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: Tŝilhqot'in youth reintroducing a selection of ancestral qatŝ'ay (baskets) to Tŝilhqot'in territory: Sierra William, Loretta Jeff-Combs, Jaemyn Baldwin, Peyal Laceese, Dakota Diablo, Chantu William, Gerald Hance (see page 18). Photo by Trevor Mack.
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10 Rematriation: Restoring Land, Ceremony, and Indigenous Leadership
Dr. Crystal Cavalier-Keck (Occaneechi-Saponi)
Rematriation is a spiritual and political act of restoring Indigenous relationships to land, water, language, and spiritual responsibility.
A communal garden project in West Barnstable, MA is rematriating King Philip corn and honoring Wampanoag traditions.
14 Tedong-tedong: Bringing Ancestral Memories to Life in Mamasa
Taufik Rama Wijaya (Mala’bo’)
For the Mamasa Peoples of West Sulawesi, Indonesia, tedong-tedong (buffalo-shaped wooden tombs) represent a deep spiritual connection to ancestors.
16 International Gathering of Indigenous Tattooers Spotlights Reawakening of Wayuu Ancestral Ways
Paloma Abregu (Quechua Chanka)
A gathering in Wayuu territory reawakens the practice of tattooing,
DEPARTMENTS
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Cannupa Hanska Luger (Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara, and Lakota)
6 Special Report
Bullets and Beatings Are Business as Usual for Canadian Mines
18 Qatŝ’ay: Bringing Tŝilhqot’in Spirits Home
Nati Garcia (Maya Mam) and Georges Dougon (Dogon) In Canada, Tŝilhqot’in youth are leading efforts to rematriate sacred woven baskets.
20 Who Owns the Past? The Return of Our Ancestors
Izaira López Sánchez (Ñuu Savi) Indigenous people have to drive rematriation processes to facilitate healing.
22 Rematriation of Yulića Offers Profound Healing
Clare Van Holm & Shelly Covert
A grassroots campaign restores the Nisenan Tribe’s ancestral homelands in California after displacement and loss of federal recognition.
24 People, Not Artifacts: Bringing Our Relatives Home
Candyce Testa (Mashantucket Pequot)
Interview with Michael Thomas (Mashantucket Pequot) about the recent rematriation of Wangunk ancestral remains.
26 Keepers of the Earth Fund Grant Partner Spotlight Samburu Women Trust
28 Staff Spotlight
Miguel Cuc (Maya Kaqchikel)
29 Bazaar Artist
Tarin Andrea Gonzalez (Mapuche) facilitates intergenerational sharing, and provides a space for reconnection with cultural identity.
Rematriation: Bringing Home Our Past, Present, and Future
As I am writing, it is late Spring here on Turtle Island. My family and I just planted Chikashsha tanchi homma (Chickasaw red corn) under a new moon. This heirloom corn, passed down for many generations, was carried by my Chickasaw ancestors on the Trail of Tears when they were removed from our home lands. We will soon plant beans, squash, and other crops alongside the corn. Some of our seeds were rematriated by the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma’s Growing Hope Program, allowing us to revitalize our traditional foods, a foundational component of our heritage and culture.
Rematriation encompasses the many ways Indigenous Peoples are reclaiming our homelands, languages, lifeways, knowledge systems, cultural practices, sacred objects, and ancestral remains. As Crystal Cavalier-Keck (Occaneechi-Saponi) beautifully states, rematriation “is a sacred process of restoring Indigenous relationships to land, water, language, and spiritual responsibility. Where colonization sought to sever these relationships, rematriation centers Indigenous women, matrilineal knowledge systems, and cultural continuity to heal what was disrupted, displaced, or violently stolen.” This CSQ highlights examples of those working tirelessly to reverse colonization’s negative impacts and return home that which belongs to us for past, present, and future generations.
In 1990, the U.S. Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) was passed. It protects and provides for the return of Native American human remains along with funerary, sacred, and cultural patrimony objects to their respective Native Nations. Since then, 126,299 human remains and more than 1.86 million objects have been returned. Yet, only 31% of museums subject to NAGPRA have returned the human remains under their control, and museums, libraries, private collectors, and other institutions worldwide continue to hold millions of
stolen items and ancestral remains that belong to our communities. The Catholic Church is one of the largest landholders globally, with thousands of sacred objects in its collections. The Church must address the dark legacy of residential schools, return our ancestors home from a multitude of unmarked graves, and give back land and objects stolen from Indigenous Peoples. We call on the new pope, Leo XIV, to address these dire needs and advance reconciliation processes.
Land Back movements are a form of rematriation that include governments, faithbased organizations, and institutions returning land to Indigenous Peoples, and purchases by Indigenous communities. As communities and Indigenous-led organizations continue to actively reclaim territories through advocacy, purchasing land and items, and reviving languages and cultural practices such as tattooing and heirloom seed-keeping, we are proud to support this work through grantmaking, capacity building, advocacy, and storytelling.
However, this crucial work is under threat. Since taking office, President Donald Trump has signed several executive orders and directed actions that have disproportionately negative impacts on Indigenous people. We stand in solidarity with Indigenous communities and remain committed to advocating for their rights, sovereignty, and well being. We actively monitor these developments and work alongside our partners to challenge policies in the U.S. and other places that threaten Indigenous lands, cultures, and self-determination.Your support helps Indigenous Peoples safeguard knowledge systems, languages, and lifeways for future generations and allows us to amplify Indigenous voices in leading the way to healing and securing a sustainable future for Mother Earth and all of us. Please give generously at www.cs.org/donate
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
Mishelle Calle, Bazaar Program Assistant
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
Canada Rights of Nature Tribunal Holds Canadian Mining Companies Accountable
FEBRUARY
The Sixth International Rights of Nature Tribunal found Canadian mining companies guilty of damaging ecosystems and violating Indigenous rights across South America, Serbia, and Canada. A final judgment will be presented at COP30 in November.
Namibia | Nama Woman Becomes Vice President
MARCH
Lucia Witbooi (Nama) made history after being sworn in as Vice President of Namibia. Namibia is the only African nation to have both a female president and vice president.
Australia | High Court Rules in Favor of Gumatj Clan
MARCH
Australia’s High Court ruled in favor of the Gumatj Clan of the Yolngu Peoples, upholding a landmark native title case initiated by the late Indigenous activist Galarrwuy Yunupingu (Gumatj). The decision affirms traditional owners’ constitutional right to compensation for mining on their land without consent.
U.S.
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Greenpeace Ordered to Pay $660M Over Dakota Access Pipeline Protests
MARCH
A North Dakota jury ruled that Greenpeace must pay nearly $667 million in damages
to Energy Transfer over its role in protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline near the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in 2016–2017.
Ecuador | State Found in Violation of Rights of Uncontacted Amazon Tribes
MARCH
In a historic verdict, the Inter-American Court found the State of Ecuador guilty of violating the rights of uncontacted Tagaeