​ira-​to-​block​ade-​touri​sts-​from-​far-​north?rm=​m Wood, A. (2015, October 3). Ngai Tahu Holdings profit falls, with property slowing. Stuff. http://​www.stuff.co.nz/​busin​ess/​72636​386/​ngai-​tahu-​holdi​ngs-​pro​fit-​falls-​with-​prope​rty -​slow​ing World Bank & United Nations. (2010). Natural hazards, unnatural disasters: The economics of effective prevention. Washington, DC: World Bank/​International Bank for Reconstruction and Development. https://​openkn​owle​dge.worldb​ank.org/​han​dle/​10986/​2512 Yumagulova, L., Phibbs, S., Kenney, C. M., Yellow Old Woman-​Munro, D., Christianson, A., McGee, T. K., & Whitehair, R. (2021). The role of disaster volunteering in Indi­genous communities. Environmental Hazards, 20(1), 45–​62. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​17477​891.2019 .1657​791

R AC E A N D I N DIG E N OU S L I F E WOR L D S

Chapter 15

I ndigenizi ng t h e So ciol o gy of Rac e Tahu Kukutai

Introduction The failure of mainstream sociology to fully engage colonialism—​either in terms of its impacts on the discipline or as a focus of sociological inquiry—​is a reverberating critique in this Handbook. Perhaps nowhere is this more evident than in this section on race. Comprising nine chapters, the authors traverse a wide range of theoretical, conceptual, and empirical aspects relating to race, ethnicity, and Indigenous Peoples. Though diverse in scope, there is a common thread: sociological theories and concepts of race miss or misrecognize core aspects of Indigenous lifeworlds. The concentration of Indigenous sociological critique in a single volume may be novel, but the broader disquiet about the discipline’s erasure of its deep connections with colonialism is not. African American sociologists—​notably W. E. B. DuBois (1997, 2010)—​have long posed a challenge to disciplinary conventions about what constitutes sociological knowledge about race (Anderson & Massey, 2001; Bhambra, 2014b; Greenland & Steinmetz, 2019). In recent years, social theorists Gurminder K. Bhambra and Boaventura de Sousa Santos (2017) have urged the discipline to revisit core concepts and categories so as to move toward a truly global sociology rather than one mired in its Western-​centric origins (also see Neubeurt, 2022). Similarly, Bhambra’s vision of “connected sociologies” (2014a) confronts the historical connections between processes of colonialism, enslavement, dispossession, appropriation and the constitution of the social sciences. Aligned with these debates but from an explicitly Indigenous standpoint, Muscogee sociologist Dwanna McKay has argued that most existing sociological frameworks of race and ethnic studies are complicit in “settler-​colonial erasure,” with mainstream sociological approaches to race giving settler colonialism a wide berth (McKay et al., 2020). The resistance and cultural resilience by Indigenous nations have also been largely ignored in the sociological literature. Outside of sociology, Indigenous

240   Tahu Kukutai scholars have forcefully and persuasively called out the failures of their disciplines to acknowledge historical colonization, ongoing colonialism, and its enduring impacts (see, for example, Moreton-​Robinson, 2000; Smith, 2017; Tallbear, 2013). Within the sociology of race and ethnicity, a reckoning of sorts with Indigenous scholars and theories seems overdue. This introductory chapter situates the following chapters within a broader evolving critique of the sociology of race. In so doing it does not try to summarize the seminal sociological works in the field—​there is no shortage of papers that do that already (see, for example, Anderson & Massey, 2001; Brunsma et al., 2015). Nor does it attempt to provide a critique of how sociological conventions misunderstand or elide Indigenous lifeworlds—​the chapters that follow do that collectively. Rather, the intent is to amplify the contributions of this assemblage in setting out alternative Indigenous philosophies of the sociology of race. In reading across the contributions, four central themes emerge: the distinctive processes and impacts of racialization for Indigenous Peoples in colonial settler states, the oft-​neglected aspect of sovereignty, the centrality of dispossession and land to Indigenous experiences of race, and the importance of local epistemologies for refashioning sociological concepts of race. These are discussed in turn.

A New Lens on an Age-​Old Problem While some scholars have sought to develop an internal critique of sociology as a product of empire (Steinmetz, 2014), most have not. Bhambra(2016) and Connell (2018) have separately argued that colonialism as a historical and ongoing force is absent in the classic sociological canon. Colonization and colonialism lurk in the background and occasionally make an appearance, but rarely as the central agent or causal force. Yet sociology was hardly exempt from a racialized modernity that “endowed some Europeans with privilege along with the power to occupy the center of world history and shape it according to its own image” (Meer & Nayak, 2015). The resounding silence on coloniality has implications for how conventions within American and European sociology have taken shape. Bhambra has theorized the processes by which sociology’s core ideas of modernity (2007, 2014a, 2016) have influenced sociological thinking with regards to the inequalities associated with race and ethnicity. Specifically, she argues that “the displacement of racialized structures from the account of modernity contributes to the racialized structure of sociological thought itself ” (2016, p. 963). By placing Europe and Europeans at the center of key processes of modernity (e.g., the Industrial Revolution), and obscuring centuries of Western colonialism , Europe became the hallmark of innovation, leading the world from tradition to modernity. The omission of African American scholars from the sociological canon is instructive for this Handbook because it reveals important aspects of the structure and production of dominant disciplinary knowledge that the authors here seek to confront and disrupt. For nearly a century, Du Bois’s seminal contributions to sociological thinking on race were

Indigenizing the Sociology of Race    241 placed well outside the sociological canon. His understanding of race as a social issue challenged prevailing sociological arguments that rooted the unequal conditions of African Americans in biological differences. And yet, as Anderson & Massey (2001) note, the research he conducted on contemporary urban life in the 1890s at Pennsylvania University, published as The Philadelphia Negro, preceded by several decades the Chicago school, which is (still now) widely feted as the cradle of American sociology. Du Bois’s work set in motion an entire field of American sociology dedicated to understanding how ecological factors shaped interpersonal behavior and social structure (Anderson & Massey, 2001). For Bhambra (2014b), the exclusion of African American sociologists from the disciplinary canon has ongoing implications for taken-​for-​granted understandings of core sociological concepts. More broadly, Greenland and Steinmetz (2019) note that sociologists’ failure to engage with alternative philosophies of social science helped to “lodge the scientistic formation firmly within the discipline’s common sense” (p. 789). The following chapters go some way toward dislodging taken-​for-​granted disciplinary assumptions.

Key Themes: Race, Ethnicity, and Indigenous Lifeworlds The chapters in this section coalesce around four main themes. The first pertains to the distinctiveness of racialization for Indigenous Peoples. The concept of racialization was popularized by Omi and Winant (1994) in their seminal work on the social and political construction of race in the United States. Racialization refers to the processes by which racial meanings are attributed to collective identities, particularly in relation to stratified social structures and institutional systems. Several chapters in this section argue that the simultaneous racialization and erasure of Indigenous Peoples is a phenomenon in its own right that is directly linked to historic colonization and ongoing colonialism. Gumbaynggirr scholar Lilly Brown begins by tracing the discursive strategies of racialization experienced by Aboriginal Peoples in Australia. Examining archives of state commission reviews and parliamentary debates, she shows how the discursive framing of Aboriginality shifted from a self-​determining political collective in the late 1960s and early 1970s to an “impoverished and disadvantaged population, incapable of self-​governance.” The racialization of Aboriginal youth, in particular, set them up to be “known” as vulnerable subjects in need of intervention. The government’s prescribed salve for their perceived deficiency was education and employment. This vision of uplift was connected to a wider discourse about Aboriginal Peoples lacking the capabilities to conduct their own affairs, including the ownership and governance of property. Taking a wider lens, Hopi scholar Angela A. Gonzales and Lumbee scholar Judy Kertész trace the emergence of race and the racialization of Indigenous Peoples in different times and places. Their central argument is that colonialism required race to

242   Tahu Kukutai justify the dispossession and displacement of Indigenous Peoples. Whether colonialism involved empire-​building or large-​scale settlement, the construction of race and Indigeneity were a means to an end—​the end being Indigenous population control and dispossession. In this way, racialization tended to follow rather than preempt colonization. Spanning several centuries, their exploration of Indigenous racialization follows the 17th-​century White French physician Francois Bernier through to White Englishman Charles Darwin and White American Samuel George Morton, whose 1839 book Crania Americana is widely regarded as the most important work in the history of scientific racism. Working with human skulls, Morton extrapolated from purported differences in crania capacity (e.g., brain size) to make general statements about inherent racial differences in intellectual capacities. Race helped to essentialize Indigenous identities by positioning biology as a scientific and logical way of explaining difference. The timing of Morton’s investigations was impeccable, providing scientific support for politically expedient narratives about the inevitable demise of Native races under the weight of assumed European superiority and conquest. In their chapter, Wiradjuri scholar Makayla-​ May Brinckley and Wongaibon scholar Raymond Lovett also briefly trace the historical construction of race from ancient Greece through to Morton, noting that retrospective analysis of his cranial measurements in fact found no significant difference in skull capacity between the identified races. His was a clear case of massaging the data to fit a-​priori assumptions. The chapter’s focus, however, is primarily on the history of race and racialization in Australia, and the impacts of racism on the health and well-​being of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples. They note that as the construct of White Australia became entrenched throughout the 20th century, with federation and the Immigration Act 1901 (the so-​called White Australia policy), thousands of mixed-​race children were being forcibly removed from their homes and placed with White families. The horrors of the Stolen Generation, and processes of racialization that dehumanize and stigmatize, continue to reverberate into the present. They then draw on recent empirical findings from longitudinal studies to demonstrate the negative impacts of racism on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People’s health and well-​being. Analysis of the Longitudinal Study of Indigenous Children (LSIC), for example, found that racism in childhood negatively impacted Indigenous children across all domains measured in the Strengths and Difficulties Questionnaire. Findings from another longitudinal study of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander health and well-​being also showed that more than half of all adult respondents had experienced some form of discrimination. And those who had were far more likely to report low levels of happiness, lower life control, and were more likely to be diagnosed with depression and anxiety. They conclude that understanding how race is constructed, and how the effects of racism continue to impact health and well-​being, is crucial for bettering the lives of Indigenous Australians. Osage sociologist Alex Red Corn offers an alternative take on Indigenous lifeworlds as a “White passing” Osage scholar. Using autoethnography, his chapter provides a nuanced portrait of the complexities of Indigenous identities in the institutional settings

Indigenizing the Sociology of Race    243 of mainstream academia, where being White is an unacknowledged passport to privilege. Using the metaphor of Osage ribbon work, Red Corn interrogates the complexities of what it means to be a White-​skinned Osage academic committed to Indigenous advancement. He reflects on how having a White rather than Native mother was “just another layer of how Whiteness increased my odds,” given the sordid legacy of forced sterilization of Native American women. Through his ethnographic account, Red Corn resists the oversimplification of “the lived experiences of Indigenous Peoples caught up in their own respective version of settler-​colonial entanglement.” An important institutional context through which racialization occurs is state practices of racial counting and classification. Several of the chapters in this section theorize how the racialization of American Indians obviates their sovereign tribal identities and relationship to land. Despite relentless processes of racialization, Indigenous Peoples in colonial settler states hold tight to their status as sovereign peoples, refusing to become just another racial or ethnic group in a melting pot polyglot. In their chapter, Navajo scholar Kimberly R. Huyser and Lumbee scholar Sofia Locklear remind us that American Indian and Alaska Native Peoples are more than a racial and ethnic group—​they are sovereign political entities. Through analysis of national data sets, they show how the diversity of American Indian and Alaska Native Peoples are “flattened” and obscured, with implications for contemporary understandings of race and inequality. All five surveys examined for the chapter clearly prioritized individualism over communal values—​none acknowledged associations between individuals and communities. Huyser and Locklear argue that these forms of misrecognition are hardly innocent but are intimately tied to resources. With treaty obligations to more than 550 tribes, the federal government has a vested interest in minimizing their fiscal responsibilities. The authors also argue for the importance of theorizing and understanding the diverse lifeworlds of “urban Indians” who make up the vast majority of American Indian Peoples. Rejecting crude binaries of “tribal” and “urban” Indians, they urge a more careful and comprehensive account of contemporary American Indian identities and their associations with opportunities and outcomes. Oneida scholar Theresa Rocha Beardall and Northern Cheyenne scholar Desi Small-Rodriguez theorize how racial structures have contributed to the “erasure of Indigenous peoplehood” and the silencing of Indigenous sovereignty in standard sociological narratives. Citing Cherokee scholar Eva Marie Garroutte, they argue that the racial formation of American Indians fundamentally differs from other 21st-​century racial groups in the extent to which their racial formation is governed by law. This, in turn, determines the opportunity structure with regards to resources, opportunities, and benefits along racial lines. Focusing on residential segregation, they show how American Indian and Alaska Native (AIAN) Peoples are missing in existing studies, despite the historical fact that forced segregation onto reserves remains one of the longest-​standing examples of de jure segregation anywhere in the world. They identify three ways in which Indigenous erasure has occurred in American sociology: (1) AIANs are treated as a homogeneous group, (2) few studies focus on tribal nations and their inherent political authority, and

244   Tahu Kukutai (3) AIANs are cast as historic relic rather than contemporary peoples. To move beyond American Indian erasure, they champion “Tribal Critical Race Theory” as a way of explicating theorizing the endemic role of colonization on Indigenous lifeworlds. Linked to sovereignty is the reclamation of cultural identity and practices. Palawa sociologists Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni employ data from the Longitudinal Study of Indigenous Children in Australia to show that Aboriginal children who are comfortable in their Indigeneity (secure in their cultural identity) are more likely to desire to complete their secondary education. In contrast to the deficit focus that the earlier chapter by Lilly finds permeated discourses on Aboriginal youth, their focus is on what it takes to support Indigenous children to “grow up strong.” Their study is situated in a growing body of quantitative studies from Australia, Aotearoa New Zealand, and the other settler states showing positive relationships between Indigenous identity and desired outcomes, including resilience, well-​being, and academic outcomes. Their analysis of LSIC shows that children who feel comfortable about being Indigenous in class most or all of the time are, on average, more than two and half times more likely to aspire to finish year 12 than those who do not or do so only sometimes. Their findings point toward teachers of Indigenous children as a site for intervention and support. A history of dispossession from land, as well as ongoing connection to land, is also central to Indigenous experiences of race that distinguish them from other racialized groups. In her chapter, White Mountain Apache sociologist Tennille Larzelere Marley theorizes how racial residential segregation of American Indians differs from that of other ethnic and racial groups in the United States. Marley situates her study in her own community and a broader observation about the breakdown of traditional gotah (kinship-​bound neighborhoods) within reservations. She shows how the current organization of housing on reservations is the result of policies targeted to American Indians and describes how American Indians experience some of the worst social indicators in the United States. Because many reservations were created by treaty, primarily land cession arrangements in exchange for reservation money, goods, and services, many tribal nations do not own the land they reside on, nor do they have the right to sell or own property, which is held in trust by the US government. This is a facet of land ownership that is distinctive to tribal nations, along with the concomitant disadvantages. Marley also emphasizes the unique relationship that Indigenous Peoples have with their lands and environment. Land is far more than a commodity—​for tribal nations the bond with land is a sacred one. Land is intimately intertwined with collective identity, language, and culture. Land has the ability to heal, and Indigenous knowledge and land are inseparable. This connects to the final theme in this section that underpins many of the chapters, which relates to the significance of Indigenous knowledge and local epistemologies. In the final chapter, Allison Ramirez, a citizen of the Tohono O’odham Nation and a member of the Wa:k community (San Xavier Indian Reservation), shows how failing to account for Indigenous kinship systems leaves room for misclassification, appropriation, and racial violence. As earlier chapters in this Handbook note, Indigenous kinship systems fundamentally differ from Western genealogical systems insofar as they encompass more-​than-​human relationships. Kinship systems reinforce and are reinforced

Indigenizing the Sociology of Race    245 by Indigenous laws and knowledge systems that are place-​based. Discussing the case of the Cherokee Freedmen, Ramirez argues that “even within Native communities, divisions exist and racial boundaries are contested.” Ramirez argues that American Indian self-​identification is harmful because it lacks accountability, and she points to well-​documented cases of ethnic fraud in academia. Finally, Ramirez reminds us that, within the dual subjectivities of Indigenous lifeworlds, resistance and reclamation are important components of an Indigenous sociology that we must all attend to.

Conclusion Race is a central concept of Indigenous sociology. As shown in this overview chapter, and in the nine chapters that follow, Indigenous Peoples’ relationship with, and interactions with, the setter colonial state are defined through the lens of race. Yet the vital intersection of race, colonization, and Indigeneity is largely absent from mainstream sociological scholarship. It is this dichotomy between the centrality and absence of colonialization/​colonialism that most distinguishes the theorization of race within Indigenous sociology from that deployed within Western sociological race scholarship. Indigenous sociological understandings of race also makes visible the discipline’s limitations and blind spots. As the chapters in this section ask, where in mainstream sociology are the distinctive processes and impacts of Indigenous racialization, the understandings of Indigenous sovereignty, the centrality of dispossession and land and the importance of local epistemologies for refashioning sociological concepts of race? Without such inclusions, the discipline is impoverished in how it understands race within social inquiry.

