Cultural Survival REGAINING BALANCE
at the Intersection of Indigenous Languages and Climate Change
DECEMBER 2024
VOLUME 48, ISSUE 4
BOARD OF DIRECTORS
PRESIDENT
Kaimana Barcarse (Kanaka Hawai’i)
VICE PRESIDENT
John King
TREASURER
Steven Heim
CLERK
Nicole Friederichs
Marcus Briggs-Cloud (Maskoke)
Kate R. Finn (Osage)
Laura Graham
Richard A. Grounds (Yuchi/Seminole)
Stephen Marks
Mrinalini Rai (Rai)
Jannie Staffansson (Saami)
Stella Tamang (Tamang)
FOUNDERS
David & Pia Maybury-Lewis
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Copyright 2024 by Cultural Survival, Inc.
Cultural Survival Quarterly (ISSN 0740-3291) is published quarterly by Cultural Survival, Inc. at PO Box 381569, Cambridge, MA 02238. Periodical postage paid at Boston, MA 02205 and additional mailing offices. Postmaster: Send address changes to Cultural Survival, PO Box 381569, Cambridge, MA 02238. Printed on recycled paper in the U.S.A. Please note that the views in this magazine are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Cultural Survival.
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On the cover: Elder Dolgan reindeer herders pose with their reindeer. Climate change has impacted the Dolgan nomadic way of life (see page 16). Photo by Kseniia Bolshakova.
Page 14
12 The Intersection of Indigenous Languages and Climate Change: Insights from the Pastoralist Maasai of Tanzania
Nailejileji Tipap (Maasai)
A changing climate has serious implications for the Maa language in Tanzania.
16 How Climate Change Is Leading to a Language Shift in the Russian Arctic Kseniia Bolshakova (Dolgan)
Melting permafrost is threatening the Dolgan nomadic way of life.
18 The Language of the Earth
Djalma Ramalho Gonçalves (Aranã Caboclo)
Indigenous languages are safeguarding biodiversity and cultivating possible futures amid climate change.
20 Saktce’ Ho’ma in Exile
Rochelle Morgan-Verdin (Houma) & Jecee Morgan-Verdin (Houma) Through learning Uma’, a new generation of Houma Peoples is reconnecting with themselves, their ancestors, and the broader Houma community.
22 The Symbiosis of Indigenous Languages and Ecologically Regenerative Lifeways
Marcus Briggs-Cloud (Maskoke) A call to change the way Indigenous communities live and let Indigenous languages guide the process.
24 Climate Change Is Affecting Our Knowledge and Herding Practices
Maja Kristine Jåma (Sámi) Sámi are dependent on nature to maintain our culture and language and to pass our Traditional Knowledge on to the next generations.
12 Climate Change
Indigenous Peoples Define the Just Transition
26 Keepers of the Earth Fund Grant
Partner Spotlight
Jamii Asilia Center and Global Wisdom Collective
28 Staff Spotlight
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Donors like you make our work around the world possible. Thanks so much for being part of Cultural Survival!
Angélica Ayala (Nahuat)
Rights in Action Confronting the Lithium Rush in Jujuy, Argentina
Byron Tenesaca Guaman (Kañari Kichwa)
29 Bazaar Artist Serzhan Bashirov (Kazakh-Naiman Tribe)
Regaining Balance at the Intersection of Indigenous Languages and Climate Change
Halito akana (Hello friends),
Indigenous languages are fundamental indicators of the state of biological and cultural diversity on Mother Earth. Reports from the United Nations indicate that ecosystems stewarded by Indigenous Peoples retain the highest measures of biodiversity, while biodiver sity hotspots also sustain high linguistic diversity. Yet, many Indigenous languages are highly endangered, mirroring the decline of biodiversity and showing us how they are intertwined. The United Nations estimates that by the year 2100, more than half of the world’s languages —most of them Indigenous—will go silent.
change. The future of Indigenous languages is a key element of cultural revitalization, ecological stewardship, biodiversity protection, and community resilience. Our languages—intertwined with our lifeways —offer pathways for climate solutions.
The latest issue of the CSQ is dedicated to Indigenous leaders on the frontlines of climate change, working on several fronts to safeguard their languages, cultures, and environments. Climate change is one of the drivers of the loss of Indigenous languages—putting Traditional Ecological Knowledge at risk. This heavily impacts cultural landscapes, subsistence patterns, food sovereignty, and the well being of Indigenous Peoples and all life around the world. Embedded in our languages is the knowledge that we must embrace our critical stewardship responsibilities and seek to balance and rebalance our relationships with the world and beings around us. We know we must constantly tend to a sustainable way of life and resist entrapment into a way of life that drives overconsumption, ecocide, biodiversity loss, and climate change, as well as inequity and injustice.
In this issue, authors address how climate change impacts Indigenous languages, how new terminology and concepts are formed under the pressures of climate change, and what solutions are offered within Indigenous languages to mitigate climate change by returning to our original teachings and revitalizing sustainable lifeways. They share how Indigenous practices, knowledge, and languages are adapting to new realities and how Indigenous languages can contribute effective responses to climate
On my journey to learn Chahta anumpa (Choctaw language), I am reminded that our language defines who we are. By inherently holding us to our traditional values, Chahta anumpa guides us to hina hanta—the bright path —and how to live in balance with our kin and all life around us. I also often reflect on the wise words of LaDonna Harris (Comanche) from her paper, “Indigeneity, an alternative worldview: four R’s (relationship, responsibility, reciprocity, redistribution) vs. two P’s (power and profit). Sharing the journey towards conscious evolution.” She describes one of the features of Indigeneity as “dynamic inclusivity”—the ability to hold our core values even while we entertain new ideas. This adherence to our values and knowledge systems is what has allowed Indigenous Peoples to survive despite drastic changes over time. The key is to balance the old and the new, and the ability to do this is one reason we need to look to Indigenous Peoples for leadership on climate change.
With the close of 2024 approaching, I am grateful for your ongoing commitment to Cultural Survival. Your partnership supports Indigenous Peoples in safeguarding knowledge systems and languages for future generations and allows us to amplify Indigenous voices in leading the way to climate change solutions. Help us raise $250,000 by December 31, 2024. We cannot do it without you! Please give generously at www.cs.org/donate.
With wishes for a healthy, abundant, just, and peaceful holiday season and new year, Hטchi yakoke li hoke (I thank you all so much),
Aimee Roberson (Choctaw and Chickasaw), Executive Director
CULTURAL SURVIVAL STAFF
Aimee Roberson (Choctaw & Chickasaw), Executive Director
Mark Camp, Deputy Executive Director
Avexnim Cojtí (Maya K’iche’), Director of Programs
Edison Andrango (Kichwa Otavalo), Indigenous Rights Radio Program Assistant
Verónica Aguilar (Mixtec), Program Associate, Keepers of the Earth Fund
Cliver Ccahuanihancco Arque (Quechua), Program Associate, Keepers of the Earth Fund
Miguel Cuc Bixcul (Maya Kaqchikel), Accounting Associate
Jess Cherofsky, Advocacy Program Manager
Michelle de León, Grants Coordinator
Roberto De La Cruz Martínez (Binnizá), Information Technology Associate
Danielle DeLuca, Senior Development Manager
Georges Theodore Dougnon (Dogon), Capacity Building Program Assistant
Shaldon Ferris (Khoisan), Indigenous Radio Program Coordinator
Sofia Flynn, Accounting & Office Manager
Nati Garcia (Maya Mam), Capacity Building Manager
Byron Tenesaca Guaman (Kañari Kichwa), Fellowships Coordinator
Alison Guzman, Donor Relations Coordinator
Emma Hahn, Development Associate
Belen Iñiguez, Publications Distribution Assistant
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Mariana Kiimi (Na Ñuu Sàvi/Mixtec), Advocacy Associate
Dev Kumar Sunuwar (Koĩts-Sunuwar), Community Media Program Coordinator
Rosy Sul González (Kaqchikel), Indigenous Rights Radio Program Manager
Marco Lara, Social and Digital Media Coordinator
Kevin Alexander Larrea, Information Technology Associate
Maya Chipana Lazzaro (Quechua), Bazaar Vendor Coordinator
Jamie Malcolm-Brown, Communications & Information Technology Manager
Candela Macarena Palacios, Executive Assistant
Cesar Gomez Moscut (Pocomam), Community Media Program Coordinator
Edson Krenak Naknanuk (Krenak), Lead on Brazil
Diana Pastor (Maya K’iche’), Media Coordinator
Guadalupe Pastrana (Nahua), Indigenous Rights Radio Producer
Agnes Portalewska, Senior Communications Manager
Tia-Alexi Roberts (Narragansett), Editorial & Communications Assistant
Elvia Rodriguez (Mixtec), Community Media Program Assistant
Mariana Rodriguez Osorio, Executive Assistant
Carlos Sopprani, Human Resources Associate
Thaís Soares Pellosi, Executive Assistant
Candyce Testa (Pequot), Bazaar Events Manager
Sócrates Vásquez (Ayuujk), Program Manager, Community Media
Miranda Vitello, Development Coordinator
Candy Williams, Human Resources Manager
Raquel Xiloj (Maya K’iche’), Program Manager, Keepers of the Earth Fund
Pablo Xol (Maya Qʼeqchiʼ), Design and Marketing Asociate
INTERNS
Kelsey Armeni, Anisha Buda, Cielo Chindoy
Muchavisoy, Carmem de Sena Cazaubon, Onesima Lienqueo, Priyanka Mahat, Xiting Tong
U.S. | Report Urges U.S. Government to Return Boarding School Lands to Tribes
AUGUST
A recent report from the Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative urges the U.S. government to return lands taken from Native Nations for boarding schools to the Tribes.
Canada | First Indigenous Woman Crowned Miss Universe Canada
JULY
Ashley Callingbull (Enoch Cree) made Canadian beauty pageant history as the first Indigenous woman to win Miss Universe Canada.
Peru | Court Upholds Rights of Marañón River and Indigenous Communities
JULY
In a significant legal victory for environmental and Indigenous rights, a Peruvian court has recognized the Marañón River as a rights-holding entity. The ruling sets a vital precedent against pollution from extractive industries.
Global | Indigenous Defenders Face Escalating Violence
SEPTEMBER
A new report by Global Witness released in September reveals the alarming dangers faced by environmental defenders, particularly Indigenous Peoples and Afrodescendants, who represent nearly half of the 196 activists killed in 2023. Mining remains the deadliest industry, linked to 25 killings in 2023.
Morocco | Ancient Manuscripts Discovered
SEPTEMBER
Hundreds of thousands of Indigenous Amazigh legal contracts, called arraten, have been discovered in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains. The documents offer profound insights into the social, economic, and legal aspects of Amazigh communities.
Nepal | Sunuwar Script Gets Unicode Inclusion
SEPTEMBER
The written language of the Sunuwar Peoples of Nepal, Sunuwar script, was included in Unicode Version 16.0.0. This advancement will facilitate the digitization and usage of the Sunuwar language.
U.S. | Ancestral Land Returned to Onondaga Nation
SEPTEMBER
The Onondaga Nation has regained 1,000 acres of ancestral land near Syracuse, New York. The land was transferred on September 30 as part of a federal Superfund settlement.
Canada | Medical Association Apology Falls Short
SEPTEMBER
The Canadian Medical Association (CMA) has formally apologized to Indigenous Peoples for systemic racism in the healthcare system.
South Africa | Khoi and San Peoples Demand Recognition
SEPTEMBER
The call for the Khoisan people to be recognized as the First Nation of South Africa is gaining momentum, with increasing support for their demands for representation in parliament and provincial legislatures called for at a recent Heritage Day event.
U.S. | Biden Apologizes for Boarding Schools
OCTOBER
The United States has issued a formal apology for the historical injustices perpetrated by Indian boarding schools
in the United States, pledging to support healing efforts and cultural revitalization initiatives.
U.S. | 20th Anniversary of 13 Indigenous Grandmothers
OCTOBER
October 2024 marked the 20th anniversary of the International Council of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers, celebrated with a special event in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where the Grandmothers first convened. (Pictured left.) This gathering, “We Are All Related: Unearthing the Roots of Our Shared Humanity,” took place from October 24–27 and honored the ancestral territory of the Pueblo Peoples.
U.S. | California Law Addresses Indigenous Health
OCTOBER
The Latino and Indigenous Disparities Reduction Act recognizes the distinct health needs of Indigenous Latin Americans, aiming to improve access to culturally appropriate healthcare services. The newly enacted legislation mandates the state to develop health data collection methods specifically for Indigenous populations and allocate resources accordingly.
U.S. | Medicaid Covers Healing Practices Among Native American Tribes
OCTOBER
Medicaid will soon cover traditional healing practices used by Native American tribes in four states, marking a significant shift in healthcare access. The policy aims to integrate Indigenous healing methods with conventional medicine.
U.S. | Muwekma Ohlone Tribe Seeks Federal Recognition
OCTOBER
The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe in the San Francisco Bay Area is pursuing federal recognition to affirm their rights and identity as Indigenous Peoples. Members of the Tribe arrived in Washington, D.C. after traveling there on horseback from San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge.
