Becoming geographers together: reimagining geography through relationship

Abstract

This essay explores how collaborative learning and community-engaged research reshape the practice of geography. Drawing from our experiences – one author raised along Japan’s rural coast, the other between Indiana and Hiroshima – we examine how working together as mentor and doctoral student evolved into a co-learning partnership. Our work with Indigenous communities, including the Ainu in northern Japan and Iñupiat in Arctic Alaska, reveals the limitations of traditional interpretive approaches for understanding landscapes. Historical photographs, long held in distant archives, became tools for dialogue, memory, and intergenerational storytelling when returned to their communities. These encounters shifted our focus from analysis toward stewardship, emphasizing relational accountability, shared authority, and ethical engagement with people, landscapes, and histories. Collaborative workshops, repeat photography, and digital mapping illustrate how research can support living communities while tracing environmental and cultural change over time. We argue that relational geography requires attentiveness across scales, from intimate community spaces to institutional archives, prioritizing ongoing presence, responsiveness, and co-production of knowledge. Ultimately, to know a place is not simply to interpret it but to sustain the relationships that give it meaning. By practicing geography as care, dialogue, and stewardship, we propose a model of the discipline that aligns scholarly inquiry with ethical commitment and the generation of knowledge in partnership with communities.

We did not begin in the same place.

One of us was born and raised along the rural coast of Japan, where fishing boats traced familiar routes and shorelines held quiet reminders of Indigenous histories that were rarely spoken aloud. The other moved between Indiana and Hiroshima, a city whose name is inseparable from August 6, 1945. One came of age thinking about Indigenous histories in the North. The other grew up aware that environmental disasters and political violence are not abstractions, but forces that shape everyday life.

Years later, we met at Syracuse University; one as a professor (Chie Sakakibara), the other as her first doctoral student (Cheyenne Morris).

At first glance, our roles seemed clearly defined: mentor and mentee. Over time, however, that boundary has blurred. We now learn alongside one another, asking difficult questions about authority, responsibility, and the work we share. What does it mean to study communities whose histories are shaped by dispossession and marginalization? How might research avoid reproducing the extractive habits of the past? And what if geography – the discipline that brought us together – is not simply about interpreting the world, but about sustaining relationships within it? ¹ This essay approaches these questions through what we call relational geography: a practice of research grounded not only in analysis, but in the ongoing work of listening, responsibility, and shared learning.

A discipline that taught us to see

Syracuse has long been known as a place where students learn to ‘read’ landscapes. Decades ago, geographers here argued that a landscape is never just scenery. ² It can be seen as nature, as history, as wealth, as ideology. A single hillside might be habitat for one observer, sacred ground for another, a site of extraction for a third. No interpretation is complete on its own.

That insight still matters. It reminds us that places are layered with meaning. But, when we began working closely with Indigenous communities in Japan and Arctic Alaska, we have come to realize that interpretation, however nuanced, was not enough.

It is widely acknowledged that geography has been in constant flux, undergoing significant change as a discipline, with continued hope, possibility, and potential. Scholars have increasingly shifted away from models of detached observation toward relational and engaged forms of inquiry grounded in responsibility, reciprocity, and collaboration with the communities whose worlds we engage. ³ Fieldwork, in this sense, is not simply a method but a relationship, and archives are never neutral but shaped by enduring colonial histories. ⁴ This reorientation is not new. ⁵ It builds on long-standing traditions of participatory, collaborative, feminist, Indigenous, and radical research that have sought to redefine how knowledge is produced with, rather than about, communities. ⁶ Our work joins and extends these trajectories.

In our own experience, this shift became tangible in a small Indigenous community in northern Japan, where collaborative workshops, repeat photography, and digital mapping emerged as practices that both document environmental and cultural change and support ongoing community life. Geography is shaped by relations among people, places, and more-than-human worlds. In this sense, relational geography, we argue, requires attentiveness across scales from intimate community spaces to institutional archives while prioritizing sustained presence, responsiveness, and the co-production of knowledge.