References Anderson, E., & Massey, D. S. (2001). The sociology of race in the United States. In E. Anderson & D. Massey (Eds.), Problem of the century: Racial stratification in the United States (pp. 3–​12). New York: Russell Sage Foundation. http://​www.jstor.org/​sta​ble/​10.7758/​978161​0448​390 Bhambra, G. K. (2007). Rethinking modernity: Postcolonialism and the sociological imagination. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Bhambra, G. K. (2014a). Connected sociologies. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Bhambra, G. K. (2014b). A sociological dilemma: Race, segregation and US sociology. Current Sociology Monograph, 62(4), 472–​492. Bhambra, G. K. (2016). Postcolonial reflections on sociology. Sociology, 50(5), 960–​966. https://​ doi.org/​10.1177/​00380​3851​6647​683 Bhambra, G. K., & de Sousa Santos, B. (2017). Introduction: Global challenges for sociology. Sociology, 51(1), 3–​10. https://​www.jstor.org/​sta​ble/​26940​342 Brunsma, D. L., Embrick, D. G., & Nanney, M. (2015). Toward a sociology of race and ethnicity. Sociology of Race and Ethnicity, 1(1), 1–​9. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​23326​4921​4562​028

246   Tahu Kukutai DuBois, W. E. B. (2010 [1899]). The Philadelphia Negro. New York: Cosmo. Du Bois, W.E. B (1997 [1903]) The souls of Black folk, ed. and introduction by D. W. Blight & R. Gooding-​Williams. Boston: Bedford Books. Connell, R. (2018). Decolonizing sociology. Contemporary Sociology, 47(4), 399–​407. https://​ doi.org/​10.1177%2F0​0943​0611​8779​811 Greenland, F., & Steinmetz, G. (2019). Orlando Patterson, his work, and his legacy: A special issue in celebration of the republication of Slavery and Social Death. Theory and Society, 48, 785–​797. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s11​186-​019-​09371-​3 McKay, D. L., Vinyeta, K., & Norgaard, K. M. (2020). Theorizing race and settler colonialism within U.S. sociology. Sociology Compass, 14, e12821. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​soc4.12821 Meer, N., & Nayak, A. (2015). Race ends where? Race, racism and contemporary sociology. Sociology, 49(6), NP3–​NP20. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​00380​3851​3501​943 Moreton-​Robinson, A. (2000). Talkin’ up to the White woman: Aboriginal women and feminism. St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Neubert, D. (2022, January 27). Do Western sociological concepts apply globally? Towards a global sociology. Sociology. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​003803​8521​1063​341 Omi, M., & Winant, H. (1994). Racial formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1990s. New York: Routledge. Smith, A. (2017). Racism, empire and sociology. Sociology, 51(2), 491–​499. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1177/​00380​3851​6641​856 Steinmetz, G. (2014). The sociology of empires, colonies, and postcolonialism. Annual Review of Sociology, 40(1), 77–​103. Tallbear, K. (2013). Native American DNA: Tribal belonging and the false promise of genetic science. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Chapter 16

Reversing Stat i st i c a l E r asure of Indi g e nou s People s The Social Construction of American Indians and Alaska Natives in the United States Using National Data Sets Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear

Introduction National statistics is a powerful tool for understanding the status of a nation and its subgroups—​so much so that the U.S. Constitution requires a full decennial census be taken and reported to Congress. The resulting statistics ostensibly allow the state, as well as researchers, reporters, and the general public, to gain a deeper understanding of its composition and variations in social outcomes, including health, education, and socioeconomic status (Kertzer & Arel, 2001; Kukutai et al., 2015). These data determine a range of crucial resource allocations and policy priorities, and they become socially significant as they are layered into “common sense” about populations and subpopulations. Put differently, who gets counted and how they are counted influences cultural narratives about the traits of racial and ethnic groups and subgroups in the United States (Kukutai & Thompson, 2015). National-​level surveys in the United States largely collapse American Indian and Alaska Native (AIAN) Peoples into a single category. Studies using these data, in turn, tend to focus only on those respondents indicating a single-​race AIAN identity. Thus, researchers have reported, for example, that national-​level statistics show that AIAN Peoples tend to have lower socioeconomic status relative to non-​Hispanic Whites (Huyser et al., 2010). Specifically, AIAN persons tend to have lower levels of education

248    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear and income (Huyser et al., 2014), lower returns on education (Keo et al., 2019), and higher rates of poverty compared to Whites (Huyser et al., 2014). Other studies tell us that, relative to AIAN households residing within metropolitan areas with no federally defined Tribal lands, AIAN households that live on or near Tribal lands are more likely to have lower educational attainment, higher poverty rates, a greater prevalence of female-​headed households, and higher fertility rates (Liebler, 2004; Sandefur & Liebler, 1997; Snipp, 1989). Urban AIAN persons are twice as likely to be unemployed as their non-​Hispanic White peers, and their children are three times more likely to live in poverty (Urban Indian Health Institute, 2016). None of these studies substantively engages with descriptive statistics related to multiracial AIAN identities or to Tribal affiliations, though our analysis herein suggests the task is currently difficult, but not impossible, for those using data from certain existing national surveys. In this chapter, we first provide an overview of the current federal and state determinations of Tribal recognition and definitions of Tribal membership, contrasting these with Indigenous individuals’ self-​identity and modes of affiliation. We use our own personal histories to demonstrate the diversity of experiences hidden in the broad, nonspecific racial category of AIAN. Then we turn to the major national surveys that use the AIAN designation and explore how they collect race and ethnicity information. Even within this limited data, we demonstrate possible ways for scholars to disaggregate the data and present a more nuanced and complex portrait of AIAN persons and communities. Still, we suggest needed methodological changes so that national statistics might, by default, begin to present both aggregate AIAN population statuses and statistics disaggregated by racial identity and Tribal affiliation. This effort would powerfully combat both the statistical invisibility of a diverse Indigenous People and the concomitant dismissal of them as a vanishing population. As stated above, it would also raise the statistical salience of AIAN persons in the allocation of government resources and facilitate the adequate fulfillment of U.S. treaty obligations to Native nations (Rubin et al., 2018; Snipp, 1989).

Overview of the AIAN Population: U.S. Tribes and Tribal Affiliations AIAN Peoples in the United States are diverse. Though the federal system for Tribal recognition is notoriously narrow, there are currently 574 federally recognized Native nations (i.e., Tribes, nations, bands, Pueblos, communities, and Native villages) (Bureau of Indian Affairs, 2012). Federally recognized Tribes are, under the U.S. government’s federal trust doctrine, entitled to supported self-​governance and economic prosperity. The United States, in other words, has treaty obligations that give it a vested interest in identifying and policing AIAN identity in order to minimize those treaty obligations. Those Tribal entities eligible for funding and services from the Bureau of Indian Affairs

Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples    249 (BIA) and the Indian Health Service (IHS) are published in the Federal Register as confirmation of their unique political relationship with the U.S. federal government. In order to achieve federal recognition, Tribes must provide documentation of long-​standing relationships with state and local governments (See BIA documents for further details: Bureau of Indian Affairs, 2020). Notably, the constructs and documentation required for recognition do not align with historical definitions, nor with Tribal knowledge systems and documentation regarding Tribal units and memberships. For example, a Tribe or nation seeking federal recognition must provide evidence, including that it has been identified as a Native entity by anthropologists, historians, courthouses, churches, or schools—​that is, “evidence” generated by non-​Indigenous entities and non-​ Native standards, and, because of the destructive nature of colonialism, often without the benefit of Natives’ own records. These requirements have led to the purposeful exclusion of hundreds of Tribes from federal recognition (and federal obligations). Hundreds of Tribes are currently petitioning for recognition at both the federal and state levels. The federal system of recognizing a Tribe, generated by the BIA, has not changed since 1978 (Bureau of Indian Affairs, 2020), though each Native nation has its own criteria for identifying its members. For example, the federally recognized Navajo Nation requires at least one-​quarter direct Navajo ancestry—​an individual must have at least one grandparent who is or was considered an enrolled member and has or had a 100% blood quantum level. Other Native nations disregard blood quantum or consider it in addition to meeting enrollment criteria such as demonstrating ancestry through direct lineage to a Tribal member or providing proof of both historical and present-​day contact with the Native nation. There are also approximately 63 state-​recognized tribes. State recognition does not confer federal benefits unless explicitly authorized (as is the case in the administration of discretionary grant funding for community-​based projects via the federal Administration for Native Americans’ Native American Programs, www. acf.hhs.gov/​progr​ams/​ana), though it does allow for the possibility of a government-​to-​ government relationship with an individual state’s leadership and government. Through forced relocation, government mandates, and individual choice, a large portion of the AIAN population within the United States (78%) does not live on federally defined Tribal land; most of those persons live within urban areas (Martinez et al., 2016; Norris et al., 2012). These AIAN persons, labeled as “urban Indians,” are a diverse and complex population; they hail from federal-​and state-​recognized Tribes, and they have various enrollment statuses (Peters & Andersen, 2013). Many urban Indians are actually still living on their ancestral homelands, like members of the Duwamish Tribe in Seattle or the Fort McDowell Yavapai Nation in the Phoenix metro area. They may go back and forth between living on reservations and within urban cities for employment and educational reasons (Croy et al., 2009), yet they do not relinquish their identity. In fact, as noted in the work of anthropologist and Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska member Renya K. Ramirez (2007), these subpopulations build strong communities through shared culture and relationships, yet national data collection efforts fail to recognize the urban experience alongside reservation living as a form of Tribal community life.

250    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear

Diversifying AIAN Peoples’ Data Analysis Individuals’ Tribal enrollments are not static. Race, ethnicity, and migration studies scholar Dwanna L. McKay, a citizen of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation, notes that formal, legal enrollment into a recognized Tribe is regulated by the Tribal government and often by Tribal members (McKay, 2021). Enrollment status may change should Tribal governments implement disenrollment policies or require people to renew their Tribal enrollment (Galanda & Dreveskracht, 2015; Wilkins & Wilkins, 2017). Additionally, the dominant mode of data collection about racial identity in surveys is the self-​report; AIAN responses in national-​level surveys need not be limited to formal membership/​ enrollment. The AIAN responses may also be informed by family lore, cultural involvement, linguistic connection, or, as Cherokee citizen and sociologist Eva Garroutte writes, desired affiliation (Garroutte, 2003; Liebler, 2010). Likewise, nonresponses may be reported by AIAN individuals who have purposefully disconnected from or disenrolled from Tribes (due to the harmful and purposeful nature of colonialism or a host of other reasons); these individuals may not be captured in data even with multiple questions about AIAN identity and community. Because there are multiple modes of affiliation to Tribal communities, a multiple-​lens approach is useful to understand the full scope of the lives and life chances of AIAN Peoples. Our own personal identities help illustrate the need to expand the ways we ask survey respondents about their race, ethnicity, and Tribal affiliations. The first author, Kimberly, is an enrolled member of the federally recognized Navajo Nation in the U.S. Southwest (Navajo Nation Government, 2020). She mostly grew up on the Navajo reservation in Arizona, with some periods of urban living, and has recently moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, which is on the unceded traditional territory of the Coast Salish Peoples—​the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-​Waututh Nations. Throughout, she has been a member of the Navajo Nation and has supported her enrolled Tribal community and family whenever possible. She has also participated in and been a vested member of the Native community where she resides. These dynamics speak to two aspects of community membership: legal/​formal membership and active community building. Additionally, Kimberly is inconsistently racialized by others as an AIAN person; in other words, she is not regularly seen as a Native person by people she does not know. Our second author, Sofia, is an enrolled member of the Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina, a state-​recognized Tribe that has been petitioning for federal recognition since 1888. Congress has acknowledged the Tribe as “Indian” through the Lumbee Act of 1956, yet continues to withhold federal recognition (Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina, 2020). Sofia’s family lives in North Carolina and she visits frequently, but she actually grew up on unceded Duwamish land in Seattle, and she is a part of the city’s strong and

Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples    251 diverse urban Indian community. Sofia also has Ukrainian ancestry. Due to the pigment of her brown skin, she is often racialized by others as Mexican or Hispanic. Typical cross-​sectional data collection does not address the complex and fluid lived experience of AIAN identity. The authors’ lives and life experiences matter, as they influence their opportunities and outcomes, but few surveys ask questions that would elicit these differences. In one possible scenario, if a survey questionnaire defined AIAN as being an enrolled member of U.S. federally recognized Tribes, Kimberly would be considered AIAN and Sofia would not. In the more common style of national surveys, if that questionnaire asked only for an individual’s self-​identification with the AIAN racial category, both authors would identify as AIAN, but the data would not consider their enrollment status nor community involvements.

National Survey Race Measurements National surveys are powerful tools to gauge the status of populations and subgroups and make high-​level comparisons across populations (Kertzer & Arel, 2001). The extent to which they report an accurate picture is, however, limited by the questions asked, definitions offered, and categories suggested. In Table 16.1, we present the race and ethnicity categories available to respondents in five recent, major national surveys that use the methodology of self-​identified race and ethnicity: Census 2000, American Community Survey from 2010-​2018, Census 2020, National Science Foundation’s National Survey of College Graduates 2019, and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s American Indian Adult Tobacco Survey 2018 (respectively, U.S. Census Bureau, 2001; U.S. Census Bureau, 2020a; U.S. Census Bureau, 2018; National Science Foundation, 2018; Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2018). Each featured an ethnicity question asking about individual identification with Spanish, Hispanic, or Latino origins and ancestry, and most of the survey questions that gauge racial identity allowed for multiple responses (thus recording multiracial identities). The surveys’ race options largely comport with the U.S. Office of Management and Budget’s (OMB) five standard categories: White, Black or African American, American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, and Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander (U.S. Census Bureau, 2020b). For our purposes, it is notable that all five of these surveys featured an AIAN option. Many national surveys and reports instead collapse AIAN Peoples into a racial category of “Other,” a practice complicit in erasing AIAN Peoples from the national discourse (Rainie et al., 2020; Yellow Horse & Huyser, 2021). More perniciously, the erasure of AIAN Peoples in national data sets can constitute, in some scholars’ eyes, a purposeful statistical genocide (Anner, 1991) meant to render AIAN populations invisible to the state for the purposes of reducing resource allocations and treaty obligations. Each measure included in Table 16.1 offers additional insight into the construction of its subpopulation definitions. A key point is that each measure is unidirectional, or

Ethnicity Measurement

Question: Is this person Spanish/​Hispanic/​Latino? Responses: No Yes with specific national origins

Question: Is this person Spanish/​Hispanic/​Latino? Responses: No Yes with specific national origins

Question: Is this person Spanish/​Hispanic/​Latino? Response: No Yes with specific national origins

National Survey

Census 2000, American Community Survey 2010–​2018

Census 2020

National Science Foundation—​ National Survey of College Graduates 2019

Tribal Affiliation Measurement Ancestry Measurement

Question: What is your race? Mark one or more Response: American Indian or Alaska Native; Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander; Asian; Black or African American; White

Question: What is the person’s race? Mark one or more boxes AND print origins: White; Black or African American; American Indian or Alaska Native; Chinese; Filipino; Asian Indian; Vietnamese; Korean; Japanese; other Asian; Native Hawaiian; Samoan; Chamorro; Other Pacific Islander; Some other race

Question: If American Indian and Alaska Native, specify tribal affiliations. Response: Blank space provided for fill-​in by respondent.

Question: If American Indian and Alaska Native, print the name of the enrolled or principal tribe. Response: Blank space provided for fill-​in by respondent.

Question: What is the person’s race? Question: If American Indian Question: What is this Mark one or more boxes. and Alaska Native, print person’s ancestry or Responses: the name of the enrolled or ethnic origin? White; Black, African American, or Negro; principal tribe. Response: Blank American Indian/​Alaska Native; Response: Blank space provided for fill-​in by Asian Indian; Chinese; Filipino; Japanese; Korean; provided for fill-​in by respondent. Vietnamese; Other Asian (open-​ended), Native respondent. Hawaiian; Guamanian or Chamorro; Samoan; Other Pacific Islander

Race Measurement

Table 16.1 Description of Major National Surveys and Their Measurements of Ethnicity, Race, Tribal Affiliation, and Ancestry

Table 16.1 Continued

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—​ American Indian Adult Tobacco Survey 2018

Question: Which one or more of the following describes your Hispanic origin or ancestry? Response: Mexican/​ Mexican American, Chicano; Puerto Rican; Cuban; Hispanic or Latino, Another Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin

Question: Which one or more of the following do you consider yourself to be? (Select all that apply) Response: White; Black/​African American; Asian; Native Hawaiian/​Other Pacific Islander; American Indian or Alaska Native; Some other racial category

Question 1: Are you enrolled in a tribe? Response 1: Yes; No; Don’t know/​not sure, refused Question 1A: If so, which one? Response 1A: Blank space provided for fill-​in by respondent. Question 2: Are there any other tribes that you are a part of, but are not enrolled in? Response 2: Yes. If yes, please specify.

254    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear focused on the individual’s outward connection to a community. This indicates the prioritization of individualistic values over communal values, and it is an artifact of the Census collection process itself (Andersen, 2008). AIAN communities, today and in the past, have used criteria that use not only individual claims but also social, cultural, linguistic, territorial, sociopsychological, and ceremonial identifiers. Native People exist in relation to their communities, but these surveys are without any mechanisms for measuring mutual acknowledgment of associations between individuals and communities. Note that, of the five surveys reviewed here, only the CDC’s American Indian Adult Tobacco Use survey offers multiple measures of AIAN identity, including Question 2 under Tribal Affiliation, which explores engagement and belonging beyond enrollment. Asking about AIAN identity in several ways, as the Tobacco Use survey did, is better suited to capturing mechanisms of mutual acknowledgment and adding nuance to overly broad-​stroke claims about AIAN populations (Saperstein et al., 2016).

AIAN Populations and Socioeconomic Status: What the Data Tell Us One inherent limitation in using secondary data regarding AIAN Peoples in research is the scholar’s inability to change either the sampling frame or the data collection methods. Nevertheless, some extant data sets offer inroads for the curious scholar interested in intersectional AIAN identity (Crenshaw, 1991) by including measures of both racial identity and Tribal affiliation. Analyzing these in tandem combats Indigenous erasure by making the heterogeneity of AIAN social outcomes visible. Of our five examples above, the Census data including the American Community Survey (ACS) is most robust for constructing a multidimensional picture of AIAN identity, which is shaped by lived experiences as well as social context. Tables 16.2 and 16.3 present examples of disaggregated analyses by racial identification and Tribal affiliation using a methodological approach innovated by the first author (Huyser et al., 2010, 2014). The data comes from the ACS 5-​year estimates (2014–​2018). The ACS is conducted annually by the U.S. Census Bureau and is a nationally representative, 5-​in-​100 household survey. We downloaded this study’s files from IPUMS at the University of Minnesota Population Research Center (Ruggles et al., 2021). We used STATA 15 to conduct the analyses in Tables 16.2 and 16.3; the analyses are not weighted (StataCorp, 2017). Table 16.2 presents the median income and mean education level of single-​race and multiracial AIAN persons relative to Whites using the ACS 5-​year estimates (2014–​ 2018). The individuals in this table who identify as White have the higher median income and higher median education compared to the majority of the AIAN identities, at $35,192. Among the single race and biracial AIAN persons, they have an annual income

Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples    255 Table 16.2 Median Income and Grade Level by Racial Identity in the ACS 5-​Year Estimates (2014–​2018) N

Median Income

Median Grade Level

12,135,760

$35,192

Grade 12

22,297

$28,698

Grade 12

One Major Race Group White Two or more AI Tribes Other AI Tribe

14,569

$24,346

Grade 12

176,796

$23,985

Grade 12

White and AIAN

96,764

$29,000

Grade 12

Black and AIAN

13,260

$21,785

Grade 12

White and AIAN and Asian

1,907

$68,000

Grade 11

White and AIAN and Asian and Pacific Islander

1,100

$50,207

Grade 9

1,686

$40,000

Grade 11

928

$29,326

Grade 12

AIAN Two Major Race Groups

Three or More Major Race Groups

White and AIAN and “other race” write-​in Black and AIAN and Asian and Pacific Islander and “other race” write-​in

below $30,000 and there is much more variation among the AIAN individuals who identify with two or more racial groups. Already, in Table 16.2, we can spot heterogeneous outcomes among AIAN persons by examining a multiplicity of identities. There is less variation among the education outcomes; Whites have higher median levels of education relative to the AIAN multirace groups. The mechanisms behind these outcomes are beyond the scope of this study, though extant literature would suggest systemic racism and settler colonialism are at play (Feagin, 2006; Jones, 2000; Wolfe, 2006). Table 16.3 presents the median income and mean education level of the 27 largest Tribal affiliations relative to the overall AIAN median income and mean education level. We use the Census-​derived Tribal affiliation groupings, which represent multiple bands, nations, and/​or villages under one label and are not necessarily the names that the Native nations use to refer to themselves. The first row is the overall AIAN population, which, taken together, reported a median annual income of $26,000 and an average education level just shy of a high school diploma or GED (the median is high-​school level). But, from the second row down, Table 16.3 shows variation in income and education levels by Tribal affiliation. People affiliated with the Navajo, Tohono O’Odham, and Apache Tribes report incomes below the AIAN median, while those affiliated with the Puget Sound Salish and Seminole Tribes command incomes higher than the AIAN median. Note that the median income presented does not control for region of residence or local standard of living.