ADVOCACY UPDATES
Bolivia: Report Warns of Serious Human Rights Violations at Mine
SEPTEMBER
Indigenous leaders from the Ayllu Acre Antequera in Bolivia and Qhana Pukara Kurmi, Cultural Survival, and Earthworks submitted a report to the Canadian mining company Santacruz Silver ahead of its Annual General Meeting in Vancouver. In 2021, Santacruz Silver acquired the Bolívar Mine in the Department of Oruro, Bolivia, from the Swiss mining company Glencore. The Bolívar Mine is on the ancestral territory of the Ayllu Acre Antequera, a communal land governed by Indigenous authorities and families. The report documents violations of multiple human rights at the mine site, including the rights to Free, Prior and Informed Consent; health and a healthy environment; freedom of expression; the right to live in safety; right to non-discrimination; cultural rights; and the right to belong to an Indigenous community.
Argentina: Court Orders Eviction of Mapuche Community
OCTOBER
A federal court ordered the eviction of the Mapuche community Lof Pailako from their ancestral land in a decision backed by the current administration of Javier Milei and Los Alerces National Park. The eviction takes place amid increasing national and foreign investments for tourism and extractivist projects in the territory, such as the recent approval of the Incentive Regime for Large Investment, which is fostering a wave of evictions of the Mapuche People in Puel Mapu (Argentinian Patagonia) and all Indigenous Peoples from their land. The Lof Pailako are resisting in their ancestral territory and exercising the legal defense of their territorial and customary rights.
Bolivia: Cultural Survival Denounces False Mining Consultation in Totoral Chico Community
OCTOBER
On October 23, in the Quechua community of Totoral Chico del Ayllu Acre Antequera in Oruro, Bolivia, a sham consultation was organized by the Mining Administrative Jurisdictional Authority to legitimize the activity of the mining company La Salvada Sociedad Colectiva, which has been operating illegally in the territory since 2013
Cultural Survival’s Advocacy Program launches international campaigns in support of grassroots Indigenous movements as they put pressure on governments and corporations to respect, protect, and fulfill the rights of their communities.
without consent from the Quechua and Aymara communities that inhabit it. The sham consultation violated basic principles of the right to Free, Prior and Informed Consent, as the company has already been operating for decades. The information was not transmitted in the language of the community, and did not use their decision-making processes through their own selfgoverning institutions, among other requirements. The community still needs to receive an Environmental Impact Study or other sources of information on the project’s potential impacts.
Colombia: COP16 Establishes Permanent Space in Biodiversity Policy for Indigenous Peoples
NOVEMBER
Indigenous delegates celebrated the approval of one of their key demands at the UN Convention on Biological Diversity 16th Conference of Parties (CBD COP16) in Cali, Colombia: the creation of a Permanent Subsidiary Body on Article 8j (SB8j). This was the first conference since adopting the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework in 2022. Government representatives from the 196 countries that are Parties to the Convention, as well as UN body representatives, industry representatives, and observer groups that include Indigenous Peoples, met to discuss and monitor the implementation of the Global Biodiversity Framework regarding the 23 targets set by the framework, funding, national reporting, and knowledge of genetic resources. No other UN environmental process has a dedicated and permanent space for Indigenous Peoples and local communities. The newly approved Subsidiary Body on Article 8j recognizes the vital contributions of Traditional Knowledge to the success of the Global Biodiversity Framework and will be led by the Indigenous Caucus. Cultural Survival staff members and grant partners joined the conversations to demand that world leaders take immediate action to protect biodiversity and put Indigenous rights at the center of conversations.
Read more news at www.cs.org/latest.
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ERIC TERENA RAINFOREST RENAISSANCE MAN
Eric Terena performing at a 2023 UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues opening reception at The Shed
Cristina Verán
Eric Terena (Terena) was born in Campo Grande, Brazil and raised between the city and his Terena homeland in the state of Mato Grosso del Sur. As a DJ and music maker, he is an architect of the electric, hiphop inflected sound rising up from Brazil’s increasingly urbanized, universe-transversing Indigenous youth, which has earned him wide recognition as an ambassador for Indigenous Peoples of the Amazon, particularly in the climate justice movement. He also co-founded Mídia Índigena, an advocacy communications network dedicated to grassroots, community-centered reporting on Indigenous rights and environmental issues across Latin America and the world. Cristina Verán recently spoke with Terena during the 2024 NYC Climate Week.
Cristina Verán: What attracted you to the artform of DJing and eventually producing your own music?
Eric Terena: While I was growing up, my brothers and cousins would often perform our People’s traditional kind of music: singing, playing the flute, and the caja. My father had this friend who was a DJ, and I decided I wanted to be one, too. He taught me on his turntables. Eventually, I learned to do much more than play the music of others. While at university, thanks in part to the Ford Foundation’s “redes de saberes” (knowledge networks) program, I began DJing at parties to make extra money. One day, (the late) Professor of Indigenous Studies, Antonio Brand, approached me for an art show of his. He said, ‘Eric, you’re becoming quite well known now. Why not make your own music, too?’
So, I gave it a try. My first experiments weren’t that great, but eventually, especially when reflecting my culture, the sound improved and began to resonate not only with the other Indigenous students, but also audiences beyond.
CV: Your tech-driven style enmeshes sonic notes from the natural environment as well as the music of the Peoples living within it. Please share something about your process and what protocols are important in this. I like to go out to the rainforest with a microphone to record ambient sounds there as well as traditional songs of the people. Then, back in the studio, I’ll apply some computerized effects to enhance and make these recordings stronger, more powerful. The rhythm may be electronic, it may be hip-hop, but I do it on an Indigenous frequency. It’s important to note that before I begin recording anyone, especially an Elder, I discuss what I plan to do and ask for their permission. Also, when I travel to different communities to perform, I don’t just do my DJ set and then leave. I spend time with the people and find ways to involve the youth, giving workshops and showing how they can use music to communicate.
CV: You’ve made a point to foreground Indigenous languages in your music. Why is this important, and how do your diverse, international audiences relate to or vibe with what they may or may not understand? ET: Whenever, wherever anyone can hear our languages, our ancestors are summoned to reconnect with this world. When I played my song “Sarayaku” (featuring Taki Supay, a Kichwa MC) at an event in New York, for example, there were Kichwa people in the crowd who immediately
in New York.
recognized their language and could discern the protest message within it. For the rest of the crowd, it doesn’t really matter to me as a DJ if they understand the words or not. I believe the energy of the music can help them to feel the meaning of it somehow.
CV: How would you say this meaning is percieved and received by the mainstream in Brazil?
ET: I’m not part of the mainstream, nor am I trying to be. An Indigenous person with a microphone is considered a threat, and if one focuses on or complains about social issues, even within popular genres, the mainstream and the music industry want nothing to do with it. My songs speak out against injustice, things like the impact of the oil industry, deforestation, illegal mining, and so on. It’s protest music.
CV: How prevalent are Indigenous DJs in Brazil’s music scene, and what other Indigenous performers there and abroad inspire you these days?
ET: There aren’t many here. To be a professional DJ, you need a way to play and record music, a computer, the right plug-ins, and so on. Indigenous communities in Brazil are often very isolated and may only get electricity and internet for three or four hours a day. When I’m in such places, I focus on helping those young people aspiring to this to figure out how to work with what they have. Each one that I teach will then go and teach others, too.
I’m always excited to connect with artists who, like me, look to music as a way to amplify their struggle; Djuena Tikuna from Brazil and MC Millaray, a Mapuche rapper from Chile, for example. Then in North America, there’s Xiuhtezcatl, Taboo from Black Eyed Peas. Supaman, too, is so incredible.
CV: What inspired you to expand your focus from making not only socially impactful music but now also producing advocacy journalism? And how has the use of new technologies for the recording, production, and dissemination of the work been important for both?
ET: It was through DJing that I became interested in and learned a lot about audio recording, not just for music but for things like radio programs, podcasts, and capturing sound for films. This led directly to becoming a media maker. Erisvan Guajajara, Edivan Guajajara, Flay Guajajara, and I all had the same dream: to amplify Indigenous voices speaking out about the issues important to us here in Brazil as well as to connect with the global Indigenous movement about concerns that we share. That’s how, in 2015, Mídia Índia (now Midia Indígena)—an information network comprising nearly 800 Indigenous media makers— began. Technologies like drones, cameras, smartphones, and web apps are tools for our fight, and we use them to ensure that our Peoples can access information they urgently need about the communities where we live.
CV: How does Mídia Indígena engage and respond to the larger media landscape beyond it?
ET: We don’t really feel that we can trust what is published in Brazil’s mainstream. They circulate a lot of fake news, spreading false rumors that, for example, forest fires across the Amazon were started by Indigenous communities. We’ve done our own investigations and provided counter evidence about where the blame lies— with the rise in global temperatures due to climate change and the extractive industries that exploit our land and its resources. Since 2018, we’ve become more connected with international movements around such issues to collaborate and present at key United Nations meetings, for Climate Week, and at the various COP convenings around the globe.
CV: Given how important visibility is for any activist movement, you’ve managed to create an impactful presence on platforms like TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram. How did that evolve, and what do you see as their usefulness beyond the attention they bring?
ET: Until maybe five years ago, our leaders didn’t want to speak on camera, fearing real risks that exist in Brazil to put one’s face out there like that. Their lives could be threatened; their communities might be invaded. Things are changing though, and we have to adapt for our own good. We use social media not only to assert some kind of identity and communicate with the world, but also when we ourselves are outside of our communities, to follow what’s going on back home so that we don’t lose our feeling of connection. We don’t share pretty pictures of the rainforest or people with painted faces for “likes.” Rather, we post strategically to bring attention to what’s happening not only in rainforest communities but to those living in cities where Indigenous Brazilians can face some of the worst violations of all.
CV: As a public figure, how much of that represents the professional vs. the personal aspects of your life?
ET: My whole life is invested in this movement. As for all who are dedicated to caring for our forests, our families, our languages, our cultures, it’s not a job. It’s survival.
Cristina Verán is an international Indigenous Peoples issues specialist researcher, advocacy strategist, and media-maker. As adjunct faculty at New York University, she focuses on Indigenous expression, engagement, and impact in popular music, art, and culture, art, and activism.
Eric Terena
ACTIVISM THROUGH PERFORMANCE A CONVERSATION WITH LANDA LAKES
Phoebe Farris (POWHATAN-PAMUNKEY)
Two-Spirit community organizer Miko Thomas (Chickasaw), also known by her stage name, Landa Lakes, is originally from Oklahoma but has been based in San Francisco for decades.
Lakes serves as a board member of the Bay Area American Indian Two-Spirits (BAAITS), a community-based volunteer organization offering culturally relevant activities for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Intersex Native Americans, and she has served as a judge on many drag pageants. Lakes and her drag troupe, Brush Arbor Gurlz, perform nationwide, utilizing drag shows to raise funds and awareness for Native and 2SLGBTQ+ communities. Phoebe Farris spoke to Lakes at the Indigenous Media Conference, organized by the Indigenous Journalists Association, in July 2024.
Phoebe Farris: Landa, at this year’s Indigenous Media Conference in Oklahoma City, you were the featured performance artist for the opening night reception. Earlier that day, the documentary “Sugarcane” was screened, co-directed by Julian Brave NoiseCat (Canim Lake Band Tsq’escen) and Emily Kassie. The film investigated sexual and physical abuse and infanticide at St. Joseph’s Mission School near the Sugarcane Reserve in British Columbia, Canada. Prior to your performance,
had you seen the film or discussed with the directors how to create a performance that referenced issues covered in “Sugarcane?” Or was it coincidence or serendipity, or perhaps something more connected to the universe?
Landa Lakes: I didn’t know “Sugarcane” was showing, so I guess it was somehow connected to the universe, or maybe boarding schools bind us as Indigenous people. My father and two of his sisters attended Sequoyah, and his youngest sister attended Chilocco. My grandmother attended Bloomfield Academy, and my great-grandfather went to the Burney Academy, known as the ‘Chickasaw Orphan Home’ and ‘Manual Labor School.’
PF: How do you prepare your mind and body for performances that deal with the raw emotions of overwhelming grief while also creating scenes that have audiences laughing, all in one setting?
LL: Back in the 1980s, there was a project called EIC [Explorations In Creativity] where I met Mary Ann Brittan (Choctaw/Caddo). It brought in Native kids from all across the continental U.S. and Alaska to Riverside Indian School in Anadarko, OK during the summer. Mary Ann ran the drama group and introduced us to Indigenous theater from Tulsa’s American Indian Theatre Company and the writings of Hanay Geiogamah. It taught me that humor and depth are indeed siblings, and if I am giving you something serious, the humor helps to ease the mind.
PF: In some of your lighter, humorous scenes, you enter the stage in a red evening gown singing lyrics from “I Will Always Love You” and holding a sign labeled ‘CARBS,’ then strip down to a Marvel-inspired Superwoman outfit and do jumping jacks while holding a book titled ‘KETO DIET.’ Please share with our readers the process for creating this skit.