When images return

In 2018, Sakakibara carried copies of photographs taken in 1908 by the German American photographer Arnold Genthe (1869–1942) into the Ainu community of Nibutani, a district within the town of Biratori in Hokkaidō, Japan (Figure 1). The Ainu are the Indigenous people of northern Japan, mainly in Hokkaido today. For many years, the Japanese government tried to assimilate them, restricting their language, culture, and way of life. ⁷ In 2008, Japan officially recognized the Ainu as Indigenous, a decision largely influenced by international pressure to respect Indigenous rights and comply with global human rights norms. However, despite its adoption of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) in 2007, Japan has not ratified International Labour Organization Convention No. 169 (ILO 169), an international treaty protecting Indigenous peoples’ rights, so the Ainu still lack full legal protections over land, resources, and cultural affairs.

Figure 1.

Crane Dance in Biratori, 1908, photograph by Arnold Genthe. Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin College, Ohio. Gift of Christopher Thomas (OC 1975), 2017.

Nevertheless, the Nibutani Ainu community has played a central role in preserving language, ceremonies, and ancestral connections to the Saru River valley. Their resistance to the state’s construction of the Nibutani Dam, which culminated in the 1997 court ruling that officially recognized the Ainu as an Indigenous people, transformed a local struggle over flooded sacred lands into a landmark moment for Indigenous rights in Japan. ⁸ Arnold Genthe’s historical photographs had been stored in distant archives, many of which are in North America and Europe, for more than a century. They showed Ainu men, women, and children standing along riverbanks, wearing woven attus robes (traditional Ainu textile woven from the inner bark fibers of trees), their expressions steady and direct. These photographs, once framed through a Western ethnographic lens, had portrayed Indigenous people as relics, far from the communities they belonged to.

Sakakibara arrived expecting a careful, academic conversation. In Nibutani, everything changed. Elders leaned close, tracing patterns in garments, recognizing tools, sharing names and stories. Memories of salmon fishing, ceremonies, and suppressed Ainu language surfaced. The world began to transform. These were no longer anonymous figures from 1908; they were grandparents, great-grandparents, ancestors. The photographs, once catalogued as ethnographic records, became living presences. They sparked conversations that moved across generations. They carried grief, pride, humor, and resilience. ⁹

In that moment, Sakakibara felt what she had long known in theory: archives are not neutral. Images belong not only to the institutions that store them but to families, histories, and lands that continue into the present. Their partial, digital return sparked dialogue and hard questions: Who decides how they are shown? Who may share the images? What responsibilities follow their use? Interpretation alone could not answer. Only relationship could. Later, when Sakakibara shared the experience with Morris, it became foundational, marking a turning point not just for a project, but for how they would come to understand geography itself.

Before the 2018 visit to Nibutani, the photographs were objects to interpret, analyzing Genthe’s framing and colonial context. As collaboration with the community deepened, the project transformed: historical images were paired with contemporary Ainu artwork, showing culture as alive and evolving. Maki Sekine, Ainu artisan and key collaborator, envisioned a traveling exhibition that juxtaposed early 20th-century photographs with present-day creative practice, highlighting resilience. Our roles (as researchers) changed, we managed logistics and grants, but curatorial authority stayed with the community. Decisions about what to show, where, and how were made collectively. The work was no longer about recovering a lost past; it was about supporting a living present into the future of endurance and continuity.

Expanding the circle

In 2023, this work expanded with a multi-year grant from the National Science Foundation (NSF), secured by Sakakibara and her colleague Danika Medak-Saltzman. Rooted in ongoing partnerships with Indigenous communities, the project reflected the priorities these communities articulated. It brought together Ainu (Hokkaido, Japan) and Iñupiat collaborators (North Slope Borough, Alaska), creating a transnational space for shared research, dialogue, and knowledge exchange. Historical photographs held in archives can reveal environmental changes, such as shifting shorelines, thinning sea ice, evolving vegetation, but such images can only be used responsibly through active collaboration with the communities whose histories and landscapes they record.