256    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear Table 16.3 Median Income and Grade Level by Tribal Affiliation in the ACS 5-​Year Estimates (2014–​2018) N

Median Income

Median Grade Level

315,927

$26,000

Grade 12

Seminole

1,039

$40,203

Grade 12

Puget Sound Salish

1,808

$34,601

Grade 12

Potawatomie

1,429

$34,325

Grade 12

Choctaw

6,003

$31,544

Grade 12

Chickasaw

1,437

$31,421

Grade 12

972

$29,500

Grade 12

Overall AIAN persons

Aleut Comanche

551

$28,690

Grade 12

Creek

2,441

$28,690

Grade 12

Eskimo

8,023

$27,380

Grade 11

810

$27,377

Grade 12

Chippewa

7,348

$27,022

Grade 12

Cheyenne

638

$25,398

Grade 12

Cherokee

Crow

15,715

$24,663

Grade 12

Latin American

7,074

$24,346

Grade 12

Yaqui

1,469

$24,346

Grade 12

Iroquois

2,618

$24,333

Grade 12

Alaskan Athabaskan

1,239

$24,304

Grade 12

Sioux

7,549

$23,700

Grade 12

Lumbee

4,393

$23,669

Grade 12

785

$23,500

Grade 12

Tlingit-​Haida

1,071

$23,495

Grade 12

Pima

1,105

$22,123

Grade 11

Pueblo

6,118

$22,122

Grade 12

Blackfoot

1,570

$21,054

Grade 12

Apache

4,337

$19,167

Grade 12

Tohono O’odham

1,520

$17,959

Grade 12

29,431

$16,504

Grade 12

Alaska Native, Other

Navajo

Tables 16.2 and 16.3 are fairly simple demonstrations of the variation in social outcomes across AIAN racial identity and Tribal affiliations, and they urge deeper analysis that might reveal the mechanisms influencing the variegation (e.g., connected Tribal economies, U.S. regional effects, etc.). They show that expanded measures add complexity to the generalized stereotypes of AIAN Peoples and insight into their lives and life experiences.

Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples    257 In the United States, Native People report multiracial identities at high rates (Liebler & Ortyl, 2014); the reality is that Native People in 2021 look a myriad of ways and live a variety of different lives. Regardless of the racial identification, Tribal affiliation, and geographic location, each characteristic allows for a more multidimensional understanding of AIAN experiences, as well as inequalities nested within group data and Native belonging obscured by single-​race metrics. When data only captures single-​race AIAN People, it contributes to the myth of the “vanishing Native” and only ensures that Native People become more invisible and more relegated to the past; it also limits the scope and understanding of Indigenous lives, life experiences, and opportunities. Due to the history and ongoing structure of settler colonialism (Wolfe, 2006), the lived reality of AIAN Peoples and Tribes is complex and diverse. Regional and geographic effects must be considered, as they directly affect AIAN life outcomes due to the history of colonization through the placement of reservation lands and the historical displacement of individuals and Native nations. Dr. Huyser’s methodological approach—​ disaggregation by racial identity and Tribal affiliation—​provides one starting example to explore and understand the great variance in AIAN populations and Tribes within the United States.

Role of Indigenous Sovereignty and Data American Indian and Alaska Native Peoples and their communities are more than a racial and ethnic group in the United States. AIAN Peoples and their Native nations are inherently political entities involving formal enrollment (and formal eligibility criteria), government-​to-​government relationships, and Native nations’ contested sovereignty. Though the U.S. federal government only respects the sovereignty of federally recognized Tribes, all American Indian and Alaska Native nations, Tribes, bands, Pueblos, communities, and villages are sovereign entities. In this political context, Indigenous sovereignty and data cannot be divorced. Rebuilding Native nations’ and AIAN persons’ trust in social scientific researchers will require a concerted effort to (re)establish their data sovereignty, and the inherent authority of Tribal nations to govern the gathering and release of data specific to their people and communities (Kukutai & Taylor, 2016). This is because in the past, AIAN communities have regretted their participation in research efforts that only highlighted specific, stereotypical, and misunderstood problems that brought wide-​ranging, negative effects (Beals et al., 2003), including unfavorable publicity, decreased investments in local projects, and declining tourism, as well as literal bodily harm. Community confidentiality can help prevent the ascription of negative descriptive statistics to specific Tribal localities, and data releases (or suppressions) should proceed in accordance with Tribal nation’s preferences and guidance (Harding et al., 2012). AIAN nations and

258    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear communities must have a direct leadership role in shaping, collecting, accessing, and controlling any and all data collected about Native Peoples, especially at the federal level, where it has been so egregiously misused in the past. Earlier, we hinted at the ways data, especially federal-​level data, shapes social understandings of groups, particularly racialized minorities. When it comes to AIAN Peoples, these narratives are often deficit-​based, one-​dimensional stereotypes that reinforce harmful tropes: stoic brown Native men, the drunken Indian, casino-​rich Natives, and so on. In reality, Native People are incredibly diverse. Our phenotypes can be read by others as Black, White, and anything in between. We live in all different areas—​even in different countries. If we are to push past narrow notions of AIAN decline, Native scholars, nations, and communities must be given central roles in national data collection and reporting efforts.

Discussion The lack of national-​level reporting about AIAN Peoples and Tribal affiliations alongside any social outcomes of interest contributes to the erasure of AIAN Peoples in the United States and perpetuates the myth of the monolithic diminished or vanishing Indian (Anner, 1991; Berry, 1960; McKay et al., 2020). Furthermore, the repeated use of overly broad racial categories, in which AIAN Peoples are frequently undifferentiated (both by Tribal and community affiliation, but sometimes from a swath of racialized groups, such as when their only survey option is “Other”), obviates heterogeneity and increases the likelihood of overgeneralization of outcomes and associations. This chapter’s analysis, drawn from the ACS (2014–​2018), demonstrates that allowing for self-​reported multiracial identities and Tribal affiliations uncovers variation among AIAN Peoples, and it underscores the fact that using multiple measures of race and affiliations reduces their statistical simplification (Saperstein, Kizer and Penner, 2016). In our example, we used ACS 5-​year estimates (2014–​2018) to examine the median income and average education of AIAN Peoples by multirace and Tribal affiliation. We presented both intergroup difference (in comparison with Whites) and intragroup variation (among the 27 large Tribal affiliations reported in the ACS in comparison with overall AIAN population outcomes). The disaggregated statistics suggest that, overall, each AIAN racial category tends to have lower income and education relative to Whites. However, AIAN persons reporting three or more race groups vary more widely in terms of both income and education. We observed relatively less variation by education across all the groups, but the finding that single-​race AIAN persons have an average education level below high school diploma, with a narrow standard deviation that indicates there is also limited within-​group educational variation. By sketching out the specificity available when multiple metrics are gathered, we hope our analyses will help future scholars

Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples    259 connect the lasting effects of systemic racism and settler colonialism to the lives and life chances of AIAN populations. We also used the median income for all AIAN persons (according to ACS 2014–​2018 data, $26,000) as an indicator to understand the relative economic standing of the 27 largest Tribal affiliations reported in the data. Identifying the 16 Tribal affiliations whose respondents indicated a lower-​than-​median annual income and the 11 that came in above the median is the type of base-​level sorting that adds to the heterogeneous presentation of AIAN persons and provides a starting point to elucidate socioeconomic inequalities. These types of analyses may illuminate mechanisms between individual economic outcomes and Tribal economy. In advocating the use of multiple racial identities and Tribal affiliations in survey research regarding the composition and social outcomes of the U.S. Indigenous population, we cannot ignore the paramount importance of Indigenous sovereignty and data sovereignty. AIAN Peoples and their communities are more than a racial and ethnic group within the United States. It is important to be mindful of the contemporary and historical context of AIAN identities, and the particular nuances of each nation or Tribe to rebuild trust between Native nations, their members, and social science researchers. Native nations and communities must have a direct leadership role in shaping, collecting, accessing, and controlling all and any data collected about Native Peoples, especially at federal data collection levels. A recent collaborative study is innovating a potential model for responsible data collection aimed at creating a fuller understanding of Native society and culture within the United States. Mindful of AIAN populations’ unique history and context, the joint survey is called the “Indigenous Futures Project.” Conducted by the Center for Native American Youth, IllumiNative, and the Native Organizers Alliance, this is the first survey in Indian Country that provides an opportunity for all Native Peoples to be a part of shaping our future. This survey offers a platform for understanding critical issues impacting Indian Country that can be used to motivate change (Center for Native American Youth et al., 2020). Its Native identification measures include measuring legal status (enrollment, Tribal affiliation, etc.), engagement with Native American cultures, and describing community attachment and involvement (Fryberg et al., 2021). These types of questions not only describe individual identity formation but also mechanisms of identity development, and they allow respondents to describe mutual acknowledgment between individual and community. As indicated by our own identity summaries, self-​identified race and peer-​ascribed race are often mismatched, yet both are consequential for lived experiences and life outcomes. Thus, we encourage researchers to include survey questions that address racialization, particularly measures of what Nancy Lopez, a Black Latina sociologist, calls “street race”—​the race respondents believe others perceive them to be in daily life (López et al., 2018). This will supplement self-​reported racial identity by capturing the experience of ascribed race among AIAN Peoples.

260    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear

Conclusion Surveys are powerful tools for understanding the composition of a society, as well as variations and inequalities across subgroups. Survey methodology, including the design of questions regarding race and ethnicity, shapes the information a survey can reveal. Attuning to focal populations’ modes of identification in order to refine survey instruments—​as we suggest by urging researchers to query AIAN respondents’ using racial measures allowing for multiracial designations and including questions regarding Tribal enrollments and community belonging—​will help capture more useful and fine-​grained data. Without such innovations, national-​level and state-​level data will continue to facilitate reductive narratives about AIAN Peoples and obscure important social outcomes and inequalities. As we advocate changes to future studies, we also affirm the imperative to honor Indigenous sovereignty and data sovereignty. Indigenous leadership and guidance are prerequisites for appropriate and valid use of the data.

References Andersen, C. (2008). From nation to population: The racialisation of “Métis” in the Canadian census. Nations and Nationalism, 14(2), 347–​368. Anner, J. (1991). To the U.S. Census Bureau, Native Americans are practically invisible. Minority Trendsletter, 4(1), 15–​21. Beals, J., Manson, S. M., Mitchell, C. M., Spicer, P., & AI-​SUPERPFP Team. (2003). Cultural specificity and comparison in psychiatric epidemiology: Walking the tightrope in American Indian research. Culture Medicine Psychiatry, 27, 259–​289. Berry, B. (1960). The myth of the vanishing Indian. Phylon, 21(1), 51–​57. Bureau of Indian Affairs. (2012, August 10) Indian entities recognized and eligible to receive services from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Federal Register, 77(155). https://​www.fede​ralr​ egis​ter.gov/​docume​nts/​2019/​02/​01/​2019-​00897/​ind​ian-​entit​ies-​rec​ogni​zed-​by-​and-​eligi​ ble-​to-​rece​ive-​servi​ces-​from-​the-​uni​ted-​sta​tes-​bur​eau-​of Bureau of Indian Affairs. (2020). Office of Federal Acknowledgement—​ Supplemental Administrative and Regulatory Documents. https://​www.bia.gov/​as-​ia/​ofa/​suppl​emen​tal -​adm​inis​trat​ive-​and-​reg​ulat​ory-​docume​nts Center for Native American Youth, IllumiNative, & Native Organizers Alliance. (2020). Indigenous Futures Project. http://​indige​nous​futu​res.illumi​nati​ves.org/​ Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2018). American Indian Adult Tobacco Survey. Atlanta: CDC. https://​www.cdc.gov/​toba​cco/​data​_​sta​tist​ics/​surv​eys/​amer​ican​_​ind​ian/​ index.htm Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 43, 1241–​1299. Croy, C. D., Mitchell, C. M., Bezdek, M., & Spicer, P. (2009). Young adult migration from a Northern Plains Indian reservation: Who stays and who leaves. Population Research and Policy Review, 28(5), 641–​660. doi:10.1007/​s11113-​008-​9123-​4

Reversing Statistical Erasure of Indigenous Peoples    261 Feagin, J. (2006). Systemic racism: A theory of oppression. New York: Routledge. Fryberg, S. A., Eason, A. E., Brady, L. M., Jessop, N., & Lopez, J. J. (2021). Unpacking the mascot debate: Native American identification predicts opposition to Native mascots. Social Psychological and Personality Science, 12(1), 3–​13. Galanda, G. S., & Dreveskracht, R. D. (2015). Curing the tribal disenrollment epidemic: In search of a remedy. Arizona Law Review, 57, 383. Garroutte, E. M. (2003). Real Indians. Berkeley: University of California Press. Harding, A., Harper, B., Stone, D., O’Neill, C., Berger, P., Harris, S., & Donatuto, J. (2012). Conducting research with tribal communities: Sovereignty, ethics, and data-​sharing issues. Environmental Health Perspectives, 120(1), 6–​10. Huyser, K. R., Sakamoto, A., & Takei, I. (2010). The persistence of racial disadvantage: The socioeconomic attainments of single-​race and multi-​race Native Americans. Population Research and Policy Review, 29, 541–​568. Huyser, K. R., Takei, I., & Sakamoto, A. (2014). Demographic factors associated with poverty among American Indians and Alaska Natives. Race and Social Problems, 6(2), 120–​134. Jones, C. P. (2000). Levels of racism: A theoretic framework and a gardener’s tale. American Journal of Public Health, 90(8), 1212. Keo, C., Peterson, A., & West, K. (2019). Returns to higher education for American Indian and Alaska Native students. Journal of American Indian Education, 58(1–​2), 7–​38. Kertzer, D. I., & Arel, D. (2001). Census and identity: The politics of race, ethnicity, and language in national censuses. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kukutai, T., & Taylor, J. (2016). Indigenous data sovereignty: Toward an agenda. Canberra: ANU Press. Kukutai, T., & Thompson, V. (2015). “Inside out”: The politics of enumerating the nation by ethnicity. In P. Simon, V. Piché, & A. A. Gagnon (Eds.), Social statistics and ethnic diversity: Cross-​national perspectives in classifications and identity politics (pp. 39–​61). Cham, Switzerland: Springer. Kukutai, T., Thompson, V., & McMillan, R. (2015). Whither the census? Continuity and change in census methodologies worldwide, 1985–​2014. Journal of Population Research, 32(1), 3–​22. Liebler, C. A. (2004). Ties on the fringes of identity. Social Science Research, 33(4), 702–​723. Liebler, C. A. (2010). Homelands and indigenous identities in a multiracial era. Social Science Research, 39(4), 596–​609. Liebler, C. A., & Ortyl, T. (2014). More than one million new American Indians in 2000: Who are they? Demography, 51(3), 1101–​1130. López, N., Vargas, E., Juarez, M., Cacari-​Stone, L., & Bettez, S. (2018). What’s your “street race”? Leveraging multidimensional measures of race and intersectionality for examining physical and mental health status among Latinxs. Sociology of Race and Ethnicity, 4(1), 49–​66. Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina. (2020). Lumbee Recognition. Pembroke: Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina. https://​www.lumb​eetr​ibe.com/​hist​ory-​-​cult​ure Martinez, D., Sage, G., & Ono, A. (2016). Urban American Indians: Reclaiming Native space. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger. McKay, D. L. (2021). Real Indians: Policing or protecting authentic Indigenous identity? Sociology of Race and Ethnicity, 7(1), 12–​25. McKay, D. L., Vinyeta, K., & Norgaard, K. M. (2020). Theorizing race and settler colonialism within U.S. sociology. Sociology Compass, 14(9), e12821. National Science Foundation. (2018). National survey of college graduates. Alexandria, VA: National Science Foundation. https://​www.nsf.gov/​sta​tist​ics/​srvygr​ads/​

262    Kimberly R. Huyser and Sofia Locklear Navajo Nation Government. (2020). History. Window Rock, AZ: Navajo Nation Government. https://​www.nav​ajo-​nsn.gov/​hist​ory.htm Norris, T., Vines, P. L., & Hoeffel, E. M. (2012). The American Indian and Alaska Native population: 2010. Washington D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau. Peters, E. J., & Andersen, C. (2013) Indigenous in the city: Contemporary identities and cultural innovation. Vancouver: UBC Press. Rainie, S. C., Rodriguez-​Lonebear, D., Akee, R., Lucchesi, A., & Richards, J. R. (2020). Indigenous data in the COVID-​19 pandemic: Straddling erasure, terrorism and sovereignty. Brooklyn, NY: Social Science Research Council. https://​items.ssrc.org/​covid-​19-​and-​the -​soc​ial-​scien​ces/​disas​ter-​stud​ies/​ind​igen​ous-​data-​in-​the-​covid-​19-​pande​mic-​str​addl​ing -​eras​ure-​terror​ism-​and-​sove​reig​nty/​ Ramirez, R. K. (2007). Native hubs: Culture, community, and belonging in Silicon Valley and beyond. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Rubin, V., Ngo, D., Ross, A., Butler, D., & Balaram, N. (2018). Counting a diverse nation: Disaggregating data on race and ethnicity to advance a culture of health Princeton, NJ: Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. https://​www.pol​icyl​ink.org/​sites/​defa​ult/​files/​Countin​g _​a_​Dive​rse_​Nati​on_​0​8_​15​_​18.pdf Ruggles, S., Flood, S., Foster, S., Goeken, R., Pacas, J., Schouweiler, M., & Sobek, M. (2021). IPUMS USA: Version 11.0 [dataset]. Minneapolis, MN: IPUMS. Sandefur, G. D., & Liebler, C. A. (1997). The demography of American Indian families. Population Research and Policy Review, 16, 95–​114. Saperstein, A., Kizer, J. M., & Penner, A. M. (2016). Making the most of multiple measures: Disentangling the effects of different dimensions of race in survey research. American Behavioral Scientist, 60(4), 519–​537. Snipp, C. M. (1989). American Indians: The first of this land. New York: Russell Sage Foundation. StataCorp. (2017). Stata Statistical Software: Release 15. College Station, TX: StataCorp LLC. Urban Indian Health Institute. (2016). Community health profile: National aggregate of Urban Indian Health Program service areas. Seattle, WA: Urban Indian Health Institute. U.S. Census Bureau. (2001). Census 2000—​United States. Suitland, MD: U.S. Census Bureau. https://​www.cen​sus.gov/​main/​www/​cen2​000.html U.S. Census Bureau. (2018). 2010–​ 2018 American Community Survey—​ United States Questionnaire Archive. Suitland, MD: U.S. Census Bureau. https://​www.cen​sus.gov/​progr​ ams-​surv​eys/​acs/​meth​odol​ogy/​questi​onna​ire-​arch​ive.html U.S. Census Bureau. (2020a). Census 2020—​United States. Suitland, MD: U.S. Census Bureau. https://​www.cen​sus.gov/​progr​ams-​surv​eys/​decenn​ial-​cen​sus/​techni​cal-​docume​ntat​ion/​ que​stio​nnai​res/​2020.html U.S. Census Bureau. (2020b). Census Race Question Standards. Suitland, MD: U.S. Census Bureau. https://​www.cen​sus.gov/​top​ics/​pop​ulat​ion/​race/​about.html#:~:text=​OMB%20r​ equi​res%20f​ive%20mini​mum%20cat​egor​ies,Hawai​ian%20or%20Ot​her%20Paci​fic%20I​ slan​der Wilkins, D. E., & Wilkins, S. H. (2017). Dismembered: Native disenrollment and the battle for human rights. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–​409. Yellow Horse, A. J., & Huyser, K. R. (2021, April 9). Indigenous data sovereignty and COVID-​ 19 data issues for American Indian and Alaskan Native Tribes and populations. Journal of Population Research. https://​link.sprin​ger.com/​arti​cle/​10.1007/​s12​546-​021-​09261-​5#Bib1