LL: I have been doing this number since around 2005. I did it for a drag night called Duck and Cover, which was a night of cover songs. My weight is a yoyo; I am thinner and fuller depending on when you catch me. I originally did it as Atkins, but now the rage is Keto, both of which are restrictive carb diets. So putting my real struggle on stage and getting to eat a cupcake for art is fantastic.
PF: On the floor near the stage, a huge screen features close-up images of your face and hair wrapped in colorful plastic yarn that slowly unravels as you sing the lyrics
Landa Lakes (left) during a performance at the 2024 Indigenous Media Conference.
to “Tapestry” and “A Coat of Many Colors.” As that scene fades, the next black-and-white image includes Indian children praying and singing, ‘John Brown had a little Indian boy, one little Indian boy.’ Can you explain the significance of these evolving images?
LL: This is from my piece, “Paper Indians.” It starts out with the message, ‘Today’s presentation has been brought to you by the Civilization Act of 1819.’ The images change between Indian children and a tutorial on how to make paper dolls—or, in my mind, how to assimilate children. When wars were done, when the buffalo were gone, when the people were removed and restricted, it came natural to Congress to take away children. Ultimately, it is this act of Congress that gave money for these schools and religious institutions to take the Indigenous people out of the socalled savagery and assimilate them into the larger society, and it has played out again and again in different ways in things like the Indian Relocation Act. In my opinion, many of these acts have been very destructive to Indigenous families, and the boarding school system was one of the worst.
PF: People of my generation grew up using Land O’ Lakes butter with the beautiful Indian maiden featured on the packaging. It was the most popular butter. Please tell us how you took back the icon, changing your name to Landa Lakes and properly Indigenizing it.
LL: My original drag name was Autumn Westbrook when I started performing at The Wreck Room in Oklahoma City in the 1980s. Around 2004, I wanted to revamp my performance style because it had changed and was more about stories, and I wanted something that was tongue-in-cheek and recognizably Indigenous. Everyone knew Mia (the Land O’ Lakes Indian Mascot), and although the artist that had created the final version of Mia was Indigenous, I just don’t agree with Indigenous bodies being used for mascots by non-Indigenous folks or [in a way] that doesn’t benefit a Nation that is being used. There was a time when we had
little to no representation, so I think some of the generations before me were proud of things like the [Washington] Redskins, Cher in a headdress. I even wanted to be the Indian in the Village People back in the ‘70s. But now we have real representation, and I don’t think we need to slide backward into being a tool to convey Americana.
PF: Please share with us how your Chickasaw Nation heritage, childhood in Oklahoma, your identity as Two-Spirit, engagement in social justice activism, and your career in performance art all intersect so smoothly to outsiders. What are the challenges to positively embracing all of these aspects of your life and becoming the powerful Indigenous person that you are?
LL: I grew up in the Tupelo-Stonewall, Oklahoma, area. We were always surrounded by our family. My family started a small dance troupe called the Buck Creek Dancers, and we learned some songs and dances from Buster Ned, who led the Chickasaw Choctaw Cultural Committee and Dance Troupe. Buster grew up with my grandfather, Buck Thomas, when Buster’s grandmother married my great-grandfather, Rev. Robert Bob Thomas. So, I think culturally, I grew up with a steady mix of Christianity and tradition. I would say my activism really started at Oklahoma University in Norman as a part of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance. I was also a part of the American Indian Student Association. But for me, the real activist work was within the GLA. My friend and fellow Choctaw activist, Ben Carnes, really encouraged me to work for things that were important for future generations, and I feel I have tried to accomplish that outside of performance, but also to incorporate issues within performance that reach an audience that may have no idea about the Indigenous world.
Follow Landa Lakes on Instagram at @landalakes.
Phoebe Mills Farris, Ph.D. (Powhatan-Pamunkey) is a Purdue University Professor emerita, photographer, and freelance art critic.
Landa Lakes during performances and skits about boarding schools and diet fads.
ANGÉLICA AYALA
Defending Our Lands from New Megaprojects in Tepoztlán, Mexico
In June 2024, Cultural Survival staff gathered in Tepoztlán, Morelos, Mexico to connect with each other and the beautiful Nahuatl lands. To honor this place that welcomed us with kindness, we met with ancestral authorities, community leaders, and local organizations to learn about their struggles and work.
Cultural Survival’s Diana Pastor spoke with Angélica Ayala (Nahuat), an advocate, anthropologist, and researcher from Tepoztlán and one of 24 Indigenous women from Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras who participated in a training organized by Cultural Survival on communication tools and international human rights.
Cultural Survival: What motivated your activism?
Angélica Ayala: My activism started when I was a child. In 1994, when I was five years old, we fought against the construction of a private golf club in Tepoztlán that was to be built in a protected natural area. My father was part of the free and
autonomous city council in Tepoztlán while the resistance of the Zapatista National Army was forming. It was an important battle. My family and the community rose up and shut down the town. We wouldn’t let the police or military in. The streets became a kitchen where people cooked food and sang while children rode their bikes. It felt like a celebration. My grandfather was also part of a resistance in 1960 when a residential area was planned without the community’s permission. He was imprisoned for a year for defending his territory, so the struggle is hereditary. In 2012, it was my turn. There was a push for the expansion of the La Pera-Cuautla Highway as part of the Morelos Project, which included the construction of a thermoelectric plant and a gas pipeline. In other towns, this might be seen as progress and development, and I have no doubt that it is for some communities that lack roads. However, we already had a road. There was no need to destroy the environment and the archaeological site of Tlaxomolco. We couldn’t completely stop the construction and it ended poorly. After the highway was built, other problems arose such as wildfires, mass tourism, and gentrification, which is a new form of colonization.
CS: How has your community influenced your activism?
AA: I grew up surrounded by strong and brave women. When my father passed away, it was just my mom and my grandmother, who are fundamental parts of my life. Last year, I became the mayordoma (community leader) of the Barrio de Santo Domingo, where I’m from. We address security issues and organize community patrols. We are the only neighborhood with a council of Elders that works together with the mayordomía (local autonomous authorities). We also revived a lost tradition of planting our native corn. In the neighborhood, we have a piece of land that belongs to the neighborhood, and we plant collectively. This practice had stopped, but we resumed it in 2015, and this will be the ninth year of planting. It began with young people, and now the mayordomía and the neighborhood take care of it. It’s interesting because this process coincided with the struggle against the construction of the highway—so the destruction also allowed us to regain community bonds to reconnect with the land.
CS: What does the territory mean to you?
AA: For me, it means roots, identity, having a bond with what surrounds us, a deep love for the land where I grew up. Over the years, I’ve reflected that the territory embraces customs, traditions, and the connections you can establish with your neighbors and people from the community. It has become clear to me that the mayordomía is the heart of many traditions, weaving resistance and rich culture. It’s not just a physical or material space; it’s the connection. With the hills, I have known since childhood where north and south are, where to walk, the flora and fauna, the native animals, tranquility and peace. I have a tattoo of a hill from Tepoztlán, Yogualtepl, who is a nighttime guardian. The hills are my home. Once, I participated in a women’s gathering in Quintana Roo and got dengue. When I was coming back and saw the hills, I thought, ‘I’m home. Whatever happens, the hills are waiting for me, they embrace me.’ The hills hold many stories and wisdom. Walking among them allows you to learn so much. I tattooed the hills on my body because I associate body with territory; our first territory is our body, and the hill represents my own struggle.
CS: Tell us about your experience as a young woman defender.
AA: I was part of the youth front defending Tepoztlán, which emerged because young people didn’t feel represented by the adults, who often belittled us—especially the men—for being young. A large part of our group was women. We didn’t like being told what to do or that we didn’t know anything just because we were young, so we became independent and formed the front. One of the adult members, a teacher, Osbelia Quiroz, told us she
believed in the youth and supported us. At that time, more wildfires began occurring and older members taught us how to extinguish them. Since there has been no support from the State, we become brigadistas (firefighters).
Walking and seeing the fire is physically exhausting, requiring good stamina. A lot of energy is lost in a day; the work doesn’t stop. The youth front helped revitalize the brigades. We’ve received support from other places in Mexico, and now there are 10 organized brigades. We have managed to control all the fires. It’s a powerful experience to face the fire, but it’s also satisfying, like when we rescue animals. Some time ago, we rescued a little fox whom we named Dominga in honor of our neighborhood. She’s grown now, and we still see her.
CS: How did you come to be involved in the recent Cultural Survival training?
AA: Prior to the training, a portion of the hill was demolished on the route to Cuernavaca and Mexico City. A huge number of trees were felled in just a few days, and the highway was covered with trees. People were angry and sad. Hearing those machines now fills me with rage. It was a hard blow, and it scattered the organization. After our comrade, Samir Flores Soberanis, who opposed the gas pipeline in Tepoztlán, was killed, hope was fading. During the pandemic, I received information about the Cultural Survival training sessions and I applied. When I got the email saying I had been accepted, I was thrilled. One of the most important aspects was the healing workshops. It allowed me to enter therapy, which I did. I had many things bottled up from my time in the resistance. The workshops lifted my spirits and I realized we weren’t alone in the struggle. As a final product of the workshops, seeing my photo report published felt like a tribute to the people as we marked nine years of resistance. It allowed me to take a breath and reflect on how the rest of the community was experiencing this process, how my fellow community members were feeling.
CS: What are your future plans?
AA: I enjoy serving my community. I think I will never see myself as an individual again; seeing myself collectively allows me to complement who I am. I want to focus on academics, but it should always be related to Tepoztlán. For me, the future is something to be cultivated. It requires work. We plant it and we harvest it so that it can nourish us. Voting is no longer enough; change lies in what we build collectively. We need to cultivate awareness, collective work, and independence. In Tepoztlán we have a free municipality that has been elected through neighborhood assemblies. Indigenous Peoples have particular ways of organizing ourselves, and we cannot lose them.
CONFRONTING THE LITHIUM RUSH Salinas Grandes in Danger in Salta and Jujuy, Argentina
Indigenous communities cultivate salt in pools using ancestral methods.
Inset: Clement Flores handing out the Kachi Yupi (Basin Communities Consultation Protocol).
Clemente Flores (KOLLA)
Iam the President of the El Angosto Indigenous community of the Salinas Grandes and Laguna de Guayatayoc basin in the northwest provinces of Salta and Jujuy, Argentina. Salinas Grandes is located at 3,200 meters above sea level at the foot of the Nevado de Chañi, Argentina. We are approximately 7,000 inhabitants of 33 communities scattered over an area of 150 kilometers, with numerous roads connecting us. We identify as part of the basin, and we have a shared culture that is transmitted from generation to generation.
Although the basin is distributed between Salta and Jujuy, there are no divisions between Salteños and Jujeños. There are families where the mother lives in Salta and her children a few meters away in Jujuy; daily life takes place on that invisible line that knows no borders. Indigenous communities pre-exist the Argentine State and enjoy a series of rights, such as the right to decide on the priorities of our development, participation in the formulation of plans, policies, or programs that may affect us, and Free, Prior and Informed Consent, guaranteed in the Constitution of the Argentine Nation and the international covenants to which this country has adhered.
Most communities live from raising sheep and llamas, complementing our economies with smaller-scale agricultural production. Llamas are part of our family, and we keep small herds so that they do not suffer from a lack of
food in the winter. There is also an affectionate and familial relationship with the whole environment. By the signs that wild animals such as the puma or the fox give us, we know if the year will be dry or rainy. The flowering plants also warn us about the weather. The weather itself is family, and each natural phenomenon has its own way. That is why we ask for respect for this spiritual relationship with the natural environment.
The Salt Flats are part of our history and identity. They have provided us with sustenance for many generations through barter and exchange trips, and today, many work as day laborers in the salt cooperatives or as vendors in the regional markets. To defend ourselves against what has been dubbed the “white gold of the Puna”—lithium— and the battery production rush, we started organizing ourselves in 2010. The communities of the basin were unaware of the exploration and exploitation of this precious mineral. We learned about what it was and what they would produce with it, and we organized ourselves to demand information about what they wanted to do in the territory. Our concern was always the amount of water that was going to be consumed in this extractive activity.
To mine lithium, it is necessary to pump millions of liters of water that make up the subsoil of the salt mine. That water has been there for millions of years and is one more link in the composition of our fragile ecosystem. In Catamarca, the Livent Mining Company has been exploiting lithium since 1997 and has been denounced for drying up a river. The Supreme Court of that province prohibited the granting of new permits in the Salar del Hombre Muerto until a study of the accumulated environmental impact of all the projects and works carried out there is done. We
do not want to be the guinea pig of the energy transition. If they take away our water, our way of life will end, and with it, our culture.
The ecosystem of the Puna is very precarious. We live in balance and use the resources that nature gives us to the maximum. We have small productions of pea and potato crops and raise llamas and goats on a small scale. In all these activities, water consumption is essential. That is why we made a collective demand to the State to guarantee our rights. The watershed belongs to the communities. It is our responsibility to protect it as a source of life.
