Anarchism a zine by Lianne Charlie

| a zine.

My name is Lianne Charlie. I am part of the Wolf clan of the Little Salmon/ Carmacks First Nation. We are Northern Tutchone (Athabaskan) speaking people and our homelands are in the Yukon (Northern Canada). Although I was born in the Yukon, I was raised by my mother, a second generation Canadian of Danish and Icelandic ancestry, in Victoria, BC, which is located on Lekwungen, Esquimalt and W̱ SÁNEC traditional territories on the West Coast of Canada. I am a second year PhD student at the University of Hawai´i at Mānoa in the Indigenous Politics program. I am a short -term resident of Hawaiʻi and I recognize that by being here I am occupying historically and presently contested space(s) and place(s), just as I did in Victoria and in the Yukon. I have often wondered how one can address the deep complexities of being foreign and Indigenous in a place where the original Peoples are politically, socially, and legally marginalized and continue to be displaced by a foreign/settler majority? I think that understanding localized, placebased knowledges through language, cultural practices, history, and “showingup” is paramount in creating meaningful and useful relationships. However, as a foreigner, it is not just about being aware of my socio-political surroundings—it’s about doing something with the with the awareness. To understand what this might look like, I have turned to the kōlea for guidance. The kōlea (Pacific Golden Plover, Pluvialis fulva) is medium sized migratory bird that nests in the dry tundra of Siberia, Alaska and the Yukon

and winters in the South—usually Hawaií, Asia or Australasia. The kōlea has spent enough time in Hawaií, however, that its visits and habits have been recorded in ´ōlelo noéau (Hawaiian proverbs/sayings), mele (song), and moólelo (history). The kōlea is usually noted for its feeding habits and great migratory abilities—adult kōlea are flying 2,000 miles between Hawaií and Alaska non-stop, twice a year. They arrive in Hawaií skinny, hungry and ready to eat—all in preparation for heading back to the North to breed in the spring. The following ´ōlelo noéau notes the kōlea’s intentions: Aia kēkē na hulu o ka umauma hoí ke kōlea i Kahiki e hānau ai | When the feathers on the breast darken (because of fatness) the plover goes back to Kahiki [translation: any foreign country abroad] to breed. More evident in Hawaiian literature is the kōlea’s metaphorical association with foreigners. Within the context of some ´ōlelo noéau, the kōlea takes on an entirely different meaning; as does the phrase shared above. Mary Kawena Pukui—a twentieth century Hawaiian scholar, historian, translator, kumu hula, and genealogist—provides another meaning of the phrase shared above: “A person comes here [Hawai‘i], grows prosperous, and goes away without a thought to the source of his prosperity” (Puki 1983, 9). The kōlea’s migratory patterns and its association with foreigners who come to Hawaií and prosper without acknowledgement of the historical, social, and political context that enables their prosperity serves as an interesting backdrop against which to tease out the complexities of Native/Settler relations in occupied Indigenous homelands.

While often set up as a binary, more recently, scholars are disrupting Native/ Settler relations by addressing the various identities and positionalities in-between “Native” and “Settler.” One of which that I will explore here is the idea of the “foreigner.” A foreigner, by way of a simple definition, is someone who is not native to the land she currently occupies. For me, foreigner addresses time and familiarity of place differently than settler in that a foreigner is relatively new to a place; she does not know it and it does not know her. Settlers, on the other hand, whose ancestors came to Native lands during colonial and early settlement periods or more recently as part of contemporary settler society, may have little intention of leaving the place they currently occupy. To them, this place might be their “home” and has been, in some cases, for multiple generations. Unlike a Settler, however, a foreigner’s home is elsewhere and I imagine her leaving for it at some point. The kōlea’s association with foreigners in Hawaií and its natural ability to move between various places exemplifies a way to be in world that doesn’t further disrupt or displace. I have learned a lot while here in Hawaiì. Friends and colleagues have taught me about kuleana (responsibility) and how to move in a way that acknowledges who I am, where I come from and where I am now. Allen (2012) refers to such reciprocal relationships and Indigenous sharing networks as “transindigenous,” which perhaps speaks to a role for foreigners and to methodologies that can facilitate meaningful connections. So too can the kōlea, who has been making such trans-indigenous connections this whole time. Around Hawaií in May, it is

possible to see the kōlea bobbing around in the grass and at the beach, enjoying the abundance of food that surrounds her. Her feathers have turned black – a sign that she has fattened up and is preparing to head north. ´Ōlelo no´eau tells us that she, the foreigner, is unaware of how she has prospered from this land. It tells us that she will leave, ignorant of how she has benefitted from being here; just like other foreigners who have come here, staked claim, taken, displaced, and prospered at the expense of Kānaka, the People. But such binaries between Indigenous/Foreigner, Native/ Settler, Kanaka/haole eliminate the possibility of there being another ways to be foreign in a place that is not yours (and never will be, no matter how long you stay). The kōlea shows us that, yes, when she arrives, she takes and certainly thrives. But, at the same time, she is also bringing something with her. This zine hopefully demonstrates that what is brought comes in the form of knowledge and ideas from other similar, yet distinct places. It is true, though, that when she leaves, she is taking something with her. From a distance, it seems as if what she is taking is purely nutrients in the form of fat on her body. But, upon closer inspection, we see that her time here has physically transformed her—her feathers have changed from light to dark, she is literally weighed down with new knowledge and the obligation of bringing it to her next home, ensuring that it is passed on to her next generation. So, not only is she eating to survive; she is eating to ensure the continuation of her migration, the transmission of knowledge across oceans, the reproduction of the next generation. She is eating to ensure survivance (Viznor 2008). edzī cho.

What is a zine? I set out to create a zine not knowing entirely what a zine is. I had seen one before a few years ago. I had recently started a blog and a friend asked if she could include my latest post in her zine on Indigenous Feminism. It was a small “independent and localized” publication made by a group of young Indigenous women (Duncombe 2008). Their handmade zine was photocopied (as most are) and distributed to Women’s Centers at universities across Canada. It fit the mold described here by Duncombe (2008): it was a “little publication filled with rantings of high weirdness and exploding with chaotic design” (1). I noticed that their zine definitely had a few qualities that seemed a bit “weird,” but my thoughts on the zine didn’t extend much beyond feeling honored to be included in the collective’s publication. That is until recently when I was presented with an invitation by my professor in a class on Anarchism to engage with the course readings in any way that we desired. I immediately thought of a zine. I invited my classmates to join in. Perhaps we could make a zine together and distribute it. In doing so, we could link our activities in the classroom to the needs and interests of our surrounding communities, thereby extending our

work beyond the walls (and towers) of the university. The exciting thing about zines is that they gives us an outlet to practice “…a radically democratic and participatory ideal of what culture and society might be….ought to be” (Duncombe 2008, 2). Unfortunately, there wasn’t much interest. It crossed my mind that maybe I should just scrap the idea. It just seemed less “zine-like” to make a zine, which usually the result of collaboration, all on my own. I decided to continue and I figured I would just have to justify its personal nature at some point. Duncombe writes that zines are political. He explains: “By politics in this case I mean simply what zine writers articulate – either explicitly, or as often the case implicitly – as being the problems of the present cultural, economic, and political systems; what they imagine and create as possible solutions to these problems; and what strategies and chances they have for actualizing these ideas on both a small and large scale” (3-4). I came across this quote after populating most of the pages of my zine with text reflecting on our readings and imagines that I have been creating sometimes in response to what we were reading, but more often in an attempt to reconcile what we were reading in class with the present conditions of my home communities in Canada. I wasn’t trying to be explicitly political, but upon seeing my zine as a whole and reflecting upon it here in this introductory essay, I have realized that it is very much political and it also is an attempt to imagine and create alternatives, as Duncombe suggests.