Chapter 17

Rendering th e Fu t u re a White P os se s si on Producing Contingent Self-​determination via Racialized Conceptions of Indigenous Youth Lilly Brown

How are we or how do we become conscious subjects rather than objects of these discursive strategies that have grievous outcomes in our daily lives? It is, perhaps to be alive to the motion of it. It is to constantly ask, What are the politics of meaning making that we are always a part of? —​Dian Million (2011, p. 320)

Introduction In the epigraph above, Tanana Athabascan scholar Dian Million (2011) gestures to the privilege we possess as First Peoples working within the academy, the privilege of being “alive to the motion” of “the politics of meaning making” (p. 320). In doing so, Million orients us toward those discursive strategies that cause harm, that imbricate our everyday lived realities and the lives of those we often labor with and for in our academic practice. This privilege, which also invokes obligation, is likewise considered by Māori sociologist Joanna Kidman, who suggests that existing in the neoliberal university requires us as Indigenous sociologists to raise questions about who our intellectual labor is for and who it benefits. In referencing the complex entanglements we are forced to negotiate in debates about public and professional sociology and about the obligations we have as Indigenous sociologists to ensure our work benefits our people, Kidman (2020) notes that “settler-​colonial systems of knowledge production actively maintain and extend public silences about the colonial past and its material consequences in the present” (p. 248). I take heed of both Million’s and Kidman’s identification of the

264   Lilly Brown importance of attending to the way knowledge and power work discursively to produce material effects, or as Million puts it, grievous outcomes, in the everyday lived realities of First Peoples. Taking Million’s (2011) and Kidman’s (2020) invocations as a starting point, this chapter is an extension of my work and research with Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal young people, whom I have argued elsewhere are continually forced to comply with an education system they often experience as violent (Brown, 2019). As a response to this qualitative work, here I seek instead to trace the discursive strategies that have been deployed historically to render young First Peoples as “knowable” via what I would argue are racialized discourses of deficiency. These discourses, while framing Indigeneity as intelligible simultaneously work to normalize whiteness as an epistemological a priori, and thus, as Michif (Métis) scholar Chris Andersen (2009) notes, the “dominant representational source through which Western societies produce and consume Indigeneity” (p. 81). The representations of Indigeneity interpolated via Whiteness produced the discursive foundations necessary for many teachers, schools, government representatives, and policy writers to feel entitled to imagine an abundance of speculative barriers that they believed Indigenous young people faced. These include unsuitable study spaces and home environments, families that did not understand or value schooling, early childhoods where development had been hindered, and cultural predispositions that disabled Indigenous children and families from engaging meaningfully with “formal” education and other opportunities. What strikes me about these articulations, repeated across various contexts time and time again, are not the lists of difficulties young First Peoples on this continent are believed to face (which are very real for many) in their engagement with the education system. These are long established. Rather, the striking aspect is the way the lives of the young people in question are always imagined as knowable, and, importantly, knowable via a framework that positioned them and their families as inherently deficient, as lacking. In being alive to the motion of the way Indigenous young people are racialized as intelligible in the present moment, I move away here from Indigenous young people as the subject of my analysis and move instead toward the discursive strategies that have emerged to racialize them. As a Gumbaynggirr scholar and sociologist who researches at the intersection of youth studies and critical Indigenous studies, I am impelled to interrogate how this came to be so; to examine the a priori assumptions that structure how the young people I work with are positioned and responded to by the institutions they are forced to comply with on a daily basis and the systems that demarcate this engagement. In doing so I turn to the archives, state commission reviews, and parliamentary debates to trace the emergence of conceptions of Indigenous youth from 1967 to 1977. Guiding this chapter is a question posed by seminal theorist of race and Koenpul Quandamooka scholar Aileen Moreton-​ Robinson (2015, p. xx) who asks: “How did Aboriginal people come to be known as racialised subjects, and is this ‘knowing’ implicated in a structure of white subjectivity that is tied ontologically to the possession of Aboriginal lands and Aboriginal people?” In attending to discursive practices that produce harmful material effects in the present, I trace conceptions of Indigenous youth

Rendering the Future a White Possession     265 as they emerged in state-​sanctioned political discourse around the role of education in mitigating the “Aboriginal problem” of poverty and disadvantage in the first decade after Australia’s 1967 Referendum. I begin next by suggesting that these conceptions of Indigenous youth, emergent from the heyday of the self-​determination policy era, worked in fact to undermine First Peoples’ demands for self-​determination and land rights. The education and employment of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander young people was then cast as the necessary precondition for self-​determination, while simultaneously being positioned as the antidote to poverty. In racializing First Peoples as poverty-​stricken and deficient in the present moment, we were also rendered as incapable of conducting our own affairs, including via the ownership of property, into the future. Indigenous youth, through education and employment, were discursively constructed as the site through which this problem of deficiency was to be mitigated. I conclude by discussing the importance of tracing historical conceptions of Indigenous youth in relation to their implications for more contemporary policy and practice.

Disappearing Indigenous Young People in the Population-​M aking of Indigenous Youth The 1970s heralded a new decade of policy reform in response to First Peoples after a visible shift occurred in the political agenda around the seminal reference point of the 1967 Referendum. Often explained as a watershed moment in Australian political history, the referendum passed with an overwhelming majority of people voting to change the Australian Constitution to include Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People in the national census. The success of the referendum also enabled the federal government to legislate on behalf of Aboriginal Peoples, a power previously only accorded to individual states. From the mid-​20th century in Australia, conceptions of youth were likewise significantly refigured in the national imaginary as young people became emblematic of the social and economic instability facing the postwar, postindustrial Western world (Wyn & White, 1996). The political function of education through reform was recast to meet the challenges of a rapidly changing labor market and rising youth unemployment. Young people were rendered within this social and political climate as a potential threat to be mitigated via prolonged compulsory schooling and participation in mass higher education (Bessant & Watts, 1998). The time period in question, after the 1970s, has been marked within a Western global context as the decade heralding “neoliberalism’s ascent to hegemony” (Coulthard, 2014, p. 9), or what White British scholar Nikolas Rose (1996, p. 328), drawing on French sociologist Jean Beaudrillard, theorizes as “the death of the social.” I take neoliberalism to refer, as White French theorist Michel Foucault (1979, p. 131) suggests, to “the exercise of political power modelled on principles of a market economy.” The refiguration

266   Lilly Brown of the relationship between the state and the market in the last decades of the 20th century in the United Kingdom, Canada, Aotearoa New Zealand, the United States, and Australia shifted the prominence of youth as a social category in political discourse and corresponding policymaking (Sukarieh & Tannock, 2014). Conceptions of Australian childhood and youth that emerged at the policy nexus of education and economic development from the mid-​1970s had a profound impact on contemporary understandings of and responses to young people in research, policy, and educational practice. During this time, unemployment came to be understood as a “phenomenon to be governed” (Dwyer & Wyn, 2001; Jessop, 2003; Rose, 1996, p. 339). Young people, as an emergent category of risk by virtue of high youth unemployment, came to be governed on this premise through education. Through discourses of risk, youth were framed as “at-​risk of jeopardising, through present behaviours and dispositions, desired futures” (Kelly, 2001, p. 30). At-​risk discourses justified education as a technology of economic development that aimed to govern youth according to “preferred or ideal adult futures and the present behaviours and dispositions of youth” (p. 30). The emerging prominence of youth as an age-​related category at this time, suggests White British sociologist Phil Mizen (2002), signified a capitalist state practice of managing social conflict, a practice of “actively consolidating, supporting and defending capitalist development by organising social relations into distinctions and categories that obscure their exploitative content” (p. 13). It is at this moment that Aboriginal youth, as a population identifiable in census data, enter the broader politic simultaneously as a newly emergent social category and an enigmatic figure, particularly symbolizing the determined existence and future of a people that had so long been the locus of erasure. Prior to this point in time, ideological policies of assimilation enacted through child removal were the primary focus at state level, and after this, Indigenous children and young people come under the purview of the federal government in the context of education and employment. White Copenhagen-​based political and historical sociologist Mitchell Dean (1995) warns that the “practical arts of government,” through intellectual technologies such as census making, “no matter how apparently mundane, routine or technical, always coexist with, or contain a dimension of thought” (p. 570). Likewise, White British theorists Miller and Rose (1990), in reference to the creation of statistical populations, suggest that “knowing” an object in such a way that it can be governed is more than a purely speculative activity; such a seeking out necessitates procedures of notation, ways of collecting and presenting statistics, the transportation of these to centres where calculations and judgements can be made and so forth. It is through such procedures of inscription that the diverse domains of “governmentality” are made up, that “objects” such as the economy, the enterprise, the social field and the family are rendered in a particular conceptual form and made amenable to intervention and regulation. (p. 5)

While inclusion in the national census was part of the broader success of the 1967 Referendum and the fight for equality, implications remain for questions of

Rendering the Future a White Possession     267 governmentality. Sociologist and Palawa scholar Maggie Walter (2010) points out that while inclusion in the census revealed “stark discrimination” as “social and cultural artefacts that emerge from, and are translated into, meaning via the norms of their producing and using society” it provided “little to remedy the underpinning racialized presumptions, or realities of resource access” (p. 46). Likewise, Yellowknives Dene scholar Glen Coulthard (2014) complicates the banality of state concession to Indigenous Peoples’ rights-​based claims to self-​governance through an expression of anticolonial nationalism within the Canadian context. He notes that Indigenous rights-​ based movements throughout the 1960s and 1970s forced colonial power to modify itself from a structure that was once primarily reinforced by policies, techniques, and ideologies explicitly oriented around the genocidal exclusion/​assimilation double, to one that is now reproduced through a seemingly more conciliatory set of discourses and institutional practices that emphasize our recognition and accommodation. Regardless of this modification, however, the relationship between Indigenous peoples and the state has remained colonial to its foundation. (p. 7)

As the interplay of grass-​roots demands for self-​determination were responded to in policy and political discourse, the category of Aboriginal youth emerged at the nexus of Indigenous rights-​based claims to equality; an economic rationale that legitimized governmental interventions into the lives of young people more broadly, and the particularities of an Australian nation-​state built on Aboriginal dispossession. Aboriginal youth became a site of mounting bureaucratic scrutiny as the dramatic difference in educational attainment and labor market participation invoked a governmental response. Existing frames of reference in relation to at-​risk youth and youth unemployment enabled and legitimized this response but cannot fully account for it. Particularly as unlike the generalizable youth population who signified economic instability via the national crisis in education, the economic state of the nation was not considered directly contingent on the participation of Aboriginal young people in the labor market. In this way, while concern for the plight of Aboriginal young people was included in the response to the education crisis, the justification for doing so was different. To more fully begin to comprehend the tensions and complexity of emerging racialized conceptions of Indigenous youth, a framework that takes into account the place of Indigenous young people as part of the formation and maintenance of the settler-​colonial nation state in this moment is necessary. Extending the framework of analysis to include questions about the implicit and symbolic place of Indigenous youth in the rapidly changing relations of government, in addition to a consideration of the explicit political discourses concerning youth, self-​determination, and the demands for land rights, is important. Such an analysis enables a reading of policy and political discourse that goes beyond only justifying the emergence of Aboriginal youth as a social category within the economic rational of government,

268   Lilly Brown to understanding the racialization of Aboriginal young people through conceptions of Indigenous youth in the Australian context as another iteration of settler colonialism. As I argue next, the state figured racialized conceptions of Indigenous youth through a “discourse of pathology” that circulated as a “strategic truth: if Indigenous people behaved properly as good citizens their poverty would disappear” (Moreton-​ Robinson, 2009, p. 77). Through these discourses, which worked to pathologize Indigenous Peoples, conceptions of Indigenous youth discursively portrayed them as educable and malleable—​both to government intervention and the risk of negative influence—​and thus they emerge as a primary site through which a rhetoric of contingent self-​determination worked to undermine self-​determination as demanded by Indigenous Peoples.

Producing Normative Futures via a Rhetoric of Continent Self-​determination Histories of Indigenous policy draw on this discursive shift from assimilation and integration to self-​determination to indicate the significance of this decade as foundational to the development of progressive policy reform in Aboriginal Affairs (Altman, 2010; Anderson, 2007; Short, 2003; Sullivan, 2011). Yet while the development of recognition discourse was well underway in response to the long-​standing demands for self-​ determination by Aboriginal Peoples, Aboriginal populations were simultaneously, yet paradoxically, positioned via corresponding political and policy rhetoric as inherently vulnerable and deprived as revelations of profound statistical inequality began to emerge (Walter, 2009). This tension—​between the conferral of self-​determination on the part of the state and the perceived readiness of Aboriginal Peoples to receive it as an opportunity, as I demonstrate next, is manifest throughout parliamentary debates, ministerial statements, and government commissioned reviews into the role of education and employment in addressing the inequality faced by Aboriginal Peoples from 1971 to 1977. It is against this backdrop that I consider how the rhetoric of contingent self-​determination was bolstered by the pathologizing of Indigenous Peoples through reports of statistical inequality and poverty in order to forge racialized conceptions of Aboriginal youth as foundational to normative economic futures for Aboriginal Peoples more broadly. These normative futures imagined and instigated education-​for-​employment as the solution to the Aboriginal problem while simultaneously constructing Aboriginal youth as a category of risk. In this way, during the early 1970s, conceptions of Aboriginal youth emerged to undermine Aboriginal demands for self-​determination while simultaneously forming the basis upon which, after 1977, subsequent neoliberal discourses of youth would intersect.

Rendering the Future a White Possession     269 At the time, Prime Minister Gough Whitlam (1973) declared support for Aboriginal self-​determination while also highlighting entrenched economic and social deprivation. He continued: An opportunity for self-​determination and independent action would serve little purpose if Aboriginals continued to be economically and socially deprived. . . . To this end programs of socially valuable special work projects, vocational training and grants and loans in support of enterprises, will be actively promoted. (p. 3)

The conferral of the “lost power of self-​determination” may be read as a conditional prospect, an opportunity that simultaneously privileged, and was premised on, economic participation. In this excerpt, self-​determination is considered within acceptable parameters as defined by what constitutes socially valuable work. Here a tension is revealed between the desire of government to award power over Aboriginal Affairs to First Peoples and Whitlam’s unwillingness to offer up the power of self-​determination to individuals and communities who are perceived to have not yet demonstrated their capacity for meaningful engagement with the market via labor participation and enterprise. It is through labor participation that the problem of economic and social deprivation is to be remedied. Arguably, from this political and economic perspective, labor participation and enterprise can be understood as either synonymous with self-​ determination or the necessary precondition to it. Discursively produced as recuperable via discourses of pathology that positioned education and employment as the antidote to the problems facing Aboriginal Peoples, Indigenous young people were figured through conceptions of Indigenous youth as at risk of inheriting a legacy of deficiency from previous generations. Via these discourses, Indigenous young people became a primary site through which the rhetoric of contingent self-​determination worked. Self-​determination was situated by Whitlam as a potential future conditional on economic participation, and young First Peoples, as the successors of present action (or inaction), become an important focus of social and economic development in the first years of the 1970s. In an address to the Economic Society of Australia and New Zealand earlier in 1972, for example, H. C. Coombs (1972), as the chairman of the Council for Aboriginal Affairs, also emphasized work as a remedy to the “deplorable” (p. 3) conditions experienced by Aboriginal populations. Coombs asserted with urgency that “now the magnitude of the problem is known, the pattern of policy clear, and the people are available to give effect to it, money can now be spent effectively” (p. 12). The object of effect, according to Coombs, was the Aboriginal child in transition to maturity: Every Aboriginal child who reaches maturity unable to hold down a job because of ill health, lack of education or training, the effects of bad housing, unsuitable environment, the psychological effects of loneliness, prejudice and hostility, or for whatever reason, will be a continuing charge on the State. (p. 12)

H. C. “Nugget” Coombs has been celebrated as one of the most sympathetic and influential public servants in Aboriginal Affairs to emerge in the last half century (Rowse,

270   Lilly Brown 2002). Coombs, following the policy inaction after the 1967 Referendum, remained engaged and active on issues to do with Indigenous Peoples and is described by Tim Rowse (2002) as instrumental in directing the flourish of policy activity after the Whitlam government was elected in 1972. Coombs’s particular reference to the potential risk faced by the Aboriginal child who “reaches maturity unable to hold down a job” signifies the discursive role the figure of the Aboriginal child played in debates on how best to support Aboriginal Peoples in the political climate of self-​determination. His reference to the unemployable mature Aboriginal child as “a continuing charge on the State” is made within the context of support for Aboriginal autonomy as a mounting and legitimate policy position. In the same address, Coombs (1972) later comments that Aboriginal People who remain on missions and settlements “must be given the opportunity, persuaded-​even coerced a little—​into accepting responsibility for their own affairs” (p. 18). Coombs alludes here to the same tension evident in Whitlam’s (1973) assertion that “self-​determination and independent action would serve little purpose if Aboriginals continued to be economically and socially deprived” (p. 3). Imbedded in both statements made by Whitlam and Coombs is a sentiment that Aboriginal People who are not yet integrated into the labor market lack the autonomy and responsibility to govern their own affairs and are thus instead part of the problem of deprivation, contributing to the deplorable conditions faced by Aboriginal populations more generally. The Aboriginal problem was progressively being framed as a problem of poverty and inequality, the solution to which was education for the purpose of employment.

