Indigenous cartographies and mapping abundance

Abstract

Indigenous cartographies developed in Indigenous homelands in response to the distinctive relationships each Indigenous community had with its respective environments. Oftentimes, these cartographies are embedded in important cultural practices and maintained through mentored learning processes. The spatial knowledge recorded and shared in these systems encourages an attitude of environmental care and sustainable accountability. Returning to these systems has been instrumental for Indigenous communities who are reconnecting with their ancestral wisdom. Including these perspectives in classrooms by adding the articles from this special double edition to reading lists will expand the depth of discussions geographers have about Indigenous research and their responsibilities (as opposed to roles) to the process.

Indigenous cartographies are dynamic, multimodal systems of storing and sharing spatial knowledge that reflect Indigenous understandings of and relationships with the world they perceive. A world filled with an abundance of relatives, most of whom are not human but are recognized and treated as though they are family because we depend on each other to thrive in good times and survive in tough times. The spatial knowledges that emerge from these worlds honor and reflect the homelands, peoples, and practices from which they originate. Oftentimes, these systems of knowing are embedded in important cultural practices such as gathering medicine, hunting game, or finding a good place to build a home and encourage an attitude of care and accountability. Like the fascia of connective tissue found just below the skin, these systems stabilize and strengthen Indigenous ways of coexisting with the natural world to ensure sustained and resilient abundance. Indigenous mapping is both a process and a product of Indigenous cartographies. Together, they form an important part of why many Indigenous communities could survive in their homelands for hundreds if not thousands of years. Indigenous cartographic expressions are found in the intricacies of weaving baskets, felting fabrics, and braiding sweetgrass. These processes and practices are handed down to younger generations, who are mentored and molded to maintain a cultural ethos of respect and responsibility.

From the moment colonial expansionists entered Indigenous homelands, their cartographers and surveyors “marginalized Indigenous peoples, silencing Indigenous spatial knowledge systems, which led to, in many cases, irrevocably severing Indigenous relationships with their cultural landscapes” (Louis, 2017: 10). Indigenous expressions of cartography, such as those described above, were deemed irrelevant and cast aside for colonial cartographies of surveillance and land ownership. In response, Indigenous “acts of resistance” have manifested cartographically for generations. As long as nation-states continue to employ cartographic techniques and expressions with the goal of removing Indigenous people from their homelands, extracting their “resources,” and eradicating access to sustainable livelihoods, there will be counter-mappers who support and encourage Indigenous people to assert their “rights” to access, manage, and use their traditional homelands (Louis et al., 2012).

Today, Indigenous cartographies and Indigenous mapping mean different things to different people, but both hold the fading resonance of mistrust and misrepresentation. Within the halls of academia, one faction sees cartographic processes and practices as malleable to the wielder’s intent (Caquard and Cartwright, 2014; Palmer and Korson, 2020; Pearce and Hornsby, 2020). Allowing Indigenous communities to drive the design and dictate the content demonstrates that creative collaborations can lead to useful blendings, for example, by supporting disempowered people’s control over how stories about their homelands are shared, including their origins, migrations, and locations of hunting, fishing, and medicine grounds. Another faction sees the terms as embracing the contentious and political nature of Indigenous relationships with colonial cartographies and their continued forms of oppression (Lowan-Trudeau, 2021; Sium and Ritskes, 2013). They recognize and use the “power of the map” to resist colonial domination and those “acts of violence” emerging from their unrestricted, exploitative, and nonreciprocal socio-ecological practices (Lucchesi, 2019; Rose-Redwood et al., 2020). Still yet, another faction believes these kinds of terms belong to the realm of academia and that Indigenous academics use them to provide a common ground to discuss distinctive qualities of Indigenous spatial knowledge systems. They do not accept colonial cartographic conventions as capable of properly representing Indigenous cartographic engagements (Fujikane, 2021; Louis, 2017; Uluocha, 2018; Williams, 2022). They are more focused on defining their own culturally consistent, ancestral, and/or “historic geographies in the ways that best suit our communities and the cultures from whence we come” (Lenk, 2018: 42) and often push the boundaries of understanding the performative nature of Indigenous cartographies (Louis, 2017; Sletto et al., 2021).

Jim Enote and the Zuni Maps Art project intentionally challenge cartographic boundaries of what constitutes a map. He recognized that “modern maps hold no memory of what the land was before” and too few of us “have paused to consider that maps do not tell us where we are from or who we are. Many of us do not know the stories of the land in the places where we live” (Enote, 2018). They set out to create “counter maps” he defines as “maps that reclaim the names of Zuni places and depict the land of the A:shiwi (Zuni) as they know and see it, immersing the viewer in a landscape interwoven with culture, story, and prayer” (Enote, 2018).