Not only is the content of a zine political, the medium itself is political. It think this is especially so in academic settings. I study Indigenous politics and one of the reoccurring themes in the field (as a direct reflection of the realities of Indigenous life), as expressed by Dian Million (2008), is that we are “perpetually locked in a discursive and material struggle” (267). In other words, Indigenous ways of knowing and being are explicitly (in some cases, violently) silenced by colonial logics and white supremacy (Smith 2010). This plays out in academic settings as well as in daily life. Indigenous scholars and others are continuously having to confront this in their work and their personal and collective life experiences. Zoe Todd (2014) in a recent blog post wrote that “The euro-western academy is colonial. It elevates people who talk about Indigenous people above people who speak with Indigenous peoples as equals, or who ARE Indigenous”. The academy is able to do this because it forces us to adhere to power-laden and arbitrary rules and regulations that facilitate the oppression and subjugation of other (i.e. Indigenous) knowledge systems, while purposefully privileging its own. Given this context, a zine can play a powerful role in claiming space to express personal, sensual, and experiential knowledge, while at the same time countering dominant and oppressive ideologies. As such, a zine becomes an innovative site for knowledge production and resistance. It is no surprise then that zine-making and zine-makers have created a culture in which, according to Duncombe, “everyday oddballs were speaking

plainly about themselves and our society with an honest sincerity, a revealing intimacy, and a healthy ‘fuck you’ to sectioned authority – for no money and no recognition, writing for an audience of like-minded misfits” (2). In other words, zines “respond in one way or another to dominant ideologies as experienced and understood by the zine authors” (Licona 2013, 1). In trying to determine what a zine is and what it does, I have realized why I was initially drawn to it. 1. It has emerged out of a culture of resistance. 2. It invites people to make their own culture (and “stop consuming that which is made for you” – Dunmore). 3. As an Indigenous woman and student of Indigenous politics, I see the zine playing a particular role in not only countering the hegemonic domination of Western ontologies and ideologies, but also a way of presenting knowledge(s) in a form that is recognizable, relevant, and useful to communities beyond the academy. 4. The zine can also serve as an outlet for personal reflections. As mentioned above, I was originally uncomfortable with the prospect of creating a zine on my own, but then I learned that more recently zines are being seen as an alternative autobiographical form and a medium for life writing (Poletti 2008). Duncombe (2008) refers to the personal zines as “perzines,” in which “personal revelation outweighs rhetoric, and polished literary style takes a back seat to honesty.” Perzines create space for one to “assert personal authority through intentionally raw, emotional, and intensely personal rhetorical strategies” (Licona 2013, 22). One of the strategies I use is imagery.

Images makes up the majority of my zine. However, unlike a typical zine, mine is fully made on the computer using publishing software. While the use of the computer hides the more explicit “handmade” elements noticeable in most zines, I hope that the implicit elements of self-created work and the “do-it-yourself” ethic are still evident on each page. I have included a number of images I created using digital photo collage. I have made them by manipulating, cropping and splicing photographs I have taken of our homelands and then placing them in what Allen (2008) calls “productive juxtopostion.” The end result can be something entirely new and unexpected, which speaks to collage’s inherent ability to generate diverse perspectives and create new spaces for connection. I also use collage as a theory in my own research. Collage, as a theory, has an innate way of inviting us to work with the fragmented realities of Indigenous identities, families, communities, cultures, and lands that have been created (sometimes violently, often intentionally) by historical and contemporary colonialism. It offers a space for Indigenous historical realities, present realities, and desired futures to intersect in innovative and unexpected ways. It also acts as a means to creatively extend our understanding of Indigenous contemporary politics and Indigenous research. I’ve also included drawings I’ve done of our homelands. All the images are personal and political. Licona (2013) refers to these kinds of images as “autographic” (86). In my zine, like others, “images and text work together, multiplying possibilities and meaning, [and] disrupting expectations” (Sinor 2003).