Depoliticizing the Aboriginal Problem of Poverty and Inequality At a time when social welfare retrenchment was fast becoming a cornerstone of government policy, poverty was also, somewhat paradoxically, increasingly a political focus of welfare reform. In 1975, the initial report from the Commission of Enquiry into Poverty (Henderson, 1975) was released, and not soon after the National Population Inquiry titled Population and Australia: A Demographic Analysis and Projection (Borrie, 1975) was also tabled in response to the governments earlier proclamation of “a major offensive against poverty” (Commonwealth of Australia, 1973, p. 2735). Both reports highlighted the significant inequality experienced by Aboriginal populations across the country. In the Borrie Report, for example, it was noted that in “every conceivable comparison, the Aborigines (sic) and Islanders” stand in stark contrast to the general Australian society, and also to the other “ethnic” groups, whether defined on the basis of race, nationality, birthplace, language or religion. They probably have the highest growth rate, the highest birth rate, the

Rendering the Future a White Possession     271 highest death rate, the worst health and housing, and the lowest educational, occupational, economic, social and legal status of any identifiable section of the Australian population. (Borrie, 1975, p. 445)

In a political climate actively articulating equality as an aim of social policy, the “stark contrast” in every “conceivable comparison” between Indigenous and “general Australian society” had implications for domestic politics and how Australia faired in mounting rights debates internationally. This is reflected in Prime Minister Whitlam’s (1973) recognition that Aboriginal inequality was a “matter of national concern” that represented “in the eyes of the world a test of the integrity and humanity of the whole people of Australia” (p. 2). The urgency to address revelations of grievous disadvantage across all social indicators, combined with an emphasis on the active role of First Peoples in advising government (see also Whitlam 1973, p. 2), led to initiatives aimed at assisting the state in obtaining representative views on issues facing Aboriginal Peoples. In education, these representative bodies first occurred through the formation of the Aboriginal Consultative Group (1975), and later the National Aboriginal Education Committee in 1977. The Aboriginal Consultative Group was charged with advising the Australian Schools Commission, an interim committee that had previously reported that “Aboriginal children undoubtedly constitute one of the most educationally disadvantaged groups in Australia” (Karmel, 1973, p. 104). In their first report to the Schools Commission, the Aboriginal Consultative Group (1975) stated its position unequivocally: We see education as the most important strategy for achieving realistic self-​ determination for the Aboriginal people of Australia. We do not see education as a method of producing an anglicized Aborigine but rather as an instrument for creating informed human beings with intellectual and technological skills, in harmony with our own cultural values and identity. We wish to be the Aboriginal citizens in a changing Australia. Education should be a constructive process, building on what a child is and developing his or her natural potential, not destroying and denying his birth right. (p. 72)

This statement indicates that the justification for educating Aboriginal children, according to the Aboriginal Consultative Group, is clearly self-​ determination for self-​determination’s sake, rather than as a remedy to address disadvantage. Yet this justification sits in tension with the broader Schools Commission emphasis on equality of educational opportunity. The Schools Commission aimed at providing equality of opportunity by systematizing school-​based funding directly to equality and quality. Equality of opportunity was demonstrated, according to the Commission in the Karmel Report, through equality of outcomes as the acquisition of “basic skills necessary to participate in the society” (Karmel, 1973, p. 23). The Commission believed that “without

272   Lilly Brown a minimum level of competence a person bears a lifelong disability, not only in the achievement of self-​fulfilment but in relation to effective participation in society” (p. 23). In a later consideration of Aboriginal participation in education, the Schools Commission positioned the participation of Aboriginal children and young people in formal education as a case of exceptionalism, where the cultural values of Aboriginal People were perhaps incompatible with “achievement of full participation in industrial society on terms which give equal access to its benefits” (Aboriginal Consultative Group, 1975, p. 50). In the same report, the Commission noted the lack of skilled Aboriginal leaders with employment experience ready to be “competent spokesmen for their people” (p. 44). Moreover, the report continued, “a far higher percentage of unemployment exists within Aboriginal communities than is general in Australia, with significant repercussions on health, living standards and educational attainment” (p. 44). In making explicit the tension manifest between the “values of Aboriginal culture” (p. 50) and Australian industrialization in accounting for the exceptionalism of Aboriginal Peoples, the report concluded, “There are certainly tensions between the two cultures, but Aboriginal people should be allowed to work through to their own resolution of those tensions” (p. 50). In this statement, and throughout the report, the Schools Commission makes clear that Aboriginal Peoples, within the parameters of self-​determination as a policy discourse, should have responsibility over Aboriginal education, particularly in regard to reconciling “cultural” tension. The exceptionalism ascribed to Aboriginal Peoples as expressed by the Commission in these various reports is done in sympathy with conceptions of self-​determination as informed by sanctioned political and policy rhetoric. However, there is an implicit tension embedded in the Commission’s response to the educational inequality ascribed to Aboriginal populations. This is evident in the irreconcilable dissonance between the broader role of education and employment in establishing “effective participation in society” (Karmel, 1973, p. 23) to ameliorate socioeconomic disadvantage, and the extensive deprivation stated, both cultural and socioeconomic, faced by Aboriginal Peoples due to their lack of access to education and employment. This deprivation is understood as extending beyond socioeconomic indicators in population statistics, to a lack of competence in Aboriginal governance and leadership. The evidence of both implicit and explicit tensions indicates an inconsistency that arguably undermines the “realistic self-​ determination” aspired to by the Aboriginal Consultative Group. Deprivation and inequality become terms of reference that limit the possibilities self-​determination may present within an educational context. The purpose of self-​determination is figured to address inequality, yet self-​determination is conditional on overcoming deprivation, if not for the collective then for those “potential Aboriginal people” who will become “competent spokesmen for their people” (Aboriginal Consultative Group, 1975, p. 44). In 1976, the fifth main report from the Commission of Inquiry into Poverty was released, titled Poverty and Education in Australia. Where inconsistencies were noted yet the complexities were evaded by the Schools Commission, the Fitzgerald Report

Rendering the Future a White Possession     273 addressed head on conflicts emerging in political and policy discourses of inequality and self-​determination. The report notes: The result of this educational inequality is to leave Aboriginals at a marked disadvantage not only in obtaining employment but also in negotiating with the major society for welfare rights, self-​administration and the obtaining of a due share of political power. In addition, lack of adequate schooling takes away the choice of life style to which everyone should be entitled. (p. 190)

The Fitzgerald Report notes the existence of a “perpetual dilemma” (p. 218) in education policy between the “materialist, individualistic values of the major society” of which they suggest Aboriginal People are increasingly becoming part of, and Aboriginal Peoples’ “proud adherence to a heritage of kinship and mutuality” (p. 218). The report recommends that education policy should “seek to strike a balance” between vocational education for the purpose of employment with the simultaneous maintenance of a “separate identity and past roots” (p. 201). The Fitzgerald Report is significant in its awareness and unambiguous emphasis on the dissonance between demands for self-​determination made by Aboriginal People, and the utility of self-​determination in policy and political rhetoric which privileges education, and particularly employment, as the solution to inequality. The report also heralds one of the first instances where Indigenous youth are explicitly the focus of educational intervention, rather than the implied educable recipient.

Troubling Choices, Ensuring Normative Futures The Fitzgerald Report focused on the education and employment potential of youth, rather than children more broadly. Corresponding reforms needed to be made in the field of education for the purpose of employment, the report recommended, because for “adolescents who are poor the development of skills and opportunities for worthwhile employment stands out as a first priority” (Fitzgerald, 1976, p. 229). While providing a brief statistical picture of Aboriginal children and their parent’s engagement with primary school, the Fitzgerald Report attends primarily to the absence of Aboriginal young people at the secondary and tertiary level, and the implications of this absence for employment. It notes: The apparent reason why Aboriginals experience such low status employment or massive unemployment is that the proportion reaching upper secondary level is markedly lower than for white people. It is a fact that low educational level ensures low status employment or unemployment for Aboriginals. (p. 191)

274   Lilly Brown Again, in recommending ameliorative reform to address this inequality, the report draws on an extended principle of self-​determination, to account for poverty across the board: Because of the additional impact of the prejudice which operates in Australian society, Aboriginals emerge as the most cumulatively deprived group of all. In spite of, or perhaps because of, this, our recommendations relating to the Aboriginal people have much to say for all disadvantaged people. One aspect of this is the emphasis given to the principle of self-​determination. The co-​operative nature of Aboriginal society and the extreme powerlessness of Aboriginals in the face of the major society makes self-​determination the prerequisite for the development of all policies which affect Aboriginals. (p. 230)

Self-​determination becomes the convergence point where Aboriginal youth are aligned with deprivation and disadvantage. The principle of self-​determination is then extended in its utility as a policy position to apply to all poor people. The Commission viewed self-​determination as being essential for all poor people if they are to increase their competence to manage their affairs and to take some part in the management of society for the pursuit of a variety of ends. An important element of self-​determination is the expansion of choice for the disadvantaged. (Fitzgerald, 1976, p. 230)

In a young person’s engagement with education, “real choices” (p. 230) constitute the freedom to decide what school a child attends, and the opportunity to develop “responsible relationships” (p. 231) between parents, teachers, and pupils. But the most important choice a young person can make in their education relates to their future employment. As the report emphasizes, “career education should assist young people in making, perhaps, their most important choice: that of a career which is fulfilling and satisfying” (p. 231).

Setting the Early Foundations of the Gap The treatment of self-​determination, as noted in various government-​commissioned reviews and state rhetoric between 1971 and 1977, as the antidote to poverty and inequality, on the basis of Aboriginal youth as the exemplar, does a number of things. First, self-​determination develops as a policy solution to individual inequality rather than substantive land rights and the rights-​based demand for recognition made by Aboriginal Peoples. Second, self-​ determination becomes synonymous with

Rendering the Future a White Possession     275 employment. In other words, making the right choice in education and training for the purpose of employment is positioned explicitly as an assertion of self-​determination. Whereas, within this impossible dynamic, Aboriginal young people not taking up opportunities in education and training for the purpose of employment are figured as making the wrong choice, and these choices then vindicate not only the state’s limiting of the terms of self-​determination, but also the refusal to respond to Aboriginal demands for self-​determination as defined by Aboriginal People, particularly in the context of education. Within these terms of reference delineating conceptions of Indigenous youth, the choices made by Aboriginal young people in their educational journey and the transition from education to employment are represented as ensuring (or compromising) Aboriginal futures. The various government-​commissioned reviews and state rhetoric such as Whitlam’s statement, the Schools Commission Report, and the Fitzgerald Report expose the fraught and tenuous response to the shifting Aboriginal “problem” in the first decade after the 1967 Referendum. This response is revealed in mounting discourses around labor market participation as the access pass to “the choice of life style to which everyone should be entitled” (Fitzgerald, 1976, p. 190) and the maintenance of Aboriginal cultural identity, which is figured as the antithesis to, or at least incompatible with, a modern and industrialized Australia. As the 1970s progressed, conceptions of Aboriginal youth developed as a way of reconciling these tensions. Indigenous youth acted as a convergence point where the utilitarian purpose of education for employment and the solution to the problem of poverty and disadvantage collide in a way that enables a depoliticized state version of self-​ determination. Inequality was refigured as an economic problem rather than a social one, and within this context self-​determination increasingly lost its resonance and utility in state rhetoric. This particularly became the case as state-​market relations were further reformed with the strengthening of neoliberal discourse and rationale of governing.

Conclusion During the decade under review in this chapter, the primary marker of Aboriginality shifted discursively from a self-​ determining political collective in the late 1960s and early 1970s to an impoverished and disadvantaged population, incapable of self-​ governance and deficient in comparison to the normative White mainstream. Through this discursive shift to disadvantage and deficiency, limited and limiting conceptions of Indigenous youth emerged, forming the bedrock of subsequent educational policy and practice. The way in which First Peoples have been indelibly marked with deficiency through discourses of disadvantage have been widely engaged with since the announcement of the primary Indigenous Affairs policy platform Closing the Gap in Indigenous Disadvantage in 2008 (Bond et al., 2019; Harrison, 2012; Hogarth, 2017, 2018; Patrick & Moodie, 2016; Rigney & Hemming, 2014; Walter, 2016). Closing the Gap received

276   Lilly Brown bipartisan support in its aim to create population parity through socioeconomic equality between Indigenous and White populations in key drivers such as employment, health, education, and life expectancy, and over a decade since its inception it still remains the central state response to Indigenous Peoples. Drawing on neoliberal tenets of individual responsibility and autonomy, the initial iteration of Close the Gap policy positioned Indigenous disadvantage as a “national responsibility” to be addressed through a partnership between the state and Indigenous Peoples, “based on mutual respect, mutual resolve and mutual responsibility” (Rudd, 2008). In doing so, the state references the population binary that, as I have detailed in this chapter, emerged from the first decade after the 1967 Referendum to represent the socioeconomic deprivation of Indigenous Peoples in a way that equates economic and social normalization with equality. As I have argued here, the articulation of the binary dynamic between First Peoples and White Australians synonymized Aboriginality with disadvantage, and in doing so marked First Peoples within the neoliberal order as what the late White Australian political theorist Barry Hindess (2001, p. 102) termed “subjects of improvement.” As subjects of improvement, state intervention into the lifeworlds of First Peoples, and particularly young people, continues to be justified in the present in order to mitigate the risk of future deviance and vulnerability. Collective exclusion and disadvantage are recast as individual deficiency. Within this virtuous circle, First Peoples, their families, and their communities, and what they are figured as lacking—​the choices they have or have not made—​are used to explain not only educational underachievement and unemployment, but also the failure of self-​determination. The seemingly failed project of self-​determination is then used to justify interventions, at a micro level, for example, into the lives of individual children and their families, and, at a macro level, state violence in the way it unfolded, and as it continues to unfold, in the Northern Territory intervention (Watson, 2011). The seemingly failed project of self-​determination works to render White Australians and governing institutions working on behalf of the state as more capable of conducting the affairs of Aboriginal People than First Peoples ourselves. This proclaimed state of White virtue functions discursively, as Aileen Moreton-​Robinson (2015) identifies, to disavow Indigenous rights claims, dispossessing Indigenous Peoples “from the ground of moral rectitude, thus enabling racism to be practices with the best of intentions” (p. xxiii). Rendering Indigenous Peoples as unable and incapable of successfully existing in the present moment via racialized discourses of deficiency enables the state to make a possessive claim on the future.

References Aboriginal Consultative Group. (1975). Education for Aborigines: Report to the Schools Commission by the Aboriginal Consultative Group. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Altman, J. (2010). What future for remote Indigenous Australia? Economic hybridity and the neoliberal turn. In J. Altman & M. Ninkson, Culture crisis: Anthropology and politics in Aboriginal Australia (pp. 259–​280). Sydney: University of New South Wales Press.

Rendering the Future a White Possession     277 Andersen, C. (2009). Critical Indigenous studies: From difference to density. Cultural Studies Review, 15, 80–​100. Anderson, I. (2007). The end of Aboriginal self-​determination? Futures, 39, 137–​154. Bessant, J., & Watts, R. (1998). History, myth making and young people in a time of change. Family Matters, 49, 4–​10. Bond, C., Brough, M., Willis, J., Stajic, J., Mukandi, B., Canuto, C., Springer, S., Askew, D., Angus, L., & Lewis, T. (2019). Beyond the pipeline: A critique of the discourse surrounding the development of an Indigenous primary healthcare workforce in Australia. Australian Journal of Primary Health, 25, 389–​394. Borrie, W. D. (1975). Population and Australia: A demographic analysis and projection. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Brown, L. (2019). Indigenous young people, disadvantage and the violence of settler colonial education policy and curriculum. Journal of Sociology, 55, 54–​7 1. Coombs, H. (1972). The employment status of Aborigines. Australian Economic Papers, 11, 8–​18. Coulthard, G. S. (2014). Red skin, White masks: Rejecting the colonial politics of recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Commonwealth of Australia (1973, 29 May) Parliamentary Debates, W.G Hayden, Minister for Social Security, Canberra: House of Representatives, Parliament House, 2735. Dean, M. (1995). Governing the unemployed self in an active society. International Journal of Human Resource Management, 24, 559–​583. Dian Million. (2011). Intense dreaming: Theories, narratives, and our search for home. American Indian Quarterly, 35, 313. https://​doi.org/​10.5250/​ameri​ndiq​uar.35.3.0313 Dwyer, P., & Wyn, J. (2001). Youth, education and risk: facing the future. London: Routledge/​ Falmer, 2001. Fitzgerald, R. T. (1976). Poverty and education in Australia: Fifth main report (December 1976. Parliamentary paper: no. 368 of 1976). Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Foucault, M. (1979). The history of sexuality. London: Allen Lane. Harrison, N. (2012). Recolonising an ethics of life: Repositioning Indigeneity in Australian “gap talk.” International Journal on School Disaffection, 9(2), 25–​36. Henderson, R. F. (1975). Poverty in Australia: First main report. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Hindess, B. (2001). The liberal government of unfreedom. Alternatives, 26(2), 93–​111. Hogarth, M. (2017). Speaking back to the deficit discourses: A theoretical and methodological approach. The Australian Educational Researcher, 44, 21–​34. Hogarth, M. (2018). Talkin ’bout a revolution: The call for transformation and reform in Indigenous education. The Australian Educational Researcher, 45, 663–​674. Jessop, B. (2003). The future of the capitalist state. Malden, MA: Polity Press. Karmel, P. (1973). Schools in Australia: Report of the Interim Committee for the Australian Schools Commission. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia. Kelly, P. (2001). Youth at risk: Processes of individualisation and responsibilisation in the risk society. Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education, 22, 23–​33. Kidman, J. (2020). Whither decolonisation?: Indigenous scholars and the problem of inclusion in the neoliberal university. Journal of Sociology, 56, 247–​262. Miller, P., & Rose, N. (1990). Governing economic life. Economy and society, 19, 1–​31. Mizen, P. (2002). Putting the politics back into youth studies: Keynesianism, monetarism and the changing state of youth. Journal of Youth Studies, 5, 5–​20.

278   Lilly Brown Moreton-​Robinson, A. (2009). Imagining the good Indigenous citizen: Race war and the pathology of patriarchal white sovereignty. Cultural Studies Review, 15(2), 61–​79. Moreton-​Robinson, A. (2015). The white possessive: Property, power, and indigenous sovereignty. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Patrick, R., & Moodie, N. (2016). Indigenous education policy discourses in Australia. In T. Barkatsas & A. Bertram (Eds.), Global Learning in the 21st Century (pp. 165–​184). Rotterdam: Sense Publishers. Rigney, D., & Hemming, S. (2014). Is “Closing the Gap” enough? Ngarrindjeri ontologies, reconciliation and caring for country. Educational Philosophy and Theory, 46, 536–​545. Rose, N. (1996). The death of the social? Re-​figuring the territory of government. International Journal of Human Resource Management, 25, 327–​356. Rowse, T. (2002). Towards a history of Indigenous statistics in Australia. In B. Hunter (Ed.), Assessing the evidence on Indigenous socioeconomic outcomes: A focus on the 2002 NATSISS. Canberra: ANU E Press. Rudd, K. (2008, February 13). Apology to Australia’s Indigenous Peoples. Canberra: House of Representatives, Parliament House. Short, D. (2003). Reconciliation, assimilation, and the Indigenous Peoples of Australia. International Political Science Review, 24, 491–​513. Sukarieh, M., & Tannock, S. (2014). Youth rising?: The Politics of youth in the global economy. Critical Youth Studies. Hoboken: Taylor and Francis. Sullivan, P. (2011). The policy goal of normalisation, the national Indigenous reform agreement and Indigenous national partnership agreements (DKCRC Working Paper No. 76). Alice Springs: Ninti One Limited. Walter, M. (2009). An economy of poverty? Power and the domain of aboriginality. International Journal of Critical Indigenous Studies, 2, 2–​14. Walter, M. (2010). The Politics of the data: How the Australian statistical Indigene is constructed. International Journal of Critical Indigenous Studies, 3(2), 45–​56. Walter, M. (2016). Data politics and Indigenous representation in Australian statistics. In T. Kukutai & John Taylor (Eds.), Indigenous data sovereignty: Toward an agenda (pp. 79–​98). Canberra: ANU Press. Watson, N. (2011). The Northern Territory Emergency Response—​Has it really improved the lives of Aboriginal women and children? Australian Feminist Law Journal, 35(1), 147–​163. Whitlam, E. G. (1973). Aboriginals and society: Press statement, Number 74, Commonwealth Government, ACT Canberra. Wyn, J., & White, R. (1996). Rethinking youth. London: SAGE.