Incorporating prayer into the map is not only culturally informative, it maintains place-based social relationships and also allows map readers and listeners to re-enact and reconnect with ancestral and historical practices of survival and abundance. Zuni maps are artistic cartographies filled with symbology that provide a different way of engaging with the world; it offers a different way of looking and knowing. These maps help orient the A:shiwi to their identity as a people, including their place within the landscape, and to restore ancestral and historical connections and relationships with their cultural landscape.

Shared with each household in the community, Zuni maps become the touchstone that beckons for its story to be shared; it is an invitation to map the places that live in your memory and give equal consideration to those voices of the land that are mere whispers on the wind. The Zuni maps are modern Indigenous cartographic examples of the benefits of taking the time to deeply listen to the land “to ensure the resilience and well-being of the places where we live” (Enote, 2018). This is especially evident with Indigenous earth-based origin stories that often interweave lessons of enduring resilience and survival.

In Hawai‘i, there was no specific class of people who drew maps. Instead, we had orators who were trained to remember, composers who threaded ecological knowledge and ancestral traditions of worship into our landscapes, and dancers who embraced the energetics of the choreography to become the winds, rains, and waves. Since Kanaka Maoli “recognize the forces of nature and other metaphysical elements as fundamental spatial relationships” (Louis, 2017: xviii), Kanaka Maoli cartography challenges cartographic sensibilities of reality by providing for those the geospiritual relationships master practitioners must nurture and maintain with their genealogical relations as well as those associated with their profession.

Candace Fujikane extends discussions of Kanaka Maoli cartographies, expressing them as cartographies of abundance. She describes the mo‘olelo (storied historical record) of the migration of the mo‘o (reptilian water deities) to Hawai‘i from their home in the clouds as a Kanaka Maoli cartographic expression of climate change. She identifies the art of kilo as “key to recording changes in the earth in story and song, and such changes were met with renewed efforts to conserve, protect, and enhance abundance” (Fujikane, 2021: 3, italics not in original). Fujikane explains that Kanaka Maoli cartographies encourage humans to respond to changes in their environment and oftentimes provide clues or directions for Indigenous resilience and survival within these cartographic performances of mo‘olelo and mele (song).

Reorienting cartographic output to serve Indigenous perceptions of abundance intertwined with an ethic of care and responsibility is a sharp contrast to the colonial cartographic perception and presentation of Indigenous lands as wastelands with scarcely any evidence of human interaction or resources of value. This contrast is highlighted in Fujikane’s analysis of “the struggle Kanaka Maoli and their allies have taken to protect the sacred mountain lands of Mauna a Wākea from the construction of the Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT)” (Fujikane, 2021: 87). The construction of the TMT on Mauna Kea (shortened form of Mauna a Wākea) has been opposed by Kia‘i Mauna (mountain guardians, henceforth to be shortened to Kia‘i or guardians), because it is the most sacred mountain in Hawai‘i. That should be enough. But with today’s legal system in Hawai‘i supporting the current political leadership, who continue to validate and employ colonial cartographic techniques, Kia‘i were forced to take their concerns to court.

Kia‘i court petitioners provided cartographic evidence of the abundance of water forms on Mauna Kea found in oli, mele, and mo‘olelo. The State’s cartographic presentation continued the perception of the land as a wasteland with scarcely any resources. Ultimately, the State cartographic presentation won the legal battle to exclude any person or entity who could speak on behalf of the water forms under threat. But the Kia‘i court petitioner’s cartographic presentation of abundance, care, and responsibility resonated with a growing community of supporters.

Appealing to that growing community and nourishing the efforts of Kia‘i Mauna worldwide, Kūkulu: Pillars of Mauna-a-Wākea, a traveling art exhibit, was launched in 2017. It was a project conscientiously curated by Aunty Pualani Case, a Kumu Hula (Hawai‘i dance teacher) and an educator of Kanaka Maoli lifeways who holds multiple degrees, served the community as a public school teacher on Hawai‘i Island for 30 years, and became a litigant against the building of the TMT. The Kūkulu exhibit was Aunty Pua’s response to questions posed by a group of Indigenous geographers seeking answers “to how Indigenous communities from different cultures and ecologies are engaging in action to protect their lands and restore the relational practices that support wellness for their peoples” (Richmond et al., 2023). In the book, Because the Land Is Who We Are, Aunty Pua explains that her most important goal for the exhibit was to “bring the Mauna to the people.” She believes that “there must be reconnection before there can be repossession” (Richmond et al., 2023). The book chapter on Kūkulu chronicles the courage, challenges, and strategies used by Kia‘i who object to the environmental, cultural, and spiritual impacts of a massive 18-story, five-acre telescope complex on sacred land.