Zines, as a form, exist somewhere between a personal letter and a magazine (Duncombe 2008). They have much to teach us about “the sites, practices, politics, and economies of writing” (Comstock 2001, 383). They also create innovative intersections of text, layout, and production, simultaneously producing a complex site of selfrepresentation and personal narrative. Zines and zine-makers are advocating for change and they do so by articulating alternatives using text and image in provocative and accessible ways. This zine is my attempt to share in this kind of meaningful and radical productivity.

What is anarchism? Four months ago, our Anarchism class set out on a journey to explore answers to: What is anarchism? We started the semester by reading the works of “the classical anarchist” – Proudhon, Bakunin, and Kropotkin—and other Western theorists like Nietzsche, Deleuze and Guattari; plus literature by those engaging with the theorists’ work. We used these readings to create a theoretical foundation for our understanding of anarchism. Yet, it became evident from the beginning that any study of anarchism would need to address how anarchism is put into practice.

Many of our readings alluded to this and some even described outright what an anarchist practice looks like (see: the Infoshop on Kropotkin’s Anarchist Idea in this zine). Although there is an established and ever-evolving anarchist theory, the readings revealed that anarchism is equally, if not more, a “radical practice: a thought one carries out with their body” (Colectivo Situaciones 2007). Maia Ramnath in Decolonizing Anarchism: An Antiauthoritarian History of India’s Liberation Struggle (2012) articulates this nicely in her definition of anarchism: “The anarchist tradition is a continuously unfolding discourse— meaning not just the writings and rhetoric of anarchism but also its body of practices and history of performative acts. And the content of this discourse—the thematic that defines its boundaries—is the quest for collective liberation in its most meaningful sense, by maximizing the conditions for autonomy and egalitarian social relationships, sustainable production and reproduction” (37). As such, the practice of anarchism is “rejecting external authority” (Ward 2004, 3) and “resisting institutionalization, hierarchy, and complete or partial political assimilation into the state” (Song, 165) with our bodies. For the latter half of the semester we read texts from Indigenous theory, Feminist theory and Queer theory and other works that explored different intersections with anarchism. See: Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom; Quiet Rumors: An Anarcha-Feminist Reader;

Queering Anarchism: Addressing and Undressing Power and Desire, and “Anarch@Indigenism” Special Issues: Affinities Vol 5, No 1 (2011). The authors of and contributors to the latter texts engage with the physicality of anarchism and resistance more explicitly, and also draw upon anarchist strategies to support their various liberation agendas. In many ways, their work extends the definition of anarchism. Jacqueline Lasky (2011) writes that the “interplay of diverse traditions [Indigensim, Feminism and Anarchism], what some are calling ‘anarch@indigenism’ (Alfred et al 2007) forges intersectional analysis and fosters a praxis to de-center and un-do multiple axes of oppression. In other words, anarch@indigenism attempts to link critical ideas and visions of postimperial futures in ways that are nonhierarchical, unsettling of state authorities, inclusive of multiple/plural ways of being in the world, and respectful of the autonomous agencies of collective personhood” (4). This zine is inspired by anarch@Indigenism and aims to address “the theoretical understandings and practical applications of how post-imperial futures are enacted in the here and now” (Lasky 2011, 5) and how anarchist practices can be accessed in a way that move us closer to liberation.

How is dän: a zine an expression of anarch@indigenism? The title of this zine is the Northern Tutchone word for the People. The cover image is a drawing of the mountain that can be seen north of Big Salmon Village, which was once the home of my grandfather. I have modified the image by including a black block graphic. The “black block” in anarchist circles is used to represent the masses and to show solidarity. A number of themes are addressed in my zine. I’ve spoken to all but one: edzī cho, which means big heart in Northern Tutchone. I don’t speak my ancestral language. The ties between the generation of language speakers in my family and my generation were severed by violent and sanctioned intrusions like residential school and forced removal off our homelands. I rely on three language sources: a website, a pdf of a small language dictionary, and a book called Èkeyi: Gyò Cho Chú | My Country: Big Salmon River by Gertie Tom. I found

the word for heart (edzī) and the word for big (cho) and put them together because I longed for some kind of expression to capture the deep love I have for my family, my ancestor and my homelands. All of whom seem far away from where I am now. I have learned this semester that practices and expressions of anarch@indigenism take many shapes and exist in multiple forms. Lasky (2011) explains: “[anarch@indigenism] is different in different places, at different times, as seen my different people. It is relational” (7). And while it is transient and “thoroughly unfixed,” it is also grounded (Lasky). Grounded in our bodies. And because it is embodied, it means that there is room to respond to the world around us based on emotion, feeling, and sensation. I don’t speak the language of my ancestors. But I carry them with me in my body.