Chapter 18

Segregati on a nd American I ndia n Reservati ons Places of Resilience, Continuity, and Healing Tennille Larzelere Marley

Introduction “I don’t want to live on a reservation within a reservation.”

The quote above is from an elder who lives on the reservation where I grew up. While I was visiting with her, I remarked on the location of her house. It was isolated, surrounded by pine trees and several miles away from the nearest subdivision. She stated that the tribe’s housing authority wanted to place her in a neighborhood that had a bad reputation. To her, both the neighborhood and the reservation as a whole were bad because of the dysfunction and social ills that plagued the land. I reflected on her comment for a long time. I thought about how my people, the White Mountain Apache, used to live. Closely related families lived together in small “neighborhoods,” or gotahs in Apache. The gotah helped maintain family connections, which facilitated cooperation for tasks such as gathering food and gardening. People knew their neighbors and they looked out for each other because they were family. Today, families no longer live in gotahs. The confinement to the reservation, the adoption of Western housing, and government housing policies all contributed to its decline as a living arrangement. As families moved away from their gotahs, new “neighborhoods” were formed. Nowadays, families continue to be forced to live apart as housing becomes available in other communities. Neighborhoods may be made up of strangers from different clans and from different parts of the reservation. The

280   Tennille Larzelere Marley breakdown of the gotah and the current organization of housing are the result of policies targeted specifically to American Indians on reservations. American Indians and Alaska Natives (AIANs) experience some of the worst social (e.g., health, education) indicators in the United States (Adakai et al., 2018; Hussar et al., 2020; Huyser et al., 2020; Meltzer et al., 2020; Skewes et al., 2020). AIANs have been colonized, experiencing a long history of ethnocide, genocide, and specific policies by first European countries, and later the US government (Dunbar-​Ortiz, 2014; Fryberg et al., 2018; Gone et al., 2019; Hartmann et al., 2019). For example, AIANs experience higher mortality due to diabetes and diabetes-​related conditions when compared to the general population. Diabetes in AIAN communities was unheard of at the turn of the 19th century, but today diabetes prevalence is approximately 16% (Indian Health Service, 2016a, p. 18). American Indian (AI) communities experience conditions that are a result of a long history of coercive policies. Perhaps the most detrimental policy was the reservation system that segregated and confined AI nations onto reservations, tracts of land owned by AI nations and held in trust status by the federal government, as a way to deal with the “Indian problem.” AI reservations are a model of segregation, but they have not been studied in this regard. The study of segregation goes back to W. E. B. Dubois’s The Philadelphia Negro, first published in 1897. Whereas segregation is the separation of population groups based on characteristics such as race, ethnicity, social class, sex, or age, racial residential segregation is the separation or grouping of racial groups by neighborhood or specific area (Massey & Denton, 1993). The racial residential segregation of various population groups differs in terms of how they were created, how they are maintained, how they operate, and how they change over time. Massey and Denton (1988) outlined five dimensions of segregation that can be applied to various racial/​ethnic groups. The dimensions are evenness, exposure, concentration, centralization, and clustering. Evenness is the distribution of a racial/​ethnic groups across a given area. Exposure is contact with and to a majority group member. Concentration is the density of a particular group within an area. Centralization is the extent to which a given neighborhood’s location is near or far from a city’s central area. And finally, clustering is the contiguousness of neighborhoods. The dimensions of segregation in a given area vary in predominance and can change over time (Massey & Denton, 1988; Massey, White, & Phua, 1996). Because of the nature of AI nations and reservations, these dimensions are not adequate for use with American Indians. The vast majority of literature on racial residential segregation focuses on African Americans, who have experienced ongoing marginalization and the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow laws, and other racist policies. However, missing from the body of literature on segregation are AI reservations as sites of segregation. The overall questions I strive to answer is: How is the racial residential segregation of American Indians different from other racial/​ethnic groups? First, I briefly discuss one of the ways the federal government created racial residential segregation by providing a definition, an example of a law that created segregated neighborhoods in cities. I then review some of the effects of racial resident segregation with other racial/​ethnic groups. Next, I discuss AI reservations and the nature of AI governments. In the rest of the chapter I discus dimensions that are specific to AI nations.

Segregation and American Indian Reservations    281

Racial Residential Segregation Racial residential segregation is a prominent feature of U.S. society and is a key contributor to social inequities. The racial residential segregation of African Americans is the result of a long history of racially explicit federal, state, and local policies that can be traced back to abolition and beyond. Richard Rothstein, the author of The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America, argues that racial residential segregation was created and persists because of “a century of social engineering on the part of federal, state, and local governments that enacted policies to keep African Americans separate and subordinate” (Rothstein, 2017, p. 237). Legislation, policies, and practices that created, maintained, and reinforced racial residential segregation include Jim Crow laws, Black Codes, zoning ordinances, redlining, and housing programs and projects. Racial residential segregation was also achieved and maintained “through violence, collective anti-​Black action, racially restrictive covenants, and discriminatory real estate practices” (Massey & Denton, 1993, p. –​42).” Even with civil rights and housing legislation, residential segregation remains a characteristic of society today. The National Housing Act of 1934, which established the Federal Housing Administration (FHA), is an example of legislation that explicitly created and encouraged racial residential segregation. The FHA insured banks, mortgage companies, and other lenders to stimulate the construction of new homes and repair existing structures. The FHA also built and increased housing to address a housing shortage. One of the ways housing stock was increased was through the creation of public housing projects. Separate White-​only and African American public housing projects were built in cities across the United States. Because African American housing projects had long waiting lists and White housing projects had vacancies, the White housing projects were opened up to African Americans. While Whites took advantage of White-​only housing programs that enabled them to move to new White-​only suburban neighborhoods, African Americans were forced to remain in, or were pushed into, public housing projects (Rothstein, 2017). Among the legacies of the FHA are the large housing projects in racially segregated cities. Neighborhoods, especially racially segregated neighborhoods, that lack social and economic resources are associated with high levels of physical and social disorder and low informal social control (Sampson et al., 1997). Distrust and social isolation inhibit efforts to reduce crime and other neighborhood disorders and discourage the network development that is necessary for social support. A neighborhood’s social environment may also affect health by influencing the relationships among residents, such as strong communal ties and high levels of trust of neighbors (Berkman et al., 2014; Booth et al., 2005; Diez Roux & Mair, 2010; Morland et al., 2006; Sallis & Glanz, 2006). Negative neighborhood characteristics, such as crime, the presence of stressors, and the presence of drug and alcohol use and sale, are associated with a prevalence of alcohol, drug, and mental health conditions in the general population. Additionally, negative neighborhood perceptions and the resulting stress

282   Tennille Larzelere Marley are associated with higher levels of depression, anxiety, substance abuse, and psychological distress (Ross et al., 2000). Crime increases an individual’s risk of victimization and negatively influences neighborhood perceptions, acting as a stressor, and thereby reducing outdoor activities and increasing social isolation (Pain, 2001). However, stress-​buffering neighborhood conditions such as positive housing distribution characteristics and resources, including access to healthcare, churches, and public transportation, facilitate social support and are associated with a lower likelihood of an alcohol, drug, or mental health disorder (Diez Roux & Mair, 2010; Kawachi & Berkman, 2003; Popescu et al., 2018; Vega et al., 2011). Racial residential segregation limits access to resources, opportunities, and services, resulting in high rates of poverty and unemployment, as well as lower life expectancy (Leung & Takeuchi, 2011). For example, living in an extreme-​poverty neighborhood where more than 40% of residents live below the federal poverty level is associated with negative health effects, including higher mortality, poorer physical and mental health outcomes, and negative health behaviors (Berkman et al., 2014; Diez Roux & Mair, 2010; Kawachi & Berkman, 2003). Segregation can also adversely affect health directly and indirectly through social exclusion, economic opportunity, lack of healthy choices, environmental hazards, substandard housing and schools, crime, and high incarceration rates (De la Roca et al., 2018; National Academies of Sciences Engineering, and Medicine, 2017). Segregation also creates conditions of concentrated poverty and social disorder. Broader societal and institutional neglect and disinvestment in poorer, segregated communities, for example, has been shown to contribute to increased exposure to environmental toxins, low-​quality housing, and criminal victimization (Ahmed et al., 2007; Greene et al., 2017; Kramer, 2018; Kramer & Hogue, 2009; Lee & Ferraro, 2007; Williams & Collins, 2001).

American Indian Reservations AI reservations are a prime example of residential racial segregation and experience many of its effects. AI nations and their citizens are unique from other racial and ethnic groups because of their sovereignty, their worldview, and the nature in which they were segregated onto reservations. Indian reservations are areas of land that are meant to be the permanent homelands for tribes. Many AI nations were forcibly taken off their ancestral homelands and relocated to reservations on different lands, while some nations were able to stay on their lands, albeit with much smaller areas. Many of the present-​day reservations were created by treaty, which were primarily land cession arrangements in exchange for a reservation, money, goods, and services. Other reservations were created by statutes passed by the U.S. Congress or through presidential executive order. It is important to note that AI nations do not own the lands they reside on, due to an

Segregation and American Indian Reservations    283 1823 Supreme Court case (Johnson v. M’Intosh), which held that AI nations do not have the right to sell or own property, but that AIs have the rights of occupancy. As a result, these land areas or reservations are held in trust by the U.S. government for AI nations (Williams, 2005). The origins of AI reservations can be traced back to colonial times. The first reservation was established in 1638 in present-​day Connecticut. Instead of outright extermination, the placement of American Indians onto reservations became official U.S. policy in the 1850s to address the “Indian problem.” A commissioner of Indian Affairs who served under President Tailor stated: In the application of this policy to our wilder tribes, it is indispensably necessary that they be placed in positions where they can be controlled, and finally compelled by stern necessity to resort to agricultural labor or starve. . . . There should be assigned to each tribe, for a permanent home, a country adapted to agriculture, of limited extent and well-​defined boundaries; within which all, with occasional exceptions, should be compelled constantly to remain until such time as their general improvement and good conduct may supersede the necessity of such restrictions. In the mean time [sic], the government should cause them to be supplied with stock, agricultural implements, and useful materials for clothing, encourage and assist them in the erection of comfortable dwellings, and secure to them the means and facilities of education, intellectual, moral, and religious. (Prucha, 2000, p. 18)

Presently, there are 574 federally recognized AI nations and 326 reservations or land areas that cover approximately 56.2 million acres (Bureau of Indian Affairs, 2016). Federally recognized AI nations are sovereign nations that have the inherent right to govern themselves on their lands or reservations (Wilkins & Lomawaima, 2001; Wilkins & Stark, 2017). Their sovereignty is reinforced by treaty, case law, and statutes that entail a government-​to-​government relationship with the United States. In addition, the U.S. has a “trust” responsibility to Indian nations. The trust doctrine is the “moral duty of the federal government to assist Indian tribes in the protection of their lands, resources, and cultural heritage.” Among the components of the trust responsibility is the provision of basic social, educational, and medical services for members of Indian nations (Roubideaux & Dixon, 2001; Wilkins & Stark, 2017). Despite the governmental trust obligation, many programs and services are underfunded, and in many instances AI nations are not consulted on policies that may affect them (Indian Health Service, 2016b; Warne & Frizzell, 2014). AI nations as well as other racial/​ethnic groups are subject to macro/​institutional structures that create and maintain inequality. However, AI nations are subject to additional overarching structures, such as sovereignty and federal Indian policies, that are specific to AI nations and do not apply to other racial/​ethnic groups. The sovereignty of AI nations makes them a political group, unlike other racial/​ethnic groups. Because of their unique status, they are subject to specific policies. Their history is very different

284   Tennille Larzelere Marley from what was happening with non-​Natives during the same time frame. American Indians experienced policies that were specific to them, including forced removal and the reservation system. Many AI nations were relocated to rural and isolated areas. Ongoing racism and marginalization, including segregation, institutional and individual racism, microaggressions, and stratification, continue to play a role in present conditions

Land Is Life One aspect of American Indians nations that differentiates their racial residential segregation from that of other racial/​ethnic groups, and perhaps one of the most important, is land. Unlike AI nations, other racial/​ethnic groups, who are the descendants of foreign-​born immigrants, do not have the same connection to the land because of their non-​Indigenous origins, and because land is often viewed as real estate and a resources to use for profit. American Indians have strong connections and relationships with their lands. Some American Indians nations had reservations on their ancestral lands, whereas others that were relocated established connections to their new lands. Land is sacred; it defines people and, at least in part, their culture, language, practices, and worldview. This relationship between land and people is sacred and reciprocal. As Gregory Cajete, author of Santa Clara Pueblo, states: Native people expressed a relationship to the natural world that could only be called “ensoulment” . . . which for Native people represented the deepest level of psychological involvement with their land and which provided a kind of a map of the soul. The psychology and spiritual qualities of Indigenous peoples’ behaviors . . . were thoroughly “informed” by the depth and power of their participation mystique with the Earth as a living soul. It was from this orientation that Indian people developed “responsibilities” to the land and all living things, similar to those that they had to each other. In the native mind, spirit and matter were not separate: They were one and the same. (Cajete, 1999, p. 186)

As an example, the White Mountain Apache (Ndee), my people, continue to live on a portion of their ancestral homelands, and they believe that the land is part of them. A case in point is the Apache word ni’. Ni’ is a word for both land and mind, it is the “inseparability of land and thought, of geography and memory, and of place and wisdom” (Welch & Riley, 2001). Land is part of one’s identity. As a collective people, the White Mountain Apache call themselves Dzil Ligai Si’an Ndee, “People of the White Mountains,” after one of their sacred mountains. At a smaller familial group, individuals in a given groups have a clan that they identify with. A person’s clan indicates a place where their ancestors originated:

Segregation and American Indian Reservations    285 This is where our women first planted corn. They have planted it again and again. Each Year we have harvested enough to roast and dry and store away. These fields look after us by helping our corn to grow. Our children eat it and become strong. We eat it and continue to live. Our corn draws life from this earth and we draw life from our corn. This earth is part of us! We are of this place. We should name ourselves for this place. We Are Gad‘O’ááhn. This is how it shall be. (Basso, 1996, p. 20–​21)

Their ancestors called themselves after the places they first grew corn. Since it was the women who grew the corn, clans are matrilineal. Part of an individual’s identity is their mother’s clan (place name), which places one within a larger group of people (kinship ties). The land also plays a key role in our healing process. As Welch and Riley (2001) state, “The Ndee homeland—​as it has nurtured countless Apache generations and been shaped both physically and conceptually through actions, reflections, and oral traditions—​holds the key to restoring much of the harmony and health of the White Mountain Apache community. The tribe’s general strategy is to take care of the land so that the land can, once again, take better care of the people” (p. 8). Land is sacred, land is revered.

History History is important to consider when thinking about the racial segregation of American Indians onto reservations. Each reservation has its own history. Some AI nations reside on their ancestral homelands, while others have been relocated from somewhere else. Some tribes peaceably relocated to new lands or adjusted to new boundaries, while others fought for their freedom, often with grim results. Some continue to live where they were colonized and where reminders of the past remain (Walters et al., 2011; Wilkins & Stark, 2017). Some of these visible reminders may include sites of massacres, an old fort, or markers or places of historical significance. As noted, reservations were created and used to deal with the “Indian problem.” Given the salience of history, the concept of historical trauma is relevant in terms of reservations as racially segregated places. Historical trauma applies to every AI nation and reservation. Across “Indian Country” and AI health literature, historical trauma is the most widely recognized and/​or accepted explanation for poor health outcomes, especially mental health issues such as depression and substance abuse. Brave Heart and DeBruyn (1998) define historical trauma as the “cumulative emotional and psychological wounding, over the lifespan and across generations, emanating from massive group trauma experiences,” and the impact of a “generation’s trauma on subsequent generations” (p. 7). In addition, historical trauma includes the following features: (1) trauma was methodically and purposely inflicted; (2) trauma is not limited to past injustices but

286   Tennille Larzelere Marley continues in the present; (3) traumatic experiences are universal to a group and echo all the way through that population; (4) traumatic experiences from the past disrupted the natural historical course and have created physical, psychological, social, and economic disparities (Sotero, 2006); and (5) psychosocial, social, and physical consequences that result from historical trauma are passed on from previous generations and continue through subsequent generations in Indian Country (Brave Heart & DeBruyn, 1998).

Development As a result of their segregation and marginalized status, AI nations have experienced the “underdevelopment trap” and “uneven development.” White New Zealander Ian Pool (2015) uses his “underdevelopment trap” framework to study the impacts from land loss and loss of resources on Māori people and development. The underdevelopment trap is the result of colonization that methodically alienated and displaced the Māori from their lands and resources, and unwittingly exposed people to diseases that contributed to population loss. Development was hindered as a result of material deprivation of capital resources, including human, physical, and financial resources. Similarly, uneven development in the environment is due to the historical practice of capitalist nations exploiting those at the margins, including AIs, creating a chronic state of underdevelopment that results in differences across geographical areas (Harvey, 2006). Development does not happen evenly in all places, globally or locally. In relationship to AI reservations, uneven development and underdevelopment are widespread across the United States, resulting in measurable variability in resources such as access to healthy food, access to quality education and healthcare, and access to employment opportunities. An example of “underdevelopment” is the chronic and persistent underfunding of the Indian Health Service (IHS). The IHS carries out the governmental trust responsibility to provide healthcare to AIs. Per capita funding for the IHS is only approximately 60% of that of other federal medical programs, such as Medicare and Medicaid. Annual budget increases stay far below those for other components of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and have not kept up with the growth of either the growing AI population or inflation, especially medical inflation (U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, 2003; Langwell et al., 2009). As a result of chronic underfunding, the IHS does not provide the full range of needed health services. Many IHS clinics operate under a “life or limb” policy, meaning that unless the patient’s life or body is threatened, the IHS denies referrals for specialty care (Langwell et al., 2009). Further, healthcare provided by the IHS does not meet the minimum criteria with respect to the Affordable Care Act (Marley, 2019). Although the racial residential segregation of AIANs and African Americans were achieved differently, some of the conditions or characteristics—​such as limited and inadequate housing; limited access to high quality food; high unemployment; poor education and/​or limited opportunities for higher education; environmental stressors; access to resources, opportunities, and services; lower life expectancy; and neighborhood

Segregation and American Indian Reservations    287 conditions—​continue to perpetuate and sustain racial residential segregation (Leung & Takeuchi, 2011). However, because of their history, culture, and sovereignty; the creation of maintenance of residential segregation differs from that of other ethnic/​racial groups. In addition, AI nations have the ability to address issues that stem from segregation in ways the other groups cannot because of their sovereign rights of self-​government on their lands and their government-​to-​government relationship with the federal government. Among AI nations’ powers of self-​government are the rights to form their own government, make and enforce civil and criminal laws, tax, establish citizenship criteria, and license and regulate activities on their lands. Also, because of the federal government’s obligation to carry out the trust doctrine, they are also entitled to certain benefits, services, and protections, such as protecting lands and self-​government, and the provision of social, medical, and educational services for AI citizens (Wilkins & Stark, 2017) As a result, the racial residential segregation of AIs on reservations cannot be directly aligned with other racial segregation-​related research. Rather, the specific racial segregation inherent in AI reservations needs to be examined separately to identify the factors that contribute to social ills and to identify the factors that contribute to strength, survival, and resilience.