We filed a lawsuit before the Supreme Court requesting that the Free, Prior and Informed Consent of the local communities be respected. We began to meet systematically to plan and raise awareness about this emerging problem that could affect everyone’s lives. We also met so that the State would understand that before it carries out any activity out in the basin, we should be consulted through an adequate and participatory procedure. This required the commitment of the communities to meet every month and their willingness to participate in the meetings, which are attended by between 30 and 60 people. Sometimes, the weather or lack of transportation and roads affect the routes we must travel to be present, making it very difficult for all the representatives to participate. Commitment is our main organizational tool.
Incompatibilities of Lithium Exploitation with Local Production
In the Puna, it rains only 10 centimeters per year. This means that the water consumed for lithium extraction is not available except deep underground. Wells will have to be drilled dozens of meters deep, which will dry up the springs, and the communities will be left without water. The State has never shown us the lithium extraction plan, nor have they involved us in the generation of public policies aimed at respecting and involving the Indigenous Peoples. Just 90 kilometers from our basin, in the area of the Cauchari salt flat, they are exploring lithium and we see what is happening: large drillings, dry springs, and producers who are forced to leave with their llamas.
We are not against mining, progress, or the generation of employment, but we want our voices to be respected, involved, and consulted. In 2009, the State announced that it was going to open the Pirquitas mine for 30 years, but today it is closed. What happened to the local populations and the environment? If the energy transition is intended
to improve the world, why do they put our lives at risk? We want to be part of the world they are trying to save, but we also have the right to be included in the future. We can contribute so that the extraction of energy transition minerals does not mean sacrificing our culture. If they kill Pachamama, they kill our People.
One of the strategies we used to address this situation was to prepare a document on our right to Free, Prior and Informed Consent, where we explained the appropriate consultation procedure for our culture. Everyone had the opportunity to add contributions and content that they considered significant. Today, we are ensuring that the State complies with this binding document. If it is not complied with, then our rights are violated. Once formalized, this proposal will work for all mining exploration projects.
For us, the salt mine is not an economic resource, but a living being. Salt has a breeding cycle. In October and November of each year, the sowing is done by building pools. December to February is the rainy period in which the salt is raised. Harvesting happens from March until May, at which time the salt is fractioned and sold. In August, we ask for a good year for salt, and in our territories we make offerings to Pachamama, offering coca leaves, food, drinks, and sahumada with coba. In this way, we renew the salt cycle.
When we walk through the salt flats, from time to time we find that water springs up. For us, these springs are authorities that must be respected; they are sacred because they are the source of life. To touch them, we must ask their permission. However, these spiritual beings are more vulnerable than others. Their existence depends exclusively on the conservation of the wild landscapes that contain them. That is why we say, “If they take the water, our life is gone.”
Special thank you to Soledad Sede for contributing to this article.
Organized communities on their way to witness mining companies leaving the salt flats with excavations and intrusions without permission. Inset: Roadblock and mobilization in Salinas Grandes against the exclusion of Indigenous Peoples from the provincial constitutional reform of 2023.
INDIGENOUS PEOPLES DEFINE THE JUST TRANSITION
and Provide Principles and Protocols to Eliminate Harm from Renewable Energy and “Green” Development
Nearly 100 Indigenous leaders from the world’s seven sociocultural regions participated at the Just Transition: Indigenous Peoples’ Perspectives, Knowledge, and Lived Experiences Summit.
The SIRGE Coalition
As Indigenous Peoples, we are the guardians of the ecosystems. We are the guardians of our planet. The transitions of our planet must be guided by our wisdom, by our knowledge. So far in this world, Indigenous Peoples are the best ones who are protecting each and every ecosystem, from the glaciers to the mountains, to the deserts to the savannas, to the forests, to the oceans, rivers, lakes,” said Hindou Oumarou Ibrahim (Mbororo) at the Just Transition: Indigenous Peoples’ Perspectives, Knowledge, and Lived Experiences Summit, held October 8-10 in Switzerland. Nearly 100 Indigenous leaders from the world’s seven socio-cultural regions reached a unanimous agreement on defining a Just Transition concerning impacted or potentially impacted Indigenous Peoples, which is reflected in the culminating outcome document, “Indigenous Peoples Principles and Protocols for Just Transition.” The document spells out what the transition to “clean” or “green” energy and development must do to respect the rights and protect the well being of Indigenous Peoples.
The Summit was hosted by the Indigenous Peoples Global Coordinating Committee, which is composed of the Securing Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in the Green Economy (SIRGE) Coalition (of which Cultural Survival is a founding member); the International Indian Treaty Council; Asia Indigenous Peoples Pact; the Saami Council; the Inuit Circumpolar Council; Pastoralists Indigenous Non-Governmental Organization’s (PINGO’s) Forum; Aotearoa/New Zealand-based He Kainga Indigenous Solutions; Coordinadora de las Organizaciones Indígenas de la Cuenca Amazónica; Association Des Femmes Peules & Peuples
Autochtones Du Tchad; Nyungar Nation; United Confederation of Taino People; and the Center for Support of Indigenous Peoples of the North.
As governments and corporations increasingly push a low-carbon economy as the primary driver to solve the climate crisis, they often ignore requirements to recognize and integrate Indigenous Peoples’ rights as enshrined in the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, particularly the rights to self-determination and Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC). Without securing Indigenous Peoples’ FPIC and without Indigenous Peoples’ participation throughout project development and implementation, transition mineral mining perpetuates the same harms and rights violations as fossil fuel and traditional resource development. While the promise of technology based on transition minerals such as lithium and cobalt is widely hailed as the solution to climate change, the mining and other extractive processes for these materials are consistently linked to environmental destruction and other negative consequences that disproportionately affect Indigenous Peoples. Among these harmful impacts are loss of biodiversity, increase in violent conflicts, forced displacement, resource depletion, and environmental pollution. Mining operations also contribute to greenhouse gas emissions, exacerbating climate change.
“Two years ago, we began convening Indigenous leaders from around the world to address the increasing violence, harm, and negative impacts that the so-called ‘green’ or ‘clean’ energy transition is perpetuating on our lands and to our communities—the same impacts Indigenous Peoples experience from fossil fuel extractive practices,” said Rodion Sulyandziga (Udege), Chair of the Summit’s Global Coordinating Committee. “The culmination was our Indigenous Just Transition Summit, and this out-
Photo by Marco Lara, Cultural Survival.
come document provides unanimous agreement about the definitions, principles, and protocols that must be foundational for Just Transition. These are the first steps for anyone—be it corporate, State, or Indigenous-led enterprise— to build a truly just, sustainable, and inclusive economy for all people of the world,” Sulyandziga said.
Indigenous leaders at the Summit committed to initiating processes for their Peoples to safeguard what they, as stated in the “Indigenous Peoples Principles and Protocols for Just Transition,” “determine to be critical for their survival and well being that is rooted in their worldviews and values” and to “disseminate, promote, and defend these principles and protocols”, as well as “use them in their education, trainings, and advocacy efforts.” They will also continue to “engage and challenge regulations, standards, laws, policies, and actions that ignore their FPIC,” stand in solidarity with one another to oppose the imposition of “green energy” projects impacting their lands, call for “implementation of an ecosystem approach,” and “demand that Indigenous, human, environmental, and lands rights defenders be protected.”
Additionally, they have committed to “utilizing international human rights bodies and national, international, and regional mechanisms to submit urgent complaints to stop States’ actions and rights’ violations,” and refusing to tolerate any forced evictions, displacements, relocations, dispossession, and expulsion, in the name of “green transition” projects. They call for “comprehensive mapping and due diligence procedures for transition minerals development and for social, environmental, and human rights impacts,” as well as the demand for “companies, governments, financial mechanisms, private sector, all responsible parties, to take full responsibility and action for damage, loss of cultural heritage, and other adverse impacts of mining activities to human, biodiversity, ancestral lands, cultural, and spiritual practices, territories and waters.”
Carlos Mamani (Aymara), representing the regions of Central and South America and the Caribbean, said, “We would like to express our vision of a Just Transition based on our rights and livelihoods.” Valentina Sovkina (Sami) from the Russian Federation commented, “This Summit shows our unity...that we can be driven by one idea. We can show how strong we are. We can express our concerns and share our solutions. And it will help us preserve our lands, our Peoples, and our territories. We need to think about future meetings, because the reality is changing and we need to be ready. We need to be united to show how we are really able to provide solutions. I think this is the most important for us as Indigenous Peoples.”
Ruekeith Jampong (Sea Dayak) from Asia discussed how the persistent failure of countries to respect Indigenous Peoples’ rights is endangering the lives of Indigenous Peoples, especially women and youth, eroding lands and resources, and impacting biodiversity hotspots. He emphasized that Indigenous Peoples are not just the in-
habitants of these areas, but the frontline defenders. “Indigenous rights and voices must be at the forefront of every decision, or the global fight against climate change is destined to fail. We call on the media to expose these injustices and amplify our voices. The world needs to understand that any energy transition project carried out on Indigenous land without respect for our rights, dignity, and sovereignty is nothing more than just a continuation of colonization.”
Te Ngaehe Wanikau (M–aori) from the Pacific region spoke about the sacred thread that connects Indigenous Peoples around the world, despite a multitude of languages and cultures. “We are connected through kinship, to every part of existence,” he said. “Our Just Transition is to one day get back to...a world of mutual respect and love. It’s an honor to sit here with our regions. We’re not countries. We’re not governments. We’re the environment that gave birth to us. We’re the descendants of our ancestors. And within us, we carry the stories that bind us as one.”
“For too long, Indigenous voices have been marginalized. From the Amazon to the Arctic, the protection of our environment has always been intertwined with the protection of our people. We are the stewards of the world’s most vital ecosystems, from rainforests to grasslands, and we are the first to suffer when these ecosystems are threatened. The world must understand that there can be no climate justice without Indigenous justice. There can be no green transition without the full participation of Indigenous Peoples. Protecting the Earth means protecting the people who have always protected it. This is our responsibility, and it is also our right. Without Indigenous knowledge, the quest for a green future is a journey without a map. And without Indigenous voices, even the greenest economy will run dry,” Sulyandziga said.
11 PRINCIPLES FOR A JUST TRANSITION ESTABLISHED DURING THE SUMMIT
1. Right to Life
2. Right to Self-determination and Sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples
3. Decolonization
4. Reparations, Land Back, and Full Restoration of Lands
5. Respect for Indigenous Peoples’ Ways of Life
6. Transparency and Accountability
7. Historical Reparations
8. Full Protection of Indigenous Peoples
9. Recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ Roles and Responsibilities
10. Maintaining 1.5 Degrees
11. A Rights-based Approach to Supply Chains
Read the full document at indigenoussummit.org/outcome-document.
THE INTERSECTION OF INDIGENOUS LANGUAGES AND CLIMATE CHANGE
Insights from the Pastoralist Maasai of
Tanzania
Nailejileji Tipap (MAASAI)
Photo by Nailejileji Tipap.
In the global discourse on climate change, Indigenous communities are often described as vulnerable groups facing adverse impacts. However, Indigenous Peoples are not passive victims. We are knowledgeable on the impact of climate change with adaptation and mitigation strategies encompassed within land management systems. This knowledge is intricately preserved in Indigenous languages, which often contain ecological insights that can aid in adaptation to climate change. The Maasai pastoralists of Tanzania, who have navigated a dynamic relationship with their environment for generations, exemplify this. Their language, traditions, and practices provide valuable lessons on resilience and adaptation in the face of climate change.
The Maasai language, Maa, is more than a means of communication. It is a repository of environmental wisdom that integrates with livelihood systems that have mutual relationships with land management and the environment. Many concepts and terminologies in Maa are deeply tied to the environment, animals, weather, and landscapes. The Maasai have various terms describing types of grasses, soil, water sources, and animal behaviors that signal weather changes. This linguistic diversity reflects a long-standing
understanding of ecological systems, enabling the Maasai to adapt to fluctuating environmental conditions.
The Maasai use terms like olameu for dry season pastureland and olari for wet-season grazing areas, demonstrating their nuanced understanding of land usage based on seasonal patterns. The land partners and management are allocated in a manner that is distinguished by terms according to the usage of Olokeri/Olalili, which is used by calves and sick livestock during dry season, and Ronjo, where temporary residences are built during the dry season for grazing time. In an increasingly unpredictable climate, the knowledge encoded in Maa about sustainable land management is invaluable.
The Maasai, like many pastoralist communities, are witnessing the impacts of climate change firsthand. Prolonged droughts, erratic rainfall, and rising temperatures affect their traditional pastoralist lifestyle, which relies on carefully managing land and water resources. The frequent droughts in regions like the Longido district and the Maasai Steppe have resulted in severe pasture shortages and livestock losses, a primary source of Maasai livelihood. Changes in rainfall patterns disrupt the established grazing calendar that guides livestock movements, making it difficult for herders to maintain sustainable practices that have worked for generations. In response to these challenges, the Maasai language plays a critical role in communicating and preserving adaptive strategies. Through language, Elders pass down strategies for sustainable grazing and water management, helping younger generations understand the intricacies of land stewardship and management systems.