Dian Million (2009) writes that we “feel our histories as well as think them[, which]…creates a context for a more complex ‘telling’” (54). She continues “[Indigenous women’s] voices are still positioned in a particular way, definitely reminiscent of the past silences we all know so well, contingent on our colonized position now…this becomes important to our emerging conversation on Indigenous feminisms, on our ability to speak to ourselves, to inform ourselves and our generations, to counter and intervene in a constantly morphing colonial system” (54-55). One way that Indigenous women, and Indigenous peoples for that matter, have found a voice is through storytelling. Using image and text, and driven by a desire to imagine another world where we are free of regulatory regimes and colonial violences, I have tried to populate these pages with different

kinds of stories. Although everything that exists here is two-dimensional, static and silent, it is my hope that my voice can still be heard. Leanne Simpson (2011) writes that “Storytelling…becomes a lens through which we can envision our way out of cognitive imperialism, where we can create models and mirrors where none existed, and where we can experience the spaces of freedom and justice. Storytelling becomes a space where we can escape the gaze and the cage of the Empire, even if it is just for a few minutes” (34). Here, stories and storytelling emerge out of an intersection of voice (where there was once silence), presence (where there was once removal), and empowerment (where there is oppression).

It is one small act of resistance.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;It would be a profound error to wait for any government to do it: for history teaches us that governments, even when they have emerged from the revolution, have never done anything other than give legal sanction to accomplished revolutionary facts.â&#x20AC;? _Peter Kropotkin, 1842-1921 _The Anarchist Idea (1896)

“Fundamentally different relationships between Onkwehonwe (Indigenous peoples) and Settlers will emerge not from negotiations in state-sponsored and governmentregulated processes, but only after successful Onkwehonwe resurgences against white society’s entrenched privileges and the unreformed structure of the colonial state.” _Taiaiake Alfred, 1964_Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways to Action and Freedom (2005)

“I am not so concerned with how we dismantle the master’s house, that is, which sets of theories we use to critique colonialism; but I am very concerned with how we (re)build our own house, or our own houses.” _Leanne Simpson _Dancing on our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re-creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence (2011)

How you fight determines who you will become when the battle is over.

_Alfred

the birth 1. there exists a huge contrast a marvelous metaphysical act is it dream or intoxication the deep consciousness, our joyful necessity reveals our innermost depths of human being the illusion would deceive us crude reality but now all the stiff, hostile barriers break apart the subjective fades into complete forgetfulness of self as the earth freely offers up her gifts glowing life she becomes a work of art her power of all of nature Creator, do you have a sense of her world? 2. hypothetically, although with fair certainty his own State now reveals itself modern man barbarians whose waves flooded over all established family practices and its traditional laws

Words borrowed from Friedrich Nietzsche The Birth of Tragedy | Out of the Spirit of Music Translated by Ian Johnston, 2008

lust and cruelty drawn up here in all his pride by land and sea the very wildest bestiality was here unleashed the destructive weapon put in the hand of the powerful opponent world of harmony an irreparable loss a veil of pain awakens joy something never felt forces itself into expression the sense of oneness without the mediation of the human it breaks forth out of nature itself perfection has no connection with an individual if such a comparison were possible collective unity is the deepest root of life itself