Healing through Our Strengths “Our identity is through the land because it is through that identity that’s who we say we are . . . we tie ourselves to the land.” (Marley, 2013, p. 100)

Unlike other racial and ethnic groups that experience residential segregation, AIs and Indigenous peoples usually have a preexisting relationship to the land on which the reservation is located, and they culturally hold land as sacred. From this perspective, land is life, with a reciprocal relationship existing between land and self. The land provides identity, food, shelter, and knowledge. Land is sacred and revered. Vine Deloria (2003) stated, “American Indians hold their lands—​places—​as having the highest meaning, and all their statements are made with this reference point in mind” (p. 61). Further, Cajete (1999) explained the Indigenous relationship with land as “ ‘ensoulment’ . . . the deepest level of psychological involvement with their land” (p. 186). Land is the connection to Indigenous knowledge, to the past, and to traditional ways of living—​and for some, it is an economic base. Duran (2011) defined Indigenous knowledge “as ancient, communal, holistic, spiritual and systematic knowledge about every aspect of human existence” (p. 26). Walters et al. (2011) state, “Indigenous knowledge recognizes place as integral to one’s sense of being which is also central to both individual and collective spiritual health and wellness. . . . Loss of place (i.e., displacement) is akin to loss of spirit or identity. . . . Place literally means us” (p. 173). In Apache culture, as in most other Indigenous cultures, Indigenous knowledge and land are inseparable.

288   Tennille Larzelere Marley For example, the Apache word for land, ni’, is the same word as that for mind, and the clan with which people identify is literally a place. Because of this connection to land or place, reservation lands are often held with deep respect and appreciation. Land, including reservation land, not only has deep meaning, but also the ability to heal. Charles and Cajete (2020) state: [Loss or disconnection from land] brings with it a whole set of social and psychological problems which can ultimately only be healed through re-​ establishing the meaningful ties to the land that have been lost. Reconnecting with nature and its inherent meaning is an essential healing and transformational process not only for Indigenous people but for all people, especially in these times of dramatic dis-​connection from the living Earth and all its life. (p. 67). Further, an elder in my own tribe stated: “A more recent threat to the land and its connections to the people is seen in the growing distance between people and place. . . . The Ndee homeland—​as it has nurtured countless Apache generations and been shaped both physically and conceptually through actions, reflections, and oral traditions—​holds the key to restoring much of the harmony and health of the White Mountain Apache community” (Welch & Riley, 2001, p. 8).

Self-​Determination to Overcoming Disadvantage The nature of AI nations means they have the have the ability to create laws and make decisions about taxes, govern fisheries and wildlife, and determine what activity is allowed or not allowed on their lands. They can address issues in ways that are best for them and in ways that other governments cannot. One area that could be addressed in this way is the issue of housing. AI nations could exercise their sovereignty to implement housing policies in a way that is culturally appropriate. Families, if they chose to, would be able to live near relatives. This would improve living conditions by making communities safer, and, indirectly, safer communities translate into those with less stress. A safer community would encourage people to engage in physical activity, such as walking in their own communities. With respect to education, enhancing education could be accomplished by both improving the quality of schools and by increasing educational opportunities. AI children in reservation schools (whether public, Bureau of Indian Affairs, or tribal schools) do not receive the same educational opportunities as other off-​reservation students. Issues with schools include deteriorating facilities, underpaid teachers, culturally irrelevant curricula, and discriminatory treatment that results in achievement gaps. AI children as a group have lower test scores in reading and math and are more likely to drop out of school (U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, 2003). Further, the U.S. Department of Education Office of Indian Education, which funds tribal and BIA schools, like so many other tribal programs, remains underfunded. However, in order to overcome some of these obstacles—​short of increasing funding—​tribes can exert their sovereignty at the public school level by

Segregation and American Indian Reservations    289 requiring relevant instruction, including tribal instruction in areas such as language, history, and culture, to enhance and impact identity attitudes and actualization. Indian reservations are places of racial isolation. Research investigating racial isolation and health suggests that racial isolation may be detrimental to health (Acevedo-​ Garcia et al., 2003; Chang et al., 2009). However, for American Indians, racial isolation may function as a protective factor. It may help perpetuate cultural buffers to stressors, such as identity attitudes, enculturation, spiritual coping, Indigenous knowledge, and traditional practices (Walters & Simoni, 2002). In addition, the isolation may foster positive psychosocial factors such as coping and social support. American Indians also continue to experience institutional and individual racism, including microaggressions. At the individual level, experiences of discrimination are a source of stress that adversely affects health. Exposure to discrimination is associated with increased risk of physical and mental illness, negatively affects patterns of healthcare utilization and adherence behaviors, and anticipates the risk of using substances as a coping mechanism (Williams, 2006).

Conclusion American Indians experience the effects of residential segregation. Many of the contextual factors that exist on reservations result from segregation. Segregation limits access to resources, opportunities, and services, leading to high rates of poverty, unemployment, diabetes, trauma, and alcohol and drug use. It also creates conditions of concentrated poverty and social disorder. Institutional neglect and disinvestment in poorer, segregated communities contributes to increased exposure to environmental toxins, low-​quality housing, and criminal victimization (Leung & Takeuchi, 2011). Despite reservation conditions, AIs are survivors and will remain. AI nations do have the authority to address various conditions. AI people have the knowledge to create change in their communities. Indigenous knowledge allows AI nations to address issues in a culturally appropriate way.

References Basso, K. H. (1996). Wisdom sits in places: Landscape and language among the Western Apache. Albuquerque, NM: UNM Press. Brave Heart, M. Y. H., & DeBruyn, L. M. (1998). The American Indian Holocaust: healing historical unresolved grief. American Indian and Alaska Native Mental Health Research, 8(2), 56–​78. Bureau of Indian Affairs. (2016). Frequently asked questions. Washington, DC: Bureau of Indian Affairs. https://​www.bia.gov/​fre​quen​tly-​asked-​questi​ons U.S. Commission on Civil Rights (USCCR). (2003). A quiet crisis: Federal funding and unmet needs in Indian country. Washington, DC: USCCR. https://​www.usccr.gov/​files/​pubs/​na0​ 703/​na0​204.pdf

290   Tennille Larzelere Marley Acevedo-​Garcia, D., Lochner, K. A., Osypuk, T. L., & Subramanian, S. V. (2003). Future directions in residential segregation and health research: A multilevel approach. American Journal of Public Health, 93, 215–​221. https://​doi.org/​10.2105/​AJPH.93.2.215 Adakai, M., Sandoval-​Rosario, M., Xu, F., Aseret-​Manygoats, T., Allison, M., Greenlund, K. J., & Barbour, K. E. (2018). Health disparities among American Indians/​Alaska Natives—​ Arizona, 2017. Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, 67(47), 1314. Ahmed, A. T., Mohammed, S. A., & Williams, D. R. (2007). Racial discrimination & health: Pathways & evidence. Indian Journal of Medical Research, 126(4), 318. Berkman, L. F., Kawachi, I., & Glymour, M. M. (2014). Social epidemiology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Booth, K. M., Pinkston, M. M., & Poston, W. S. C. (2005). Obesity and the built environment. Journal of the American Dietetic Association, 105(5), 110–​117. Cajete, G. (1999). Native science: Natural laws of interdependence: Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Books. Chang, V. W., Hillier, A. E., & Mehta, N. K. (2009). Neighborhood racial isolation, disorder and obesity. Social Forces, 87, 2063–​2092. Charles, C., & Cajete, G. A. (2020). Wisdom traditions, science and care for the earth: Pathways to responsible action. Ecopsychology, 12(2), 65–​70 De la Roca, J., Ellen, I. G., & Steil, J. (2018). Does segregation matter for Latinos? Journal of Housing Economics, 40, 129–​141. Deloria, V., Jr. (2003). God is Red: A Native view of religion (30th anniversary ed.). Golden, CO: Fulcrum Publishing. Diez Roux, A. V., & Mair, C. (2010). Neighborhoods and health. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1186, 125–​145. Dunbar-​Ortiz, R. (2014). An indigenous peoples’ history of the United States (Vol. 3). Boston: Beacon Press. Duran, B. The development of indigenous knowledge in public health: Epistemological diversity as an essential component of health equity. Keynote speech conducted at the 13th Annual William T. Small, Jr., 32nd Annual Minority Health Conference, Gillings School of Global Public Health, University of North Carolina, Charlotte, NC, February 2011. https://​ sph.unc.edu/​sph-​webc​ast/​2011-​02-​25_​mhc/​ Fryberg, S. A., Covarrubias, R., & Burack, J. A. (2018). The ongoing psychological colonization of North American Indigenous People: Using social psychological theories to promote social justice. In P. L. Hammack (Ed.), The Oxford handbook of social psychology and social justice (pp. 113–​128) New York: Oxford University Press. Gone, J. P., Hartmann, W. E., Pomerville, A., Wendt, D. C., Klem, S. H., & Burrage, R. L. (2019). The impact of historical trauma on health outcomes for indigenous populations in the USA and Canada: A systematic review. American Psychologist, 74(1), 20. Greene, S., Turner, M. A., & Gourevitch, R. (2017). Racial residential segregation and neighborhood disparities. Washington, DC: U.S. Partnership on Mobility from Poverty. Hartmann, W. E., Wendt, D. C., Burrage, R. L., Pomerville, A., & Gone, J. P. (2019). American Indian historical trauma: Anticolonial prescriptions for healing, resilience, and survivance. American Psychologist, 74(1), 6. Harvey, D. (2006). Spaces of Global Capitalism Towards a Theory of Uneven Geographical Development. Brooklyn, NY: Verso. Hussar, B., Zhang, J., Hein, S., Wang, K., Roberts, A., Cui, J., Smith, M., Mann, F. B., Barmer, A., & Dilig, R. (2020). The condition of education 2020. NCES 2020-​144. Washington, DC: National Center for Education Statistics.

Segregation and American Indian Reservations    291 Huyser, K. R., Rockell, J., Wilson, C., Manson, S. M., & O’Connell, J. (2020). Healthcare utilization, diabetes prevalence, and comorbidities: Examining sex differences among American Indian and Alaska Native Peoples. In Race, ethnicity, gender and other social characteristics as factors in health and health care disparities: Bingley, UK: Emerald Publishing Limited. Indian Health Service (IHS). (2016a). Disparities (Fact Sheet). Rockville, MD: IHS. https://​ www.ihs.gov/​newsr​oom/​fac​tshe​ets/​disp​arit​ies/​ Indian Health Service (IHS). (2016b). The 2016 Indian Health Service and Tribal Health Care Facilities’ Needs Assessment Report to Congress. Rockville, MD: IHS. https://​www.ihs.gov/​ sites/​newsr​o om/​the​mes/​res​p ons​ive2​017/​disp​lay_​obje​c ts/​docume​nts/​RepCo​ng_​2​016/​ IHSRTC_​on_​Faci​liti​esNe​edsA​sses​smen​tRep​ort.pdf Kawachi, I., & Berkman, L. F. (2003). Neighborhoods and health. New York: Oxford University Press. Kramer, M. R. (2018). Residential segregation and health. In Neighborhoods and health (pp. 321–​356). New York: Oxford University Press. Kramer, M. R., & Hogue, C. R. (2009). Is segregation bad for your health? Epidemiologic Reviews, 31(1), 178–​194. Langwell, K., Anagnopoulos, C., Ryan, F., Melson, J., & Iron, R. S. (2009). Financing American Indian health care: Impacts and options for improving access and quality. Findings Brief: Health Care Financing & Organization. Washington, DC: Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. http://​hcfo.org/​publi​cati​ons/​financ​ing-​ameri​can-​ind​ian-​hea​lth-​care-​impa​cts -​and-​opti​ons-​improv​ing-​acc​ess-​and-​qual​ity.html Lee, M.-​A., & Ferraro, K. F. (2007). Neighborhood residential segregation and physical health among Hispanic Americans: Good, bad, or benign? Journal of Health and Social Behavior, 48(2), 131–​148. Leung M., & Takeuchi, D. T. (2011). Race, place, and health. In L. M. Burton, S. P Kemp, M. Leung, S. A. Matthews, & D. T. Takeuchi (Eds.), Communities, neighborhoods, and health (pp. 73–​88) New York: Springer. Marley, T. L. (2013). Indigenous Knowledge, Land History and Health: The Construction of Diabetes on the White Mountain Apache Indian Reservation [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. University of New Mexico. Marley, T. L. (2019). Ambiguous jurisdiction: Governmental relationships that affect American Indian health care access. Journal of Health Care for the Poor and Underserved, 30(2), 431–​441. Massey, D. S., & Denton, N. A. (1988). The dimensions of residential segregation. Social Forces, 67(2), 281–​315. Massey, D. S., & Denton, N. A. (1993). American apartheid: Segregation and the making of the underclass: Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Massey, D. S., White, M. J., & Phua, V. C. (1996). The dimensions of segregation revisited. Sociological Methods & Research, 25(2), 172–​206. Meltzer, G. Y., Watkins, B.-​X., Vieira, D., Zelikoff, J. T., & Boden-​Albala, B. (2020). A systematic review of environmental health outcomes in selected American Indian and Alaska native populations. Journal of Racial and Ethnic Health Disparities, 7(4), 1–​42. Morland, K., Roux, A. V. D., & Wing, S. (2006). Supermarkets, other food stores, and obesity: The atherosclerosis risk in communities study. American Journal of Preventive Medicine, 30(4), 333–​339. National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine. (2017). Communities in action: Pathways to health equity. Washington, DC: The National Academies Press.

292   Tennille Larzelere Marley Pain, R. (2001). Gender, race, age and fear in the city. Urban Studies, 38(5–​6), 899–​913. Pool, I. (2015). Colonization and Development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900 The Seeds of Rangiatea. Springer International Publishing. Popescu, I., Duffy, E., Mendelsohn, J., & Escarce, J. J. (2018). Racial residential segregation, socioeconomic disparities, and the White-​Black survival gap. PLoS One, 13(2), e0193222. Prucha, F. P. (Ed.). (2000). Documents of United States Indian Policy (3rd ed.). Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Ross, C. E., Reynolds, J. R., & Geis, K. J. (2000). The contingent meaning of neighborhood stability for residents’ psychological well-​being. American Sociological Review, 65(4), 581–​597. Rothstein, R. (2017). The color of law: A forgotten history of how our government segregated America. New York: Liveright. Roubideaux, Y., & Dixon, M. (2001). Promises to keep: Public health policy for American Indians and Alaska Natives in the 21st Century. Washington, DC: American Public Health Association. Sallis, J. F., & Glanz, K. (2006). The role of built environments in physical activity, eating, and obesity in childhood. The Future of Children, 16(1), 89–​108. Sampson, R. J., Raudenbush, S. W., & Earls, F. (1997). Neighborhoods and violent crime: A multilevel study of collective efficacy. Science, 277(5328), 918–​924. Skewes, M. C., Gonzalez, V. M., Gameon, J. A., FireMoon, P., Salois, E., Rasmus, S. M., Lewis, J. P., Gardner, S. A., Ricker, A., & Reum, M. (2020). Health disparities research with American Indian communities: The importance of trust and transparency. American Journal of Community Psychology, 66(3–​4), 302–​313. Sotero, M. (2006). A conceptual model of historical trauma: Implications for public health practice and research. Journal of Health Disparities Research and Practice, 1, 93–​103. Vega, W. A., Ang, A., Rodriguez, M. A., & Finch, B. K. (2011). Neighborhood protective effects on depression in Latinos. American Journal of Community Psychology, 47(1), 114–​126. Walters, K. L., Beltran, R., Huh, D., & Evans-​Campbell, T. (2011). Dis-​placement and dis-​ease: land, place, and health among American Indians and Alaska Natives In L. M. Burton, S. P Kemp, M. Leung, S. A. Matthews, & D. T. Takeuchi (Eds.), Communities, neighborhoods, and health (pp. 163–​199) New York: Springer. Walters, K. L., & Simoni, J. M. (2002). Reconceptualizing Native women’s health: An “indigenist” stress-​coping model. American Journal of Public Health, 92, 520–​524. Warne, D., & Frizzell, L. B. (2014). American Indian health policy: Historical trends and contemporary issues. American Journal of Public Health, 104, S263–​S267. Welch, J. R., & Riley, R. (2001). Reclaiming land and spirit in the western Apache homeland. American Indian Quarterly, 25, 5–​12. https://​doi.org/​10.1353/​aiq.2001.0015 Wilkins, D. E., & Lomawaima, K. T. (2001). Uneven ground: American Indian sovereignty and federal law. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Wilkins, D. E., & Stark, H. K. (2017). American Indian politics and the American political system. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Williams, D.R. (2006). Race, Socioeconomic Status, and Health: The Added Effects of Racism and Discrimination. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 896(1), 173–​188. Williams, D. R., & Collins, C. (2001). Racial residential segregation: A fundamental cause of racial disparities in health. Public Health Reports, 116, 404–​416. Williams, R. A., Jr. (2005). Like a loaded weapon: The Rehnquist Court, Indian rights, and the legal history of racism in America. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Chapter 19

Kids Feeling G o od A b ou t Being Indig e nou s at Scho ol and Its L i nk to He ightened Edu c at i ona l Aspirat i ons Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni

Introduction Aspirations comprise the bundle of ambitions and goals individuals strive to achieve and attain within their lifetime. Children’s aspirations are formed at a relatively early age, and have been shown to influence their overall life trajectories, shaping educational success, occupational choices, relationship and familial pursuits, and lifestyle more broadly (Hardie, 2009; Senior & Chenhall, 2012). In Western Lifeworlds, children are often primed for aspiration formation and achievement through being frequently asked about their futures by adults (e.g., “What do you want to be when you grow up?”), and are subject to the influence and pressure of adults (usually parents) to pursue certain vocational and educational pathways (Hillier & Aurini, 2018; Martin, 2017; Osborne & Guenther, 2013). Recent research confirms Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander parents also have aspirations for their children to have a “good” education, and possess the expectation (and hopes) that their children would complete Year 12 (Martin & Walter, 2017, p. 56). Given the role of educational attainment in improving chances of social and economic mobility, these parental desires are understandable. For Indigenous children, the study of the parental aspirations is also useful in understanding how to support them to undergo formative maturation (viz. mental and physical health), receive personal development to attain these aspirations, and, more broadly, enter the workforce and/​or further education after secondary school (Gemici et al., 2014a). As the work of Noonucal

294    Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni scholar Karen Martin (2017, pp. 93–​95) has shown, supporting a strong cultural identity and fostering “cultural safety” is considered by Indigenous parents as one of the most important factors for Indigenous children to grow up strong (see also Colquhoun & Dockery, 2012). Similar findings have been found in respect to Maori youth, as shown in the work of Ngāti Whakaue scholar Angus Macfarlane and colleagues (2014), which emphasized the role of parental support in the development of resilience (specifically pertaining to one’s racial-​ethnic identity) and the pursuit of academic success. This support from parents is crucial in recognizing that teachers are known to wane in their expectations of Indigenous children achieving academically over their adolescence, potentially predisposing educators to prejudicial pedagogical practice (Peacock et al., 2020). Pride and security in one’s racial-​ethnic or cultural identity—​in other words, feeling secure and supported in “one’s own skin”—​has been shown to be conducive to the development of resilience (Gfellner & Armstrong, 2013; Lovett, 2017) well-​being (Dockery, 2011; Priest et al., 2017;), alongside academic perseverance and success at school (Fryberg et al., 2013; Macfarlane et al., 2014; Webber, 2012) among Indigenous youth. This has similarly been shown for children of other racial-​ethnic groups who also experience disadvantage, such as African American children (Altschul, et al., 2006; Chavous et al., 2003; Wakefield & Hudley 2007). Overall, where individuals feel confident in themselves as Indigenous persons and are supported by key persons in this (particularly family, see Houkamau, 2021), it contributes to the development of self-​concept, competence, and the formulation and pursuit of aspirations. Notwithstanding the presence of qualitative studies within the field, comparatively little quantitative research has been undertaken into how one’s cultural or racial-​ethnic identity, an integral part of Indigenous Peoples’ lifeworlds, influences the educational aspirations and outcomes of Indigenous children (see Parsons, 2019). This chapter addresses this underdevelopment in scholarship. It achieves this by utilizing quantitative data from the K cohort of Wave 8 of the Longitudinal Study of Indigenous Children (LSIC), an Australian longitudinal study of around 1,600 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children and their families with annual waves of data collection from 2008. This analysis answers a particular question: “How does security in one’s cultural identity associate with the secondary school completion aspirations of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander and/​or Torres Strait Islander children (aged 10.5–​12 years)?” To approach the answering of this question, an overview of the literature regarding childhood aspirations of Indigenous young people is first provided. This is followed by a description of the methods employed in our research, a presentation of the data analyzed, and a description of the results. Key findings are thereafter elaborated within the discussion of results, orientating around the core themes of culture and educational attainment. Recommendations are offered within the closing remarks to conclude the chapter. Given the limited scope and quantitative nature of this chapter, findings should not be viewed as exhaustive, but rather as contributing in part to the larger and more nuanced discussion of Indigenous children’s aspirations and identity.