As environmental changes accelerate, the ability to rely solely on Traditional Knowledge is threatened. Integrating Traditional Knowledge with climate science is becoming increasingly necessary for effective adaptation strategies. However, Indigenous communities are subjected to countless violations through forceful and unlawful relocations and evictions by the government under the guise of conservation. Forceful and unlawful encroachments into village lands are increasing, as is the hijacking of well established Indigenous land management systems. Indigenous Peoples’ efforts in land management and conservation are being criminalized due to their cultural significance and attachments to the environment.
Maa is an invaluable tool for climate adaptation. The Maasai have traditional forecasting methods embedded in
The impact of climate change is creating a scarcity of water, leading Indigenous women and men to trek for long periods in search of it.
their language and culture, which guide them in predicting seasonal changes and planning accordingly. The Maasai observe the behavior of particular birds, the flowering of specific trees, and changes in wind patterns to anticipate weather conditions. Terms like oerat/erat (plateaus where, after rain, pasture is used during the dry season for both domestic and wild animals) and entim e nkop (forest) Ng’onye oongarika (water sources) are used to describe locations with seasonal significance, such as areas that retain water during dry periods. Such environmental knowledge embedded in the language allows the Maasai to adapt to the changing climate. These adaptive practices have traditionally included rotating pastures to prevent overgrazing, adjusting herd sizes to match resource availability, and establishing seasonal grazing areas to maximize land productivity. In a climate where water and pasture resources are becoming scarcer, these traditional strategies are essential for resilience. Preserving Maa, therefore, is not only about protecting cultural heritage, but also about maintaining knowledge that has direct applications for climate resilience.
Language extinction is a global phenomenon with Indigenous languages at the highest risk due to urban migration and globalization. The younger generation of Maasai are increasingly moving to urban areas for education and employment, where they often adopt Swahili or English. This shift is leading to a decline in fluency in Maa, and with it, the erosion of Traditional Ecological Knowledge. Without the language, they may lack the terms and concepts necessary to understand and implement traditional practices, which could lead to unsustainable resource management and increased vulnerability to climate change. The loss of Maa represents both a cultural loss and a weakening of the Maasai’s capacity to respond to climate change using locally adapted methods.
The numerous unlawful relocations, evictions, and encroachments on Maasai ancestral lands in Tanzania have led to the ongoing loss of sacred sites, crucial grazing areas, and vital resources such as natural salt licks. This displacement has not only resulted in severe human rights violations, but has also systematically dismantled the self-sustained livelihoods and cultural identity of the Indigenous Maasai. The impacts extend deeply, threatening their language, traditions, and customs—cornerstones of their heritage and knowledge that are essential to their way of life and environmental conservation.
In Maasai culture, women hold significant environmental knowledge, particularly regarding the management of household resources and the selection of plants used for food, medicine, and livestock care. Terms in Maa related to plant species, such as olorine (used for ritual activities and milk preservation), esosian (used for cleaning calabashes), and endanata omisigiyoyi (roots boiled and given to babies) reflect their extensive botanical knowledge, which is passed down through generations. This knowledge, often trans-
mitted orally, is crucial for survival in a landscape where resources are limited and climate change is impacting traditional food and water sources. Women’s environmental knowledge in the Maasai community is particularly valuable in drought-prone areas. For example, Maasai women know the locations of water sources that remain accessible during dry seasons and drought-resistant plants that provide nutrition for livestock and people. However, as younger generations shift to Swahili or English, the transfer of this gender-specific environmental knowledge is disrupted, threatening both the resilience of Maasai households and the preservation of local biodiversity.
Creating a digital archive of Maasai Traditional Knowledge by preserving the language in written and digital forms can ensure that even if language use declines, the environmental knowledge encoded within Maa remains available for future generations and researchers interested in climate resilience. It is also essential to promote partnerships for climate solutions. Collaborative efforts between Maasai communities, scientists, and policymakers can bridge the gap between Traditional Knowledge and modern climate science, creating strategies that are culturally relevant and ecologically sound.
The safeguarding of Indigenous languages like Maa has implications beyond the Maasai community. Indigenous languages around the world hold knowledge relevant to global climate resilience and sustainable resource management. The loss of these languages is a loss for humanity, as it reduces the diversity of environmental perspectives and adaptive strategies available to address climate change. By recognizing and supporting Indigenous languages, the global community can access knowledge that complements scientific approaches to climate adaptation.
As climate change continues to disrupt traditional ways of life, the knowledge embedded within Maa offers adaptive strategies that are both locally relevant and sustainable. Preserving Maa is not just about cultural heritage but about maintaining a knowledge system that has adapted to environmental changes for generations. In the context of the climate crisis, recognizing and supporting Indigenous languages is an investment in global resilience. The Maasai experience demonstrates that language preservation and climate adaptation are deeply interconnected. By revitalizing Indigenous languages, we support the capacity of communities like the Maasai to thrive in a changing world. As we face the challenges of climate change, Indigenous languages like Maa remind us that Traditional Knowledge is not a relic of the past, but a crucial resource for the future.
Nailejileji Tipap (Maasai) is the Gender and Public Relations Coordinator at Pastoralists Indigenous NGOs Forum in Tanzania and founder and Director of Indigenous Women Development Affairs.
How Climate Change Is Leading to A LANGUAGE SHIFT IN THE RUSSIAN ARCTIC
Kseniia Bolshakova (Dolgan) is an activist from the Russian Arctic working to revitalize her Dolgan language and advocate for her ancestral lands. Her novel, “The Frost Also Melts,” addresses the issues of climate change, loss of reindeer herding, and the ongoing extinction of Indigenous languages. Bolshakova ties the melting permafrost, the severed threads of a nomadic way of life, and the unprecedented southward migration of wild reindeer with the broken line of native language transmission in the community.
Igrew up in a reindeer herding family in the tundra on the Taimyr Peninsula. I am one of the youngest guardians of the native language in our Nation. Today, fewer than 10 percent of Dolgans speak the native language. Less than 10 Dolgan families across the nation continue the nomadic way of life and herd reindeer. Just 10 years ago, there were dozens of reindeer herding families. And a hundred years ago, every family had reindeer. In the 1920s, there were 500,000 domestic reindeer on the entire Taimyr Peninsula. Now, the remaining Dolgan reindeer herders have no more than 2,000 reindeer.
The people who are abandoning nomadic life do not do so by choice. Global warming has brought winter rains that have never occurred beyond the Arctic Circle. White moss locked in ice dooms the reindeer to death by starvation. This ecological tragedy affects the reindeer herds of the Yamal and Taimyr Peninsulas. It is extremely hard to restore a diminished population of domestic reindeer, as there are many other natural ways of reindeer loss. The herd can be lured away by wild reindeer, devoured by wolves and bears, or killed by hoof disease and brucellosis. Climate change also leads to a language shift. The Dolgans are steadily following the path of other Indigenous Peoples of Siberia who have already lost both reindeer herding and their native language. The interdependence of reindeer herding and native language vitality is a very popular
rallying cry in Siberia and is supported by real-life examples. The community of Lower Dolgans (to which I belong) has preserved both reindeer herding and the transmission of our language for 40 years longer than our Upper Dolgan relatives.
However, I believe that this is oversimplified. The traditional way of life is a guarantor of the preservation of the ancestral language. But can I, as a Dolgan, really speak my native language only on a reindeer herding camp in the tundra? My language is vibrant and has very high development potential; in the hands of a knowledgeable native speaker, it applies to all areas of life. So what is really going on? Why is the language going after the reindeer?
Reindeer herding is our own livelihood and our own production. By losing it, we are immersed in a world built and made by the Russians, even in a settlement where 99 percent of the population is Dolgan. This is the root of our problem and the big question of our continued existence as an Indigenous Nation. Until recently, Dolgans tried to shift sustainability from reindeer herding to wild reindeer hunting. According to the regional environmental services, the wild reindeer population on our Taimyr Peninsula numbered 485,000 in 2009. Next year, we expect only 70,110 reindeer. At this rate, the Taimyr wild reindeer population may completely disappear by 2030. Because of climate change, our wild reindeer go south to the Republic of Sakha. There they lure away domestic reindeer from Evenki and Sakha herders on an unprecedented scale. This poses a serious threat to the survival of reindeer herding in the region.
Climate change is not just transforming our traditional way of life but also an imminent threat to our existence as an Indigenous people in both physical and ethnic terms. The Dolgans live in the permafrost zone. To understand what permafrost is, what it means for the Dolgans, and what global warming is doing to it, I suggest we descend into the frost’s womb.
Taimyr wild reindeer in Siberia.
IN THE FROST’S WOMB
(A chapter from the novel, “The Frost Also Melts,” by Kseniia Bolshakova)
Thrown open, the wooden trapdoor upholstered in reindeer hide falls heavily to the ground. The dogs lying nearby jump up, startled, and run out onto the porch. I look down into the passage and the smell of old metal and frost hits my nose. Colliding with the permanent cold, the white clumps of my breath disperse instantly. The dim light of a bulb brightens the bottom of the iron shaft.
I grab hold of the welded ladder and take a decisive step down. The tunnel, made of oil barrels soldered together, leads into the permafrost. With every step the air grows heavier and icier. The most important thing is not to slip. The rusty three-meter-long tube gives out into a tiny underground balok.
The low arched ceiling, walls, the floor— everything in the icy chamber is made of matte crystals. My hands reach of their own accord to touch the tiny crystal bits. Protecting themselves from the hands’ warmth, the icy needles scratch my fingertips. If I was as tall as Hubruu Basi (Gangly Vasya) I would be able to touch the ceiling as well.
Three levels of shelves stretch along the perimeter. Wild deer carcasses lie still in their skins—a kind of natural packaging. The fish is hidden in sacks. I find our sack by its tie. I wrangle out a hefty whitefish.
Mama sent me to the Opanasiuks’ frost tunnel to get fish for stroganina, thinly sliced frozen fish. Kind neighbors, they allotted us a spot in their nature-provided refrigerator. The people in Popigai are nearly all fishers and hunters, but not everyone has their own ice tunnel. There are only seven for the several dozen families in the town. It’s not enough to dig out a frost tunnel, it requires care. Every year the cracks in the fridge walls are “plastered over” with a mix of snow and water.
The Popigai residents spent a long time campaigning for the construction of a shared frost tunnel for the whole village. Work like that is complicated, lengthy and costly. Finally, they got the funding. A team arrived to check the soil, and wouldn’t you know, the earth is no longer what it once was. The frost is melting.
Over the last few years, the pressure of the warmth is pushing back both the polar night
and the long Arctic winter. Earlier, people would still be riding around on snowmobiles in early June, and the river ice would only just be starting to break up. Now the ice flow is fully underway by the end of May. Fall also takes longer to come now. The river used to stop moving as early as September, but now it starts freezing over only in early October.
This upheaval of nature is so powerful that soon the reindeer herders will find themselves garden keepers. Around the houses in our villages there are no plots of land to till. People plant potatoes out in the open tundra. If this keeps up, soon it won’t be just potatoes that can grow in Taimyr. Southern animals and insects will appear, unheard of biting longhorn beetles. Wildfires in the Evenki and Sakha lands drive the roe deer north to us.
The taiga has always burned, but the warming means the fires have grown terrifyingly large, threatening animals and humans alike. And what do the authorities do? They just cut back their fleet of firefighter choppers. Allegedly, sending helicopters to put out the taiga fires is more expensive than the timber. You might say that not everything can be measured in profits and losses. Not everything. But that’s not true for everyone.
Wildfires are supplemented by arson as well. To hide the traces of illegal logging, the cut areas are set on fire. And whole regions of Siberia burn. Above the burning taiga the rains cannot fall for months. The precipitation goes off and soaks other regions. The rivers overflow, floodwaters wipe out entire towns. Bureaucrats visit the flood victims in helicopters, unload some bread and blankets, and fly away again. The people, like animals in the tundra, have to fend for themselves.
Half of Siberia burns, the other half drowns. Fanned to a hot blaze by man, the world can no longer be protected from overheating by our land of permafrost. The Earth’s ice cap is helplessly trickling away. The permanent is becoming terminal. The frost is melting. The Dolgans are dissolving in time and among other peoples.
English translation by Ainsley E. Morse.
Top: Elder Dolgan reindeer herders. Middle: Massive amounts of snow in Bolshakova’s village of Popigay.
Bottom: Kseniia Bolshakova in front of an ice drift.
THE LANGUAGE OF THE EARTH
How Indigenous Languages Safeguard Biodiversity and Cultivate Possible Futures amid Climate Change
Indigenous languages are more than forms of communication. They are reservoirs of Traditional Knowledge generated and sustained by the Earth, expressed through a Peoples’ cultural, linguistic, and ecological practices and reflecting an interdependence between human wisdom and the natural world. They are living, co-evolving knowledge that transcend generations and play a fundamental role in protecting socio-biodiversity and addressing climate change.
The correlation between linguistic and ecological diversity is a profound manifestation of cultural diversity intertwined with ecosystem resilience. New Guinea is known for having great linguistic diversity, around 800 languages, and for harboring vast biodiversity, with 13,634 cataloged plant species. The Amazon basin, home to hundreds of Indigenous languages, has an equally rich biodiversity. These areas of high linguistic diversity sustain traditional ecological practices vital for environmental conservation. This correlation is because each language and culture carries specific practices and knowledge of environmental management to balance and regenerate local ecosystems.