3. we must dismantle his structure stone by stone we should not let ourselves be deceived that ideal image of his own existence reveals itself and shows us his roots in order to be able to live, he must create out of the deepest necessity powerfully deluding images but without any claim to a pre-eminent position 4. it is his dream we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to continue dreaming it we are compelled to experience his illusion, totally caught up in it illusion of an illusion something of a paradox we understand, through intuition, its reciprocal necessity a knowledge of a self which speaks truth mutually intensifying the other 5. where that new seed first manifests herself produces a reflection of mere fantasy a re-working of the world true and eternal being resting on the foundation of things its origin she is already released 6. mirror of the world her wild momentum reveals a power completely foreign to his epic illusion and its calm forward progress 7. this fact requires us to look into her heart dazzling its glitter survives a real glimpse into the essence of things 8. she is revealed to them

the birth

Infoshop:

Peter Kropotkin’s 5

. The revolution will not be . Should the revolution set to work confined to just one country, but, immediately upon expropriation, it erupting everywhere, will spread… will derive from it an inner strength that will enable it to withstand both the attempts to form a government . The revolution may assume a that would seek to strangle it and any variety of characters and differing onslaughts which might emanate from degrees of intensity among different without. peoples. . If the revolution is to bear all of the fruits which the proletariat is . The expropriation of social entitled to expect of it after centuries capital and the taking of it into o f u n c e a s i n g s t r u g g l e s a n d common ownership should be carried holocausts of victims sacrificed, then out wheresoever such action is the period of revolution must last for feasible and as soon as the several years, so that the propagation opportunity presents itself. of new ideas should not be confined solely to the great intellectual centers, but should reach even into . Once expropriation has been the most isolated hamlets in order to carried through, and the capitalists' shake the inertia which is necessarily power to resist has been smashed, evident in the masses prior to their then, after a period of groping, there turning towards a fundamental will necessarily arise a new system of reorganization of society, so that, at organizing production and exchange, long last, the new ideas should have on a restricted scale to begin with, but the time to be developed further, as later more comprehensive. and that the true advancement of humanity system will be a lot more attuned to requires. po pul ar aspi ratio n s an d the requirements of coexistence and …thwart the creation of any new mutual relations than any theory, government and instead…arouse however splendid, devised either by those popular forces destructive of the thinking and imagination of the old regime and at the same time reformers or by the deliberations of generative of the new organization of some legislative body. society.

The Anarchist Idea

to be directed at undermining the State in all its parts, we cannot see the usefulness of our setting ourselves up as a political party which would strive to ensconce itself in the ramifications of government, in the hope of one day claiming its …The principles of expropriation and share of the inheritance of the collectivism can spread like wildfire present governmentalism. and inspire the broad masses of the people to put these principles into practice. . Convinced that the mode of combination that will become a reality in the near future will be the . The uprising aimed at Commune, independent of the State, expropriation must take place abolishing the representative system primarily in the countryside. from within its ranks and effecting expropriation of raw materials, instruments of labor and capital for the benefit of the community. . While urging that our efforts be concentrated upon widespread propagation, in all its forms, of the ideas of expropriation, we do not mean to say that we should miss opportunities to agitate on all From Peter Klopotkin’s matters pertinent to the life of the “The Anarchist Idea” country and going on around us. On in No Gods | No Masters: an the contrary: we think that socialists anthology of Anarchism ought to avail of every opportunity Daniel Guérin ed. that arises to launch economic AK Press, 2005 agitation p. 275-279 . The ideas of expropriation and of collectivism…[must be] spell[ed] out…at length, demonstrating their practical implications and proving their necessity.