Kids Feeling Good About Being Indigenous at School    295

Literature Scholarship has highlighted that it is between childhood and adolescence that individuals begin to formulate educational, occupational, relational, and lifestyle aspirations. These plans crystallize in early adulthood with the entrenchment of one’s personal identity (Beal & Crockett, 2010; Bryant et al., 2006; Gemici et al., 2014b). The formation and continuation of these aspirations have been linked to social and economic factors, namely socialization received through the family, schooling, and peers (Bryant et al., 2006; Gemici et al., 2014a, 2014b; Senior & Chenhall, 2012). In the domain of tuition/​schooling, educational aspirations (i.e., the goals and desires of educational enrollment, achievement, and attainment) have been shown to be linked to educational success, resulting in positive outcomes later in life (Beal & Crockett, 2010; Mau & Bikos, 2000). While it is acknowledged that “success” is a contentious term, in this instance it refers to “academic achievement, engagement in educationally purposeful activities, satisfaction, acquisition of desired knowledge, skills and competencies, persistence, attainment of educational outcomes” (York et al., 2015, p. 5). Within Australian Indigenous policy frameworks such as Closing the Gap, the completion of Year 12 is considered a key aspect of educational success for Indigenous children (Martin & Walter, 2017, p. 56), and as such is the foci factor of this research chapter. In addition to desiring to finish school, Indigenous students themselves agree that going to school is important. The qualitative data analyzed by Herbert et al. (2014) found that almost all Indigenous students within a sample of 733 Indigenous secondary students in the Northern Territory, investigating their hopes and dreams for the future, identified a desire to stay in school until Year 12 (p. 88). The reasons for attending school differed anecdotally across geographical location in this study, with very remote students identifying specifically learning English and math as the reason for school attendance, whereas less remote students identified desiring the life trajectories that going to school can facilitate (p. 89). However, regardless of remoteness, Indigenous students value going to school. Key reasons include “to learn,” “in order to get a good job,” and “to get a lotta money” (pp. 89, 92).

The Role of Culture There is a growing body of literature, in Australia and elsewhere, examining the role of culture, cultural identity, and cultural safety at school (in the classroom and on school grounds) and their effects on Indigenous educational outcomes (Castagno & Brayboy, 2008; Rahman, 2010). Terms such as “cultural responsive schooling” (Castagno & Brayboy, 2008), “cultural safety,” and “cultural competence” (Hall & Wilkes, 2015) are utilized to describe and evaluate the formalized structures and initiatives used to counter discriminatory pedagogical discourses within Western educational systems and, in turn, better the educational outcomes for Indigenous students. Although these

296    Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni terms are at times positioned as being synonymous, Maori scholar Curtis and colleagues (2019, p. 12) argue they are distinct on the basis of the differentials of power between the worker (typically White) and the client (typically Indigenous), both in terms of what is held (e.g., a teacher over a student), perceived (e.g., identified differences, biases) and practiced (e.g. sensitive interactions versus othering). A highly significant finding within this scholarship has been the interconnectedness of the provision of culturally responsive schooling, cultural components within the offered curricula, security and/​or pride in one’s indigeneity, educative success, positive academic self-​concept, and favorable educative aspirations ( Kickett-​Tucker & Coffin, 2011; Rahman, 2010; Whitley et al., 2014). One of the key reasons for this connection is the central role of Indigenous identity to the personhood and self-​concept of Indigenous Peoples. Accordingly, acceptance of, and pride in, Indigenous identity contributes to more positive self-​esteem, which flows over into a positive self-​concept in areas of education and, subsequently, the desire to complete pre-​tertiary and perhaps further tertiary education (Kanu, 2007; Kickett-​Tucker & Coffin, 2011; Pedersen & Walker, 2000; Rahman, 2010; Rata, 2012; Webber, 2012). Webber (2012) found that a positive racial-​ ethnic identity was conducive to self-​belief and self-​efficacy, academic self-​concept, and diligence for Maori youth; a protective factor which was nurtured by family members (particularly parents). Conversely, it is well established that young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people face barriers to the development and fulfilment of their aspirations throughout adolescence and into young adulthood, for several reasons, a number of which they are fully cognizant of and striving against (see Webber, 2012). A key cause of these barriers related to systemic structural and intergenerational disadvantage (Craven et al., 2005; Walker et al., 2008). This is accompanied by the ongoing prejudice and racism against Indigenous Peoples that is embedded in a number of social institutions, education being one example (Webber, 2012). Notwithstanding macro-​level/​societal-​level impeditive forces, a range of protective facilitatory factors have been identified for Indigenous students. Where indigeneity and Indigenous culture and knowledge are embraced and encouraged in schools (e.g., the presence of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander studies and language within the curricula), scholars have found that this translates to the possession of a strong cultural identity in class, as well as greater degrees of school engagement, attendance, and retention; greater valuing of and enjoyment in education; aspirations to complete secondary education; and higher-​level self-​concepts ( Kickett-​Tucker & Coffin, 2011; Macfarlane et al., 2014; Prehn et al., 2020; Rahman, 2010, p. 69; Rata 2012; Whitley et al., 2014; ). These self-​concepts have been shown to produce a honing of academic skill sets, including writing ability, critical thinking, diction, and speaking skills (Kanu, 2007; Whitley et al., 2014). Previously held career goals are also shown to contribute to secondary school completion among Indigenous youth (Mercurio & Clayton, 2001). The development of a positive Indigenous self-​concept and the encouragement of indigeneity are tied to the person and practice of educators (Castagno & Brayboy, 2008; Kanu, 2007; Whitley et al., 2014). Teachers who are knowledgeable of Indigenous

Kids Feeling Good About Being Indigenous at School    297 culture and issues, and who are respectful, caring, and supportive of Indigenous students, have been noted to contribute to favorable educative outcomes for Indigenous youth in enhancing their self-​concept, self-​esteem, and resilience (Armstrong et al., 2012; Castagno & Brayboy, 2008; Kanu, 2007; Rahman, 2010). This practice includes requiring high expectations for the educational performance of Indigenous students (rather than expecting little from them) and the incorporation of Indigenous knowledge within their instruction (Castagno & Brayboy, 2008; Hall & Wilkes, 2015; Stronger Smarter Institute, 2014; Whitley et al., 2014). Importantly, there must be a harmonization of respectful and caring educators and an Indigenous-​informed curriculum for this to be efficacious, with a focus afforded to inclusion, self-​determination, sovereignty, and Indigenous epistemologies rather than tokenism (Castagno & Brayboy, 2008; Kanu, 2007, 2011; Kickett-​Tucker & Coffin, 2011). Conversely, teachers who ascribe a “failure identity” to Indigenous students have been shown to erode confidence in student aspirations, (Sophia & Patton, 1999, pp. 29–​30). The concept of cultural safety embraces an ongoing critical reflexivity in workers, attentive to one’s practice and commitment to accountability to the provision of service deemed by the client and their community as culturally safe, toward the goal of equity in outcome to other (non-​Indigenous) groups. It encompasses a “critical consciousness” of worker-​client biases, power, and privileges and how these intersect with the client, both at an individual and institutional level (see Curtis et al., 2019, pp. 14–​15). Fostering environments of “cultural safety” for Indigenous students empowers students to confidently advance toward their educational and career goals without inner conflict and/​or a repression of their indigeneity and culture (Dockery, 2010; Hall & Wilkes, 2015; Watego, 2005). The presence of other Indigenous students within one’s cohort (especially class) has been shown to produce feelings of cultural safety and connectedness, as well as facilitate higher educational achievements and aspirations (Rahman, 2010, p. 74; Watego, 2005). Other identified features of cultural safety include the implementation of specific Indigenous learning environments, public flying of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flag and displaying Indigenous art, opening yarning circles, and cultivating on-​campus gardens for bush tucker (bush food) (Shay & Heck, 2015). Such features may be crucial for creating feelings of belonging among students, which in turn has the potential carry over into academic performance and aspirations. The family environment has also been shown to influence child aspirations. Family environments establish norms and tastes around lifestyle and work (standards of living, praising certain professions, ideologically linking success to employment and status), parental nurturing of the child (developing parent-​child rapport and subsequent influence in child decision-​ making), parent profession and educational attainment (influencing predispositions of children—​i.e., cultural capital), and social capital (interaction with persons of certain professions through social networks) (Bryant et al., 2006; Senior & Chenhall, 2012). By extension, the desires of peers have also been shown to influence career choice, and the selection of postsecondary educational institutions (Dalley-​Trim & Alloway, 2010; Gemici et al., 2014a, 2014b).

298    Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni Family, teachers, and friends are recognized as key support in the pursuit and attainment of one’s goals (Arthur & David-​Petero, 2004; Craven et al., 2005; Marshall et al., 2011). Family and friends are most likely to be consulted by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students regarding career advice, and thereby influence and direct adolescents’ career choices (Craven et al., 2005, p. 18). Indigenous evaluations of family and teacher perceptions are related to the extent that they believed their families and teachers had confidence in the achievement of their held aspirations (p. 17). This can be difficult for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students since many Indigenous families have not had access to and/​or the means to graduate from higher education; thus, the advice from adults to children may not always be informed, but instead based on bias or hearsay. More work is evidently required on how the family influences the educational and career choices of Indigenous adolescents. Overall, the literature demonstrates a substantial amount of scholarship investigating the factors associated with Indigenous Australian children’s educational aspirations. Yet little quantitative research has been done in the specific domain of secondary school completion aspirations and the factors associated with this. As our educational aspirations are important in shaping one’s life trajectories, it is important to investigate this area. Accordingly, in this chapter, the factors associated with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children’s aspirations to complete school are examined in light of this relevant literature.

Methodology Sociocultural Positioning When undertaking social research, researchers do not operate as neutral agents, but instead are influenced by their worldview and sociocultural position. As Palawa (Tasmanian Aboriginal) men, the epistemology (understanding of knowledge), ontology (understanding of reality), and axiology (understanding of possessed values) held by ourselves as the researchers prioritizes an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander worldview that has been developed in growing up in lutruwita Tasmania (Walter et al., 2017, p.3; Walter, 2019, p. 14–​16). Specifically in terms of the theme of Indigenous identity in school, having each gone through the education system in lutruwita Tasmania, we have both at times felt uncomfortable about our Indigenous identity when at school. For Huw, a prime example was during an enrichment day at primary school, where I was subject to ridicule from non-​Indigenous students because of my identity (something that many Palawa individuals have experienced). This experience, among others, has led us to focus on the importance of advocating indigeneity at school, and looking at factors that support and encourage Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children’s cultural identity at school, and how this can lead to positive experiences and outcomes.

Kids Feeling Good About Being Indigenous at School    299

Methods This analysis utilizes data from the Longitudinal Study of Indigenous Children (LSIC), a study facilitated on mainland Australia annually by the Department of Social Services, with a sample of 1,677 Indigenous children (Department of Social Services, 2018). It consists of two cohorts: the Baby cohort (B cohort, n=​968) and the Kid cohort (K cohort, n=​709). When the study commenced in 2008, the B cohort “study children” (hereafter “SC”) were aged 6–​18 months, and the SC in the K cohort were aged 3.5–​5 years (Department of Social Services, 2018). For analysis in this chapter, SCs’ responses from Wave 8, K cohort (SC aged 10.5–​12 years of age) are utilized. A total of 499 study children were analyzed from the K cohort of Wave 8. The dependent variable, as seen in Table 19.1, was asked of the SC themselves, part of the Inspirations and Aspirations section of the Wave 8 LSIC survey. Specifically, when surveyed, SC were asked: “When you're older, will you... do Year 12?”. For analysis, this variable is measured against a range of independent variables, on a bivariate and multivariate level.

Independent Variables There are 10 Independent variables that are included in analysis as seen in Table 19.2. The key explanatory variable is item hcsc41-​1: “SC feels good about being Indigenous at school,” where the code descriptions are: 0 =​no/​sometimes; 1 =​yes always/​yes most of the time. It must be acknowledged that this variable does not and cannot capture the participants’ level of Indigenous cultural identity; it is rather a measure of the comfort they have regarding their cultural identity at school. It must be recognized that Wave 8 of LSIC is void of several important cultural variables, such as connection to country, time spent with community members, participation in cultural events, and so on. However, due the specificity of the variable (i.e., feeling comfortable about being Indigenous within the school setting), this variable is held in high regard, as it suggests cultural security. Other independent variables cover a wide scope, with some relating to gender, remoteness, socio-​demographics, and relationships with parents and peers, life, and school-​specific variables. Table 19.1 Dependent Variable Descriptive Statistics Code

Variable Label

Description

N

Mean

SD

hcia1-​1

Aspirations –​SC will do Year 12

The SC could select either [0 =​no] or [1 =​yes].

481

0.69

.464

300    Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni Table 19.2 Independent Variables Descriptive Statistics Code

Variable Label

Description

hcsc41-​1 “SC feels good Coded: 0 =​no/​sometimes 1 =​yes always/​ about being yes most of the time Indigenous at school”

N

Mean

SD

447

.90

.29

xgender

Gender

A dichotomous variable within the LSIC data 499 set where boys are coded as 0 and girls are coded as 1

0.50

0.50

Halori

LORI

LORI is a measurement that allows 499 for greater understanding of the SC’s circumstances and their isolation from population centers (Zubrick et al. 2004). LORI has five categories of isolation and is a geocoding of the participant’s home address. Within LSIC, these five categories are collapsed down to 4 categories: “no isolation [1]‌,” “low isolation [2],” “moderate isolation [3],” and “high/​extreme isolation [4].”

2.06

.873

hada10

SEIFA

Ranks areas in Australia according to relative 483 socioeconomic advantage and disadvantage on a 1–​10 scale, where 1 is the least advantaged and 10 is the most advantaged group

3.04

2.491

hcsc7a

SC wishes they Coded [1]‌Yes: Always; [2] Yes: Most of the 485 did not have time; [3] Sometimes: Fair bit; [4] Sometimes: to go to school Little bit; [5] No: Not much; [6] No: Never. This is an important inclusion as it relates to participants’ attitudes about school

4.27

1.698

hcia1-​2

SC aspires to go to university

481

0.46

0.50

N

Mean

SD

1.54

.874

2.74

1.574

SC could select either [0 =​no] or [1 =​yes]

Peer Variables hcff24-​7

SC’s friends helpful and kind

Coded: [1]‌Yes: Always; [2] Yes: Most of the 486 time; [3] Sometimes: Fair bit; [4] Sometimes: Little bit; [5] No: Not much; [6] No: Never

hcff21

SC’s friends Coded: [1]‌All; [2] Some; [3] None are Indigenous

431

(Continued on next page)

Kids Feeling Good About Being Indigenous at School    301 Table 19.2 Continued Parental Factors

N

Mean

SD

hawo1

P1 currently employed

Where 0 =​no and 1 =​yes

497

0.46

.50

hcff15-​1

P1 spends the right amount of time with SC (according to SC)

The variable is recoded where “too little/​too much” is coded as “0” and “about right” is coded as “1” (P2 is excluded from analysis due to small N values

444

0.71

0.45

Analysis Techniques Within this analysis, two statistical procedures are deployed, excluding reporting descriptive statistics of the variables. The first is bivariate correlation analysis through Spearman’s Rho analysis (see Table 19.3). The basis of this screening technique is to determine those variables independently significant with the dependent variable. To do this, Spearman’s Rho significant testing is employed. Due to the ordinal nature of the variables within this analysis, this technique is most appropriate. Once variables significant on a bivariate level are determined, binary logistic multivariate modeling is employed (see Table 19.4). Binary logistic regression is utilized to predict the odds of participants being in one group over another based on the values of the predictor independent variables. In the case of this study, the goal is to predict the odds of the SC aspiring to do Year 12 based on the relevant independent variables. This is undertaken to understand the nature of the relationship between the dependent and independent variables, controlling for net effects of other factors. All independent variables are included in the model, even if they are not significant on a bivariate level; this is done to minimize the suppressor effect; that is, even though a factor may not yield significant at a bivariate level, it may have a significant predictive validity on a multivariate level (Lancaster, 1999).

Results Bivariate correlation analysis as seen in Table 19.3, indicates six significant factors: SC feels good about being Indigenous, P1 (Parent 1) in paid employment, SC will go to university, SC wishes they did not have to go to school, level of relative isolation (LORI), and P1 spends the right amount of time with SC.

302    Huw Peacock and Michael A. Guerzoni Table 19.3 Aspiration—SC Will Do Year 12 x Independent Variables Independent variables

Correlation

SC feels good about being Indigenous at school

.12*

P1 in paid employment

.17**

SC will go to university

.21**

SC wishes they did not have to go to school

−​.112*

SEIFA

.076

SC Gender

.014

LORI

.11*

P1 spends the right amount of time with SC

.114*

SC’s friends Indigenous

.02

SC’s friends helpful and kind

.02

*  Significant at the .05 level **  Significant at the .01 level.

Multivariate Analysis: Binary Logistic Regression Table 19.4 indicates that the variable “P1 is in paid employment,” the aspiration factor “SC will go to university,” and the key explanatory factor “SC feels good about being Indigenous in class” are all significantly associated predictors of SC’s aspirations to do Year 12 (chi-​Square=​41.53, df=​10, p=​