A 2020 UNESCO report states that approximately 80 percent of the world’s biodiversity is on Indigenous territories. These areas are vital for environmental conservation, sustained by practices transmitted through language and orality. Indigenous languages carry an immense heritage of ancestral knowledge about local ecosystems. Indigenous communities that keep their languages alive more effectively implement sustainable management practices and detect subtle environmental changes. This Traditional Knowledge contributes inestimably to conserving areas with high biodiversity and adaptation to climate change.
Colonialism, combined with the expansion of extractive megaprojects, has accelerated the degradation of local microclimates, devastating Indigenous cultures, languages, and worldviews. Indigenous languages constitute inventories of species, classification systems, and forms of managing diversity—fundamental technologies for safeguarding and restoring the environment.
The Tayra song of the Tikmũ’ũn/Maxakali Peoples, which catalogs 33 species of bees, shows how an Indigenous language can safeguard vast biodiversity knowledge. These chants function as preservation technologies and transmit ancestral knowledge centered on orality, repetition, and collective ritualistic practice, reflecting the deep relationship between the Tikmũ’ũn and their natural environment while directly influencing environmental management and the protection of bee species in the region. By recording and transmitting each species’ different names and characteristics, the Tikmũ’ũn maintain a monitoring of the balance of local ecosystems, enabling sustainable and harmonious management.
The song advocates sustainable interactions with bees, promoting actions that avoid overexploitation and encourage the conservation of hives as well as solitary bee nests, ensuring pollination and, by extension, biodiversity in the region. Collective voices call upon the bees as they recreate the sound of the swarm in a mix of song, canon, and counterpoint. The Tayra song of the Tikmũ’ũn Peoples is an ancient technology that safeguards ecological knowledge while also concretizing the symbiotic relationship with nature, demonstrating how Indigenous languages act as tools of resistance and transmission of environmental knowledge.
The Kayapó Peoples also use an extensive, specific vocabulary to describe and interact with their environment, highlighting the diversity of linguistic practices that encode detailed ecological knowledge across different communities. Specific terminology in Kayapó is essential for transmitting sustainable management practices and biodiversity conservation that are largely unknown to Eurocentric culture, reinforcing the argument that Indigenous Peoples are the greatest experts on biomes. These practices emphasize the richness of knowledge transmitted through Indigenous languages and the importance of strengthening them to maintain sustainable management practices and biodiversity. The linguistic detailing of the Kayapó to describe rivers and vegetation exemplifies how this knowledge is fundamental for conservation, mitigation, and adaptation strategies to climate change.
Djalma Ramalho Gonçalves (ARANÃ CABOCLO)
The interrelationship between climate change and endangered Indigenous languages is complex and deeply intertwined. The intensification of climate change increases the vulnerability of Indigenous communities, exposing them to forced displacement, loss of territories, genocide, and environmental degradation of traditional lands. These factors, in turn, directly impact the survival of native languages, which depend on their geographic and cultural context to be transmitted integrally.
The loss of access to ancestral lands has profound consequences for the essential oral practices of Indigenous communities, such as ceremonial songs and narratives about sustainable resource management. The imposition of violence based on racism has made speakers of these traditional languages feel ashamed of their own identity, leading to the loss of these oral traditions by forced choice or intergenerational ethnic trauma. These practices, in addition to safeguarding cultural identity, store detailed knowledge about the sustainable use of plants, soil maintenance, and water resource management. With the interruption of territorial access, the transmission of this knowledge is compromised, weakening the capacities for sustainable management and ecological adaptation fundamental in the face of climate change.
One observable case are the Aranã Caboclo Peoples, who, once deprived of their territory and subjected to linguicide, have been fighting for the defense and recovery of their land in a legal battle against the Brazilian State that has dragged on for over 19 years. At the same time, the Aranã Caboclo have maintained a project of “linguistic reforestation” of the Aranã Caboclo language and actively combat ethnic shame. They fight to maintain ancestral knowledge deeply rooted in the territory, such as the Aranã Caboclo Tubercle, whose leaders maintain knowledge of various species and monitor their growth, even though the territory is not officially demarcated the National Foundation of Indigenous Peoples (FUNAI). The vulnerability of Indigenous languages, exacerbated by the continuous invasion of territories, racism, and cultural homogenization, compromises the transmission of crucial knowledge.
The advance of lithium mining in the Jequitinhonha and Mucuri Valleys presents another threat to the Indigenous communities in the region. Mining activity has increased 562 percent in the last 2 years, reducing the vital space where cultural and environmental practices are maintained. This advance inhibits the rituals, songs, and narratives that transmit essential knowledge, harming sustainable practices linked to language and territory. The Aranã Caboclo, Pankararu, Pataxó, and Maxakali Canoeiros Peoples suffer from deforestation and water contamination, which threatens the oral transmission of knowledge about flora, fauna, and environmental management, further increasing their cultural and socio-environmental vulnerability.
Local knowledge, especially that of Indigenous communities, provides a foundation for strategies to mitigate the
climate crisis in its intrinsic harmonious coexistence with the ecosystem. This knowledge is centered on environmental management that respects the rhythm of nature, the sustainable use of resources, and the protection of forests and waterways—practices that are fundamental to halting biodiversity loss and climate imbalance. The Aranã Caboclo communities of Araçuaí and Coronel Murta, Pankararu, Pataxó, and Maxakali are just a few examples of the resilience and holders of vital knowledge that need support and recognition to ensure a more balanced and sustainable future for all.
The revitalization of Indigenous languages is essential for environmental sustainability and for mitigating the effects of the climate crisis. Indigenous languages harbor inventories of species, classification systems, and forms of managing diversity, fundamental technologies for the protection and biorestoration of the environment. Linguistic loss implies the loss of decisive knowledge to face the contemporary climate and environmental crisis.
Protecting Indigenous languages protects forests because Indigenous Peoples are the living forest itself. Defending their languages is to defend the deep connection between culture and land, ensuring that the language of the Earth continues to resonate. The loss of these languages implies the loss of essential knowledge to face the contemporary climate and environmental crisis, as these voices carry ancestral knowledge capable of guiding life with the planet toward the only possible future for all of us.
Djalma Ramalho Gonçalves (Aranã Caboclo) is a multiartist and grassroots communicator.
A traditional chant of the Tikmũ’ũn Peoples in the Maxakali language catalogs 33 species of bees. Drawings by Donizete Maxakali. Image
courtesy of Instituto Opaoká.
SAKTCE’ HO’MA in Exile
Rochelle Morgan-Verdin (HOUMA) & Jecee Morgan-Verdin (HOUMA)
Our Tribe, the United Houma Nation, is a state-recognized Tribal Nation located along the Louisiana Gulf Coast with a population of approximately 17,000 citizens. While a significant portion of our Peoples still reside in southern Louisiana, an increasing number have been forced to relocate to higher ground—some moving a few hours north, others leaving the state altogether. The forces behind this migration are complex, but the result is undeniable: the fragmentation and destruction of our community.
Make no mistake, our Peoples are not being merely displaced; they are being exiled. When faced with the impossible choice of leaving or staying to endure skyhigh flood insurance rates, constant destruction and flooding, and the ever-present threat of oil spills and environmental hazards—can we truly call that a choice? This unrelenting cycle is creating an unwilling class of so-called “climate refugees” or “climate-displaced persons,” essentially Houma people driven from their
homes by the combined weight of historical injustices and ongoing economic and social inequality. Principle 9 of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees’ Guiding Principles on Internal Displacement affirms that “States have a particular obligation to protect against the displacement of [Indigenous Peoples]... and other groups with a special dependency on and attachment to their lands.” Yet, ironically, it is the state itself that has played a complicit role in driving our exile. Blaming climate change alone oversimplifies the deep, multi-faceted reality faced by the Houma Peoples, a reality shaped by generations of discrimination, exclusion, disenfranchisement, and purposeful erasure. Houma people are on the margins not by choice, but as the result of intentional, systematic efforts by those in power to marginalize and disempower our community. Our traditional lands are not just passively washing away. They are being actively and deliberately rendered uninhabitable by a series of man-made decisions. Government actions that prioritize protecting some communities while neglecting others in the face of rising sea levels are no mere oversight. The subsidence we are facing is not a random occurrence; it is the direct consequence of the extractive industries’ unchecked
exploitation of our land and their reckless destruction of coastal buffers, estuaries, and wetlands that once shielded us from flooding. Let there be no doubt: this has been a deliberate and devastating assault on our way of life, not a mere accident.
Our Peoples have resisted these realities at every turn, yet the federal government’s refusal to recognize the United Houma Nation is an injustice beyond comprehension, rendering us powerless to protect our ancestral homelands and people from these destructive forces. At best, we are mere witnesses to our own ecocide. At worst, we are left with no choice but to be complicit, trapped by the dearth of economic opportunities in a region essentially governed by the fossil fuel industry.
Assessing the extent of the damage and the grip these industries hold on our institutions is deeply disheartening. It forces us to ask where this leaves the next generation of Houma citizens, many of whom are now part of a growing diaspora. As we look to the future, how can we rebuild the same sense of connection to identity, place, and community that our parents and their ancestors once had? What does this mean for the next seven generations? Will we ever truly find our way back home again?
For our family, the idea of home has always been tied to stories our father shared with us—stories that, to us, felt almost like fairy tales. He spoke of a time when he was surrounded by a close-knit community of Indian people, a community that gave him love, support, and a profound sense of belonging to something greater than himself. This love shielded and strengthened him in the face of incredible adversity, poverty, and segregation. For our dad, home meant never facing the world alone—it was a place where he was always anchored, a place he could always return to.
Sadly, as more and more of our friends and relatives are forced to migrate, we realize our dad’s experience of home is one we will never fully know. In the aftermath of so many disasters, both climate-induced and human-made, our community has become unrecognizable, physically and spiritually. Many of the climate-related disasters our community faces, such as rising sea levels, extreme weather events, and coastal erosion, are not purely natural phenomena but are also the result of human activities. These activities have accelerated climate change, amplifying the frequency and intensity of environmental disasters. Colonization takes many forms, and in its latest iteration, it is not only taking our land, but also actively eroding any remaining sense of tcukka (home) by forcibly displacing our Peoples.
As new generations navigate this changing landscape, young Houma people have begun to reclaim and recon-
struct our traditional language, Uma’. This effort is part of a broader wave of cultural revitalization led by the next generation, one that is unapologetically Indigenous and resolutely committed to ensuring that future generations never endure the pain we have felt watching our community unravel. Reconstructing Uma’ is an important step on the pathway home.
One might ask, what is the purpose of reconstructing a language shaped in the wetlands and bayous of southern Louisiana if future generations, forced to migrate northward, will grow up in prairies and forests? What will pena, the Uma’ word for pirogue, mean to a five-year-old building a fort in the forests around Alexandria? What significance will sãkulu’, the Uma’ word for cypress, or saktce, the Uma’ word for crawfish, have for a young adult living in San Francisco?
How can we preserve the meaning of a language when the context that gave those words life no longer exist? These questions may not have clear answers. One thing, however, is certain: by learning Uma’, a new generation of Houma People will reconnect with themselves, their ancestors, and the broader Houma community—wherever they may reside. Through Uma’, we will rediscover a way of understanding and relating to nature, not as something separate from ourselves, but as an inseparable part of who we are as the Saktce’ Ho’ma (Crawfish People). In reclaiming our language, we reclaim our place in the world—our history, our identity, and our future. This is the first step on our journey back home.
Rochelle Morgan-Verdin and Jecee Morgan-Verdin are proudly-enrolled citizens of the United Houma Nation. Rochelle holds a master’s degree in International Law and Human Rights and a bachelor’s in Latin American and Caribbean Studies. Jecee holds a bachelor’s degree in Biological Sciences and a master’s degree in Preclinical Sciences.
The authors’ father, Ricky James Verdin, worked on the Young Danny with his uncles, harvesting oysters and transporting them across the Mississippi River for canning.
Photo by Rick James Verdin.
Opposite: Homes in Terrebonne Parish destroyed by Hurricane Ida in 2021. Photo by Jecee Morgan-Verdin.
Inset: The authors’ uncle, Peter Verdin, harvesting elderberries in Dulac, Louisiana on the bayou side. Elderberry blossoms are gathered for medicinal use by the Houma. Photo by Rochelle Morgan-Verdin.
THE SYMBIOSIS OF INDIGENOUS LANGUAGES
and Ecologically Regenerative Lifeways
Pose Marilyn Cloud teaching a lesson in the Maskoke language about the Living Building Challenge, the most rigorous green building standard in the world.
Marcus Briggs-Cloud (MASKOKE)
Scholars and activists are increasingly pointing to Indigenous Peoples worldwide as having solutions to the climate crisis. They are primarily interested in the technological practices of Indigenous Peoples, such as cultural burning, water systems engineering, and other forms of ecological stewardship that have protected and enhanced biodiversity for millennia. Focusing on technical solutions, however, is superficial. When we practice our ceremonial traditions and embody our traditional philosophies in daily practice, appropriate land stewardship ensues, benefitting the entire ecosystem. Technical land stewardship practices only self-replicate because our ecological ethics, which are transmitted across generations through idiomatic language, instruct us to do so. Collective commitment to good caretaking of land is a result of cultural reproduction, catalyzed by linguistic reproduction.