8 9

. As anarchists' efforts ought

ĂŹyĂŠntan | my relative My dad, his siblings, and many of our relatives were forced to attend Lower Post Indian Residential School in Northern British Columbia (Canada) for most of their childhood. At a time of great upheaval and drastic socio-political changes, native families in the North were (forcibly) transitioning from a subsistence-based economy to one that still is largely dependent on the State. During the residential school era, the Canadian government legalized the removal of native children from their families through a variety of coercive, colonial mechanisms. For example, in the 1970s, the government introduced the Family Allowance Act, which got monetary funds to families in need. In order to have access to the funds, families had to send their children to school. For native families, this meant sending their children to residential school. The school my dad attended was located 400 miles from his parents and home in the Yukon Territory. The recurring image in this collage is a modified photograph of the school, which no longer exists after the community decided to tear it down. I reclaimed the images of the school by transposing them with imagery that depicts our resistance and survivance.

gyò chú dachäk| big salmon village My grandfather once lived at Big Salmon village, which is located right where the Big Salmon River runs into the Yukon River in the Yukon Territory in Northern Canada. From the early 1890s, Big Salmon village was a main stop for the steamboats that travelled the Yukon River bringing miners and supplies to and from Dawson City for the Klondike Gold Rush. Today, it is a wellknown camping spot for the hundreds of tourists who paddle down the Yukon River each summer. It is about a two-hour motorboat ride up the Yukon River from Carmacks, a small town of 500 residents. It is hard to describe how isolated Big Salmon village is. The phrase “in the middle of nowhere” works in the sense that it really is in the middle of nowhere. It is surrounded by hundreds of miles of bush, mountains, and tributaries in every direction, which adds to its isolation. The village is also really rundown. It is referred to as “ancient” and “abandoned” by the many websites that advertise guided canoe trips down the Yukon River. But at the same time, descriptors like “in the middle of nowhere,” “abandoned,” and “ancient” fail to capture the fact that Big Salmon village is actually in the middle of everywhere for the Tagé Cho Hudän (Big River People).

Ìhtsí & ihtsum | our grandparents Under the landmark Umbrella Final Agreement (UFA, 1990), eleven of the fourteen First Nations in the Yukon Territory of Northern Canada negotiated selfgovernment agreements with the Yukon Territorial government and the Government of Canada. Since its self-governing agreement was ratified on April 1, 2005, the Kwanlin Dün First Nation (KDFN), the largest, urban -based First Nation in the Yukon Territory has been transitioning from an “Indian Band,” a governing body designed and administered under the authority of the Minister of Indian Affairs and the Indian Act, to a political system that is, in theory, designed and administered by KDFN. In practice, however, there remains a fundamental divide between the ways KDFN must govern itself (as stipulated by Canada) and the ways it desires to govern itself (arguably, as stipulated by our ancestors and the land). What everyday acts of resurgence would work to restore place-based, culturally-rooted, and distinctly Kwanlin Dün forms of governance? What kind of liberatory practices are needed to reconstruct past governing systems that our ancestors would recognize?

k'o lyok | cloud fish Dän hudé änadäl ech'i né, mbät ke yaánínlin.

Dôomyi huch’ō? Èyumzí shra cho úzi.

Yi dín’īn ninch’āw?

Lu ke edìt’rá ich’in.

Yi ech’o dajän? Dajän lu dek’äl ech’i.

Gyò cho.

Tl’àkú hūch’i.

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Kohn, Margaret. 2004. Brave New Neighborhoods: The Privatization of Public Space. New York, NY: Routledge.

Dark Star Collective, ed. 2008. Quiet Poletti, Anna. 2008. “Auto/Assemblage: Rumours: An Anarcha-Feminist Reading the Zine.” Biography Reader. 2nd edition. San 31 (1): 85–102. Francisco: AK Press. Proudhon, Pierre. 1969. Selected Kropotkin, Peter. 2005. “The Anarchist Writings on Pierre-Joseph Idea.” In No Gods No Masters: Proudhon. Edited with An Anthology of Anarchism. introduction by Stewart Guerin, Daniel Guerin, ed. Edwards. Translated by Translated by Paul Sharkey. Elizabeth Fraser. Garden City, Oakland, CA: AK Press. New York: Anchor Books.

ANARCHIST BOOK FAIR

land and water recognizable again family redefined

dried meat, edz朝 cho, closed wounds

resurging salmon lure us home

d채n feeding the food of our ancestors to our children

lianne charlie fall | twenty fourteen issue one | pols610