Using guiding principles for establishing ancestral alignments, Aunty Pua curated a geospiritually connected arrangement of artworks and artifacts, bringing Mauna Kea’s sacredness into a space made safe to delve deeply into difficult conversations through culturally implemented and contextually relevant participatory engagements. She dedicated the exhibit to the Protect Mauna Kea Movement. Her intention was not only to bring the Mauna to the masses but also to humanize Kia‘i, who were villainized by local and mass media. Through careful thought and consideration, the exhibit layout reflected, portrayed, and emanated the spirit of Mauna Kea. Exhibit rooms became landscapes of time and place. Stories of resistance line the walls as art, photographs, and objects honor the Kia‘i. Each artwork was woven into the fabric of collective lived memories of resistance which then became a vehicle for autonomous storytelling. As such, Kūkulu is an opportunity to experience the sacredness of Mauna Kea through the lens of Kia‘i.

The exhibit expanded and transformed my understanding of Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiians) cartographic engagements. I now see them as a living, daily dance of our relational responsibilities to our ancestral alignments. “Cartographically, the Kūkulu Room design was intentionally laid out to evoke the spiritual first and foremost” (Richmond et al., 2023). Only after that connection was established could Aunty Pua begin “to create a cohesive ‘story’ around the room that was layered with meaning, centering design around traditional Kānaka Maoli understanding of regions that extend from ocean to mountain to celestial expanse” (Richmond et al., 2023). The final and most important step in the cartographic engagement was how the “stories came to life on opening day as dancers, chanters, and musical instruments were engaged to ‘awaken’ the artistic contributions and ‘invited’ the deities to be present” (Richmond et al., 2023).

The first exhibit was at the Hawaiian Cultural Center of Hāmākua for 30 months and held no less than five installations. The next exhibit was opened in Kona and held artworks from both Kona and Ka‘ū districts of Hawai‘i Island. The Hilo and Puna districts of Hawai‘i Island held an exhibit honoring the ho‘okupu (gifts) that were presented by worldwide supporters during the 2019 occupation and protest halting the construction of TMT. After COVID overwhelmed the world, the exhibits were put on pause. Now, Aunty Pua has communities wanting her to bring the exhibit to them. As of this writing, Kūkulu has been in University of California (UC) Santa Cruz and is in the planning stages for an opening at UC Santa Barbara and UC Davis and one in conjunction with the Winnemem Wintu’s Run4Salmon Prayer Journey. Each is conscientiously curated to honor the pillars who stand for Mauna Kea living in those areas. According to Aunty Pua, “Kūkulu will be available to all communities who request an exhibit as these exhibits will continue to connect generations of Kia‘i, bring the mountain to the masses, and honor the pillars of Mauna Kea” (Richmond et al., 2023).

These examples of Indigenous cartographic expression and engagement continue to flourish for a reason. They recalibrate our way of being in the world, remind us of our responsibilities, and reconnect us with ancestral alignments. Indigenous community scholars and practitioners such as Jim Enote and Aunty Pua Case and academic advocates such as Candace Fujikane are expanding cartographic paradigms to be more inclusive of Indigenous cartographic priorities and processes. Processes that include deeply spiritual connections with the visible and ancestral realms, where prayers and performances validate Indigenous cultural resilience. Many of the cartographers mentioned in this commentary have been working for decades to provide safe spaces for Indigenous cartographies to come to fruition. Each has moved the bounding boxes of acceptable cartographies allowing the people they work with to elevate their geographic knowledge and represent it in ways that are consistent with their cultural traditions.

Those interested in truly evolving cartographic processes in a manner that includes Indigenous perspectives must seriously consider the value of posthuman ontologies. Elsewhere I wrote that this

is essential for any geographic research focused on Indigenous cultures and communities as it elevates the Indigenous ingenuity and intellect that best understands the highly localized, generalizable wisdom that Indigenous peoples have maintained over generations. The best way to realize this shift is to accept and respect the dawning of Indigenous research sovereignty. (Richmond et al., 2022: 88)

This issue is another important step in that direction, as it uses established knowledge hierarchies to elevate perspectives that are more relevant to Indigenous realities. The next important step is getting these articles from this edition into classrooms so the next generation of cartographers, and by extension geographers, are more accepting of, if not advocating for, Indigenous research sovereignty and, by extension, Indigenous cartographic engagements.