As globalization accelerates the cultural assimilation of Indigenous societies, our participation in the very industrial systems that contribute to the climate crisis grows. Language loss inevitably follows, due in part to the limited ability of Indigenous lexicons to support daily discourse that is disconnected from our traditional cultures. This is among the foremost threats to the survival of Indigenous languages, exacerbating the erosion of cultural mandates that have sustained our mutually beneficial relationships to land for generations.
One of the most widely proposed—and contentious— strategies to address language loss is the coinage of new words. Lexical innovation based on our alleged need to interact with settler-colonial society using our language requires importing new terms and integrating their associated concepts, which have emerged from a culturally contrasting ethos that can be found at the core of the climate crisis. The importing of “foreign” concepts often resonates as ontologically treacherous and begs the question of whether new glossaries containing concepts epistemologically divergent from Maskoke worldview can still be genuinely classified as “our language.”
Maskoke is not absent of loan words from settlercolonial languages. Still, importation has classically been gradual. In Maskoke, first speakers have circumvented the admittance of culturally counterintuitive concepts by
bifurcating worldviews according to language. A common reply from first-speakers upon translation inquiries from second-language learners is, “That’s English. We don’t say that.” A simultaneous phenomenon, many fluent-speaking Elders today struggle to converse in Maskoke without inserting a profusion of English because the Maskoke lexicon lacks terminology compatible with their daily lifestyle.
Another concern over adopting newly coined words is that they tend to be nouns, rather than verbs, and the verbto-noun ratio will become progressively disproportionate. Our ancient lexicon contains innumerable verbs seldom voiced today. For example, upon first encountering the infinitive wenetv (to gut), I pondered why I’ve only heard the descriptive equivalent, fekce en cvwetv (to remove [animal] guts). Because gutting an animal is no longer part of the daily collective Maskoke experience, the single verb is scarcely used, thereby consigning it to archaic status.
The fact that we are facing linguistic obsolescence is based on the notion that our traditional lifeways are obsolete. That is true only if we submit to industrial civilization’s ongoing displacement of our culture and its reproduction. Making osafke, a signature Maskoke drink, requires much work, each step of the process is described with autonomous verbs. First, the community plants corn seeds that were saved and sorted from the previous year’s harvest. They water and sing to the corn throughout the growing cycle,
which is eventually harvested. Once parched and shelled, the corn is placed into a hardwood mortar and pounded with a large and heavy pestle. It is then winnowed and sifted using different styles of baskets made from rivercane, which took time and effort to harvest, split into strips, soak, and weave. Once the desired corn size is reached from pounding, it is separated and cooked in lye made from hardwood tree species that were felled, bucked, split, and seasoned, then burned to ashes that are strained repeatedly with hot water. This ancient Maskoke custom of cooking maize in an alkaline solution ensures nutrient bioavailability, increases protein quality, and neutralizes phytic acid, among other health benefits.
All these steps are immensely time consuming and laborious, leading many people to purchase products in the industrial market economy. Language speakers who do not regularly participate in all stages of the osafke-making cycle likely lack a command of the verbs that are integral to the process. In just this one domain of Maskoke foodways that are dependent on ecologically-rooted lifeways, there are over 30 verbs fundamental to making osafke, many of which are not applicable in other contexts.
If the community is not regularly making osafke or harvesting and processing acorns, applying prescribed fire on the landscape, splitting rivercane to make baskets for utilitarian use, sowing vegetable seeds, and intensively rotating livestock in a holistic management system to promote soil health, sequester carbon, and improve the local hydrological cycle, someone or something else is filling the energy void to ensure the supply of industrially sourced food and other modern conveniences. Those entities are fossil fuels and globally exploited labor.
Maskoke idiomatic language includes ancient teachings counter to material accumulation, instead reinforcing ideologies of minimalism. Reproducing language that summons our traditional values is how we constrain our collective ecological footprint. Thus, Indigenous languages and ecologically regenerative lifeways are mutually reinforced. Instead of altering our languages to participate in an increasingly globalized world, we must change the way we live and let our language guide the process.
For some Indigenous Peoples, these realities beckon us to eschew cultural erosion and language shift, ensuring that our climate-positive societies persist. For others, it is a call to decolonize and reindigenize, to return to the core of our indigeneity steeped in ecology. Regardless of the status of our community’s cultural and linguistic vibrancy, the climate crisis does not discriminate in the ways it threatens Indigenous languages and lifeways. One major concern is the redistribution of animal and plant species and changes to our traditional practices in the agricultural and built environments. These cultural shifts hinder the use of our language in daily practices. Indigenous Peoples are not to blame for the climate crisis, but our Peoples must adapt to ensure our cosmologies and lifeways are inheritable by unborn generations. Adaptation must occur through the lens of our traditional worldviews, and
sometimes that means incorporating—after careful spiritual discernment—emerging solutions from western science. Abandoning land-based practices in exchange for industrial civilization, however, is not the answer. Indigenous societies most successful at avoiding cultural erosion and rapid language shift are those committed to ancient subsistence economies. These are places where biodiversity is enhanced through traditional landbased practices reproduced through intergenerationally transmitted idiomatic language. While there is a spectrum of subsistence economic models, choosing closer proximity to industrial capitalism inevitably leads to linguistic obsolescence. At Ekvn-Yefolecv, our off-grid, climatepositive, intentional Maskoke ecovillage in colonial Alabama, we are returning to an economy that leans toward subsistence without naively believing we could altogether escape capitalism. While we commit to living simply and primarily rely on Traditional Ecological Knowledge, we couple it with low-tech, integrated regenerative systems with origins outside of Maskoke tradition. All newly introduced concepts and technologies are first interrogated through the lens of our language and ethics before agreeing upon their incorporation. We continue to implement both traditional and modern land stewardship practices in adherence to our original Maskoke instructions to embody ecologically regenerative lifeways, which are encapsulated in our language.
Researchers who dwell on extracting Indigenous technical ecological knowledge completely miss this vital component that has made possible our successful stewardship since time immemorial. While the world scrambles to find outside solutions to the climate crisis, we cannot afford a collapse of the integral, ecologically augmenting work of Indigenous Peoples worldwide. Indigenous Peoples’ languages, which catalyze intergenerational, climate-positive land stewardship, must be supported and sustained.
Marcus Briggs-Cloud, Ph.D. (Maskoke) is a language revitalizer, scholar, musician, co-founder of Ekvn-Yefolecv, and a Cultural Survival Board Member.
The author's partner, Tawna Little, and their children Mekkaneko and Hemokke taking turns pounding acorns to make flour.
CLIMATE CHANGE IS AFFECTING OUR KNOWLEDGE AND HERDING PRACTICES
Maja Kristine Jåma (Sámi) is a member of the Sámi Parliament in Norway. She grew up in a reindeer herding family, and herding has always been a part of her life. As a former Sámi language teacher, securing rights to language, culture, and reindeer herding are a big part of her work and activism. The following is an excerpt from an interview with Jåma conducted at the Convention on Biological Diversity COP 16 in Cali, Colombia.
As a reindeer herding community in Fosen, we have been working within the court system to stop the construction and de velopment of wind power projects on our lands for over 20 years. Three years ago, a Supreme Court decision said our human, civil, and political rights to practice our culture as reindeer herders are being violated. I have been trying to speak up for the young and future generations at Fosen, as we fear we won’t be able to continue our culture as reindeer herders. The concern over this loss ignited something in me and is one of the reasons I started to engage with the Sámi organizations in the Norwegian Sámi Association (the biggest Sámi organization) and serve as a party to the Sámi Parliament in Norway. I was elected as a Parliament representative from the Southern Sámi area and later got a seat as a governing council member in the Sámi Parliament. Now, I’m working on political issues regarding land use, water, climate, and culture.
In the Arctic, we are very connected to our lands, waters, rivers, and forests. Our life is there. We live with nature and in nature. We are dependent on it, relying on it for food as well as maintaining our culture and language and to pass our Traditional Knowledge on to the next generations. All these connections to herding the reindeer and following them during the different seasons, but also picking berries, plants for medicine, fishing, and being a part of a whole food system—it’s very connected to who we are, our identity. What we do during the year has such a rich language that describes every little detail that is happening. Our language cannot be translated into other activities
For us, the year starts when a reindeer calf is born. That happens in the spring when new life and everything starts. We are hopeful, and we do everything we can to make a good start for our calves because that’s our future, our culture, and also our income. In the summer, we mark the calf’s ear with a knife to know who the owner is. I have my own [branding mark] and my own reindeer. In Sámi, my mark is “garrah namhpe tjiehkie åvtelde, åelkies tjiehkie åvtelde.” It cannot be translated into another language. There are also specific names denoting how old the reindeer is, whether it is female or male, what it looks like, and its different colors in the fur and the antlers.
We see the changes [due to climate change] happening very fast. In recent years, winters have been milder and the weather is more unpredictable. This affects our knowledge
Reindeer herding practices are strongly affected by large scale wind farms and avoid areas where turbines stand.
Photo by Statkraft.
and herding practices, since we know different seasons. The reindeer want to go to certain places where the grazing is good. The temperatures are getting warmer, and we are seeing rain in the middle of the winter. This causes significant problems because the grazing land freezes, and the reindeer do not get sufficient access to the land and can actually starve, so we’ve had to feed them ourselves. That makes it difficult to teach the reindeer to forage for themselves. We had this grazing crisis over the last few winters, and we will continue to see it happen more often.
Another concern is that we see different species coming into our waters and out-competing some of the native species. With warning seas, fishing and farming in our traditional areas have become more attractive enterprises, threatening the small fisheries. This has created a problem with the Atlantic salmon, which are disappearing and causing a loss of culture. When there are no fish, this leads to a loss of both livelihood and culture and also causes a loss of traditional knowledge and language.
There are ongoing revitalization efforts for our language and the situation is brighter than before, but we still face a lot of challenges. Assimilation policies by governments in all of the Sápmi (Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia) have had grave impacts. We were not permitted to speak Sámi in school; we were not allowed to have Sámi names, and we were not allowed to buy land in our land. This assimilation process started hundreds of years ago. In Norway, the worst assimilation period from the 18th century to today is documented. A Truth and Reconciliation Committee was set up in Norway that produced a report on the consequences of assimilation. The Committee has gathered a lot of stories from the Sámi people and tried to come up with
some measures about what the States can do to repair the damages from forced assimilation policies and how to restore our culture, language, and livelihoods. There is still a long way to go. We need to acknowledge that these assimilationist structures are still here, and we need to change them.
In regards to Sámi rights to the land and waters, there are many “green” projects and developments in Sapmi, such as wind and hydroelectric power projects. Dams and other so-called ‘green’ sources of energy are being put forward as a solution to climate change. These projects are being built on Sápmi land without our People’s consent, in violation of our rights. This is a form of green colonization; for example, the practice of giving companies permission to build when the case against a project is still being litigated in the court system should be stopped. If a case is in court, the project should be paused pending the court’s decision. But these projects are allowed to start or continue if they are already in process. This is what happened at Fosen. The wind farm should never have been built, as the Supreme Court affirmed.
Unfortunately, there are no positive examples of how our rights have been respected in any one project. But we must agree that we cannot have a system that actually contributes to human rights violations. That’s the most basic thing. The fact that we have to talk about and make sure that our governments are respecting our rights to self-determination and Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC) is indicative of the current situation with regard to our rights. The State should strengthen framework structures or any proposed development projects on our lands to ensure that our rights are respected.
Reindeer are central to Sámi language and culture.
Photo by Denis Simonet.
SAFEGUARDING INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGE through
Intergenerational Dialogue, One Indigenous Nation at a Time
Left: Endorois Elder acknowledging the work done during the preview session.
Middle: Endorois youth being trained by the Revitalize the Roots: Bikaptorois team.
Right: Endorois Elder during the recorded intergenerational dialogues.
Indigenous Traditional Knowledge systems and languages are interconnected, carrying essential ecological and cultural wisdom. Our languages hold insights about ecosystems, biodiversity, and sustainable practices passed down for generations. When an Indigenous language disappears, communities— along with the entire world—lose the knowledge embedded within it. Safeguarding these knowledge systems is not only about cultural survival; it’s about utilizing timetested wisdom to address today’s environmental crises.
The grief of this loss and the urgency of climate change propelled the creation of the Global Wisdom Collective and, ultimately, the collaboration that would become the Revitalize the Roots Initiative, which was inspired by years of recording and archiving Dominica Zhu’s (Dai) traditional medicine wisdom of her mother. Global Wisdom Collective supports and empowers Indigenous people to lead their knowledge safeguarding processes. The organization’s mission is rooted in the urgent need to protect Indigenous knowledge systems by igniting the passion of Indigenous youth to listen to and record their Elders’ stories and wisdom. We believe that Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge holds the key to a more sustainable future for Indigenous communities and the world.