From the start, the project centered collaboration. Community meetings and cultural orientations in Nibutani (June 2024), workshops in Syracuse (July 2024) and Nibutani (May 2025), and museum collection research opportunities (Brooklyn Museum in July 2025; Penn Museum and Yale Peabody Museum in August 2025) brought Elders and youth from Ainu and Iñupiat communities together to examine archival images, share stories, and reflect on the cultural and environmental knowledge the photographs held. In partnership with the Exchange for Local Observations and Knowledge of the Arctic (ELOKA) at the National Snow and Ice Data Center and the University of Alaska Fairbanks, we used digital mapping to link historical images to contemporary landscapes, creating a spatial record of environmental and cultural change.

Repeat photography captured shifts in shorelines, vegetation, and sea ice over a century, while oral histories provided context archival images alone could not convey: subsistence practices, governance, kinship, and local understandings of environmental transformation (Figure 2). By combining archival, geospatial, and experiential perspectives, the project emphasized co-produced knowledge that responds to community priorities (Figure 3).

Figure 2.

A photo of an Ainu community near Nibutani by Arnold Genthe (1908) and repeat photography of the identical location by Kenji Morioka, National Ainu Museum – Upopoy (2018). Figure above: Photo by Arnold Genthe. Figure below: Photo by Kenji Morioka.

Figure 3.

ELOKA Community Mapping Workshop with Nibutani collaborators at Syracuse University, August 2024. Photo by Chie Sakakibara.

In Arctic Alaska, Iñupiat collaborators emphasized that repatriation is not merely transferring digital files, it is a practice of renewing relationships. Working closely with community members, we identified and shared images, discussed their histories, and traced connections across generations. The photographs became catalysts for storytelling and environmental memory, supporting conversations about climate change, adaptation, and how local knowledge informs responses to shifting landscapes. Repatriation thus unfolded as an ongoing, relational process grounded in collaboration and shared responsibility.

In Hokkaido, the legacies of dispossession are tangible: the flooding of traditional lands by the Nibutani Dam in the late 20^th century displaced families and disrupted cultural life. Examining historical photographs with community members, we heard stories of relocation, assimilation, and resilience. Some images evoked difficult memories; others sparked laughter and pride, highlighting creativity and survival. Through this engagement, the archives became more than records of the past; they became active spaces for dialogue, reflection, and the co-creation of collective memory, facilitating healing and demanding careful, attentive response (Figure 4).

Figure 4.

Yukiko Kaizawa, an Ainu attus (tree-bark textile) weaver who has revitalized the tradition, shares her ecological knowledge with Kaya, a young learner, by demonstrating how to process Japanese elm (ohyo) fiber after harvest along a tributary of the Saru River in June 2025. Photo by Chie Sakakibara.

Mentorship as shared becoming

When we began, one of us had decades of experience working with Indigenous communities. ¹⁰ The other entered doctoral study with training in sustainability and political ecology, shaped by earlier mentorship that emphasized how conservation policies can marginalize local communities. ¹¹

Our collaboration quickly blurred conventional hierarchies. Mentor and mentee, researcher and community member, learning side by side, translating terms, negotiating cultural protocols, and navigating logistics together. Decisions about research questions, schedules, and methods were made in conversation, revised as circumstances shifted. Authority was shared, expertise was mutual, and the work became a collective effort, reflecting the priorities and knowledge of all involved. Mentorship became less about transferring expertise and more about co-learning.

Morris’s doctoral dissertation emerging from this work will not be a solitary product. Its questions, methods, and outputs are shaped collaboratively through ongoing dialogue. The process demands humility, comfort with uncertainty, and a willingness to share authority.