As our communities are uprooted from their homelands, we face not only the loss of our physical territories but also the erosion of our languages and cultures. The disconnection from our traditional territories diminishes
our capacity to pass down ecological wisdom, language, and cultural practices that have been nurtured over generations. This disruption undermines traditional lifeways, resulting in a loss of knowledge related to land stewardship, food sovereignty, and environmental balance. While implementing the Revitalize the Roots Initiative, we saw that the Torois language, spoken by the Endorois Peoples, contains climate-related Indigenous knowledge that defies translation and can never be translated, preserved, or transmitted in another language or culture. Compounding this issue is the reality that our Indigenous Elders, who hold the wisdom of generations, are passing away without anyone to protect or carry forward their knowledge. The death of Elders without the transfer of their wisdom erodes cultural continuity and threatens the survival of the community’s identity and traditional lifeways. This growing urgency, and the awareness that we are losing our Elders, propelled the work of the Revitalize the Roots Initiative. We knew that youth were leaving their ancestral lands and diaspora populations were growing, making it increasingly more challenging for youth to have the time and resources to learn from their Elders before it is too late.
The Revitalize the Roots Initiative focuses on supporting Indigenous people globally to build infrastructure to protect their Indigenous knowledge systems. It is founded on recorded exchanges between Indigenous youth and their Elders, one Indigenous Nation at a time. The projects focus on connecting Indigenous youth and Elders to facilitate a critical intergenerational knowledge exchange that has enabled youth to feel confident in their Indigenous identity
Dominica Zhu (DAI) and Carson Kiburo (ENDOROIS)
and for Elders to gain peace, knowing that their lives and customs have purpose. These projects also help establish frameworks and community-owned archives to record and safeguard Elders’ knowledge systems before it’s too late.
All projects are community-owned and communitydriven, beginning with open dialogues to ensure cultural integrity. All projects must uphold strict values that protect Indigenous Traditional Knowledge from exploitation, monetization, or commercialization, resisting colonial frameworks. Knowledge is recorded only with the full consent of the bearers and kept in its original Indigenous language. “While the western world looks for solutions for the climate solution ‘out there,’ we know that it is within. We must do all we can now to empower our youth to listen and protect their Elders’ wisdom,” says Zhu.
Revitalize the Roots: Bikaptorois
In 2021, through a serendipitous meeting between Global Wisdom Collective’s Founder, Zhu, and Jamii Asilia Centre founder Carson Kiburo (Endorois), the beginnings of Revitalize the Roots: Bikaptorois were born. Bonded by a shared passion and similar life experiences of recording their respective Elders and cultures from a young age, Zhu and Kiburo joined forces to establish The Revitalize the Roots Initiative under the Global Wisdom Collective. They decided to start with the Endorois Peoples in Kenya, and throughout the pandemic, they planned and built what has become the first community-wide cultural preservation effort of its kind for the Endorois Peoples. Jamii Asilia Centre was a natural fit as the implementing partner for the initiative. “Our People bless this idea. That Indigenous leaders created and led it and ran it by our People speaks volumes on the sustainability of climate justice actions and regeneration of Indigenous practices on biodiversity,” says Kiburo.
Revitalize the Roots: Bikaptorois is an Endorois-wide community initiative where youth reconnect with their Elders and preserve the ecological and cultural knowledge at risk of being lost. Through training in intergenerational dialogue skills, digital storytelling, and community engagement, young people gain technical expertise while building a deeper connection to their heritage. The project is also building a community digital archive completely retained in Torois. This work empowers them to take pride in their Indigenous identity and become stewards of their cultural and ecological heritage.
Since beginning work in 2023, the project has supported over 50 Endorois youth to be empowered in audiovisual skills such as operating a camera and making field recordings with their Elders; the project currently works with over 40 Elders. Indigenous youth were trained on their rights as Indigenous Peoples, with many of them learning for the first time that they had unique Indigenous rights guaranteed under the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. The project focused much of its effort on training girls, thereby challenging the gendered term
“cameraman” to imply that the work can only be done by a man.
To date, the project has compiled over 400 hours of recordings from Elders and counting. In February 2024, the team launched a community-wide graduation that brought together members of the Endorois from near and far to celebrate the Elders who were recorded and the youth who had spent cherished time recording them. The community danced and ate and reflected on the importance of protecting their knowledge systems and the language. Later in 2024, a video preview event was held that featured the recordings the youth had created for the Elders. It was a powerful moment filled with tears and laughter as the Elders were reassured that their knowledge and wisdom would be protected by the community. The project is still ongoing, with the goal of recording more intergenerational dialogues and building a community-owned digital archive. “We are now community journalists; after gaining a lot of skills and knowledge, we hope we grow in numbers to reach more Endorois Elders,” one of the participants commented.
Indigenous youth, when connected to their roots, will carry forward the wisdom of their ancestors with a renewed sense of purpose. This connection is a source of power, fostering leadership, community involvement, and a commitment to preserving their culture and the natural world. Projects like the Revitalize the Roots Initiative focus on remembering. While the initial project served the Endorois, the hope is that this work can reach other Indigenous Peoples and serve as a model for creating a community of shared learning and resources focused on preserving Indigenous knowledge systems through our Indigenous languages.
Revitalize the Roots Initiative will continue to partner with Indigenous Nations and Indigenous-led organizations to consult and implement supportive, intergenerational knowledge-sharing infrastructures and create lasting records of Indigenous knowledge systems. The lessons learned from these communities are applicable across all cultures. We invite global partners to support our mission by advocating for revitalizing Indigenous languages and knowledge systems. This work requires collective action, and by standing in solidarity with Indigenous Peoples, we can contribute to a more sustainable, climate-resilient future for all.
Dominica Zhu (Dai) is the founding Director of Global Wisdom Collective and co-founder of Revitalize the Roots Initiative. Carson Kiburo (Endorois) is the Executive Director of Jamii Asila Centre and co-founder of Revitalize the Roots Initiative.
In 2023, the Jamii Asilia Centre and Global Wisdom Collective received a Keepers of the Earth Fund grant to digitally document the Endorois culture in Kenya.
BYRON TENESACA GUAMAN
“I am inspired by all of the strong, resilient women in my family.”
Byron Tenesaca Guaman (Kañari Kichwa), Cultural Survival’s Indigenous Youth Fellowship Coordinator, still remembers the house where he was born. It was right by the Yanuncay River in the Kañari territory of Guapondeleg, also known today as Cuenca, in southern Ecuador. Byron’s mom immigrated to the United States when he was a baby, making the difficult choice to leave Byron in the care of his grandmother. Byron lived with his grandmother until the age of 11, at which point he was brought to the U.S. to be reunited with his mother in North Carolina. “Being raised by my first educator in my life—my grandmother—shaped my identity and creativity,” he says.
The trauma of immigration took a toll on Byron in his teenage years. “I went to college at the age of 17 and I decided to change my focus to the one thing that made me happy at that time, which was drawing and creating,” he recalls. Drawing, painting, and creating in the Cherokee mountains was a way of healing for Byron. This artistic foundation would eventually lead him to weaving, back to his Elders, back to his memory, and ultimately back to his identity.
In 2018, Byron made a personal commitment to pursue a profession where he could fully be his authentic self. He carved out a career as an educator in the North Carolina public school system, teaching kindergarten, high school Spanish, college English, and elementary art. He was also involved with regional art centers, assisting with programming for exhibitions or
facilitating children’s workshops in various mediums like clay, painting, and photography. After several years, Byron made the decision to come back home to his ancestors’ mountains in Ecuador.
Byron aspires to continue his dream and the minka (communal work) of his ancestors towards sumak kawsay (living in harmony). “I am inspired by all of the strong, resilient women in my family,” he says. “My grandmother, who took me under her wings at the age of one and taught me to live with the land. My aunties, who took care of me when my grandmother had to go sell her baskets in the city. My great-grandmother, who, without knowing how to read or write Spanish, organized her community of basket weavers to be able to have a place to sell in the city. My biological mother, who gave away part of her motherhood in order to provide and plan for a better future for us. My daughter, who brought me back to my community. And finally, all of the women in my community, who, through marches, protests, and hard work, have made our small community thrive and grow economically while opposing mining and dam projects being built in our paramos.”
Back in his mountain community for almost a year now, Byron says it is a blessing to be able to live with his neighbors, animals, plants, and rivers. He strives to continue supporting his family and ancestral community and to provide a safe cultural space for children to keep their ancestors’ memory alive through the arts and plants. He also wants to become fluent in Kichwa, the language of his ancestors, and to become more proficient in basket weaving and teach it to his daughter. His long-term dream is to build a museum or cultural center in his community to propel the history of his people forward, to hold the memory of those who came before him, and to water the roots of the next generation through the arts and crafts.
“I would like to acknowledge and thank my Elders, as I would not be in this position if it wasn’t for their will and dream for a better tomorrow, their resilience given the atrocities of colonialism, and their adaptability to the oppressive systems over the years. They were forced to sacrifice so much of their identity to allow me to also have dreams of my own some day. Yupaychani (thank you).”
Byron Tenesaca Guaman (third from left) with Cultural Survival Youth Fellows and staff at the 2024 UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues.
MYSTICAL CREATIONS
SERZHAN
BASHIROV
CS Staff
Renowned for his exquisite silver craftsmanship, Serzhan Bashirov (Kazakh-Naiman Tribe) has captivated the world with his unique mystical designs that seamlessly blend tradition and innovation from his home country of Kazakhstan. As a three-time UNESCO award-winning jewelry designer, Bashirov’s creations are visually stunning and deeply rooted in cultural heritage and artisanal mastery. His works have been exhibited and sold in Kazakhstan and elsewhere in Central Asia, as well as in the United States, Germany, and Hungary.
Bashirov grew up in a remote village in eastern Kazakhstan, where he witnessed traditional ways of life and nomadic customs. “I learned the craft from the traditional Kazakh master of jewelry, Asylmardan, from the Kostanay region. I was his pupil for five years,” Bashirov says. “I have always been interested in traditional Kazakh jewelry. Initially, I copied museum exhibits, but eventually, I developed my own style. The techniques and styles I use are truly ancient, starting with the Huns, Kimaks, and Kipchaks. Masters in northern Kazakhstan continued these ancient Kipchak traditions until the 19th century.”
Below: Bashirov’s
is lacking nowadays. I hope people will again turn to the spiritual nature of things,” Bashirov says.
Bashirov selects materials such as silver, brass, and copper, which are traditional materials for Kazakh jewelry. “I also use bones, carnelian, turquoise, and lapis lazuli for engraving and combine silver with wood. I use traditional techniques such as forging, smithery, traditional Kazakh engraving, and drawing silver wire,” he explains. Among the jewelry Bashriov fashions are rings, pins, earrings, bracelets, and broaches. He uses elements such as bones, leather, stones, felt, and wood to portray the beauty of nature and pay homage to his nomadic ancestry. Some of Bashirov’s favorite motifs include spirals and the cross marks from the sun and fire, which come from the time of Zoroastrianism. “The Kazakhs have many ritual ornaments,” he says. “Rings were originally male [accessories]. Warriors adorned their own hands to seal luck and strength.”
Kazakh jewelry is unique, as traditionally, it was not made to be sold. “Our ancestors never made jewelry to sell as the people in neighboring countries did with their ancient traditions in trading. Instead, these were ritual items made to be handed down through the centuries. In ancient times, Kazakhs ordered jewelry for daughters so that they could pass it down from one generation to another as an heirloom. A master jeweler was invited to the home, staying for months at a time while producing an individual item that corresponded to the girl’s character. This completed piece was more valuable from a spiritual point of view than from a material one, never being measured with a monetary value. This attitude
As an Indigenous artist, Bashirov faces many challenges, “In Kazakhstan, we [are] a unified people, but there are challenges for those living in remote regions. Many artisans lack knowledge of marketing, have not traveled to larger cities, and have no understanding of pricing. They also face difficulties accessing materials and equipment. Making a career out of being a master jeweler in our country is unprofitable,” Bashirov says, which is part of the reason that he also teaches at the Zhurgenov Kazakh National Academy of Arts.
The legacy of colonization has also had a negative impact on Indigenous artists. “After independence, Kazakh traditional jewelry art experienced a renaissance, and the demand for Kazakh traditional handmade jewelry is steadily growing,” Bashirov says. “It is very important for my people and country to revive our culture. During the Soviet era, the Kazakhs suffered the most. All culture was unified under Soviet standards—music, decorative arts, cinema, and so on. The people stopped speaking their native language. Many traditions and techniques for making and processing decorative items from metal, leather, wood, and felt have been forgotten. Currently, there is a gradual restoration of decorative arts.”
For Bashirov, participating in the Cultural Survival Bazaars “has [had] a very positive impact on learning about and getting to know other cultures. It helps people stay informed about cultural life in America and allows them to network with artisans and exchange experiences,” he says.
Stay tuned for our upcoming Cultural Survival Bazaars at bazaar.cs.org.
Top: Serzhan Bashirov at the Cultural Survival Bazaar in Newburyport, MA.
jewelry.
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