Working with institutions

Relational geography extends beyond community centers into museums and archives, where many Indigenous materials remain. Our project has involved ongoing conversations with curators and archivists, who have been enthusiastic collaborators. Together, we have examined catalog records, metadata, and access questions, sometimes identifying Ainu and Arctic materials with incomplete provenance, other times facilitating discussions on digital repatriation and co-curated exhibitions.

These engagements are slow and complex, shaped by legal frameworks, funding, and bureaucratic practices, yet they hold transformative potential. Incorporating Indigenous languages and interpretations into catalog records shifts authority. When communities guide decisions about access, archives and museums move from extractive practices toward genuine collaboration. Through this work, we see relational geography operating across scales, from a workshop table to the institutional corridors of museums, where care, dialogue, and shared stewardship shape the very meaning of knowledge.

Never disappear

Throughout this journey, we have returned to a central question: What does it mean to know a place? In earlier traditions of geography, knowledge often meant analysis: identifying patterns, interpreting landscapes, and producing maps. These skills remain important. But they are incomplete.

To know a place relationally is to recognize that it is entangled with living communities whose futures matter. It is to understand that research reshapes the worlds it enters, accepting that authority must be negotiated rather than assumed. Relational geography does not reject theory. It insists that theory be accountable without abandoning analysis, situated within webs of obligation. This approach challenges academic norms of authorship and productivity while demanding that departments value community engagement and collaborative outputs as central scholarly contributions. ¹²

Early in her fieldwork in Alaska as a graduate student, Sakakibara received advice from a community member: ‘Never disappear’. The words were simple. Their meaning was profound. ¹³ Research relationships have too often followed a pattern: arrive, collect data, publish, leave. To ‘never disappear’ is to resist that pattern. It is to remain in contact, return, share drafts and listen when priorities change.

This commitment has shaped our collaboration. We continue to visit Nibutani and Arctic Alaska. We share updates about exhibitions and digital platforms. We consult before circulating images. We remain attentive to evolving community goals. Staying does not mean perfection. We make mistakes, learn, and adjust. Relational geography is not a finished achievement. It is an ongoing practice.

Becoming geographers together

We began on different shores, one along the coast of Japan, the other between the American Midwest and Hiroshima, meeting as mentor and mentee, and at different professional stages. Through co-producing environmental knowledge derived from interpreting historical photographs and cultivating relationships with Ainu and Iñupiat partners, we are becoming geographers together. Geography, once a way of reading landscapes, has become a way of relating to the world—an approach that emphasizes connection, responsibility, and reciprocity rather than detached observation. Where the discipline once focused on mapping terrain and interpreting spatial patterns from a distance, it now increasingly attends to how people live with, care for, and are shaped by their environments. This shift foregrounds relationships: between humans and more-than-human beings, between communities and their lands, and among different ways of knowing place. In this sense, geography becomes less about representation and more about engagement. It asks not only what a landscape looks like, but how trust is built within it—through everyday practices, ethical commitments, and long-term relationships. Knowledge emerges through participation, listening, and accountability, rather than extraction. To “find our link” to the environment, then, is not simply to locate ourselves within it, but to cultivate relationships that sustain both human and ecological well-being over time. We began to think of our work not as producing knowledge, but as practicing stewardship, slowing down, letting projects unfold at the pace of relationships rather than academic timelines, and listening when conversations lead us in unexpected directions. This approach offers something vital: a way of practicing geography that aligns intellectual inquiry with ethical commitment, even as it remains entangled with the uneven structures of academic life. In this practice, the most meaningful outcomes are not always publications, but moments of intergenerational dialogue sparked by a photograph, a story, or a shared memory.

To do geography, therefore, is to care for the connections among land, image, memory, and community. To know a place is not simply to interpret it; it is to enter into accountable relationship with the people, histories, and living landscapes that give it life. And that work, like the landscapes we study, is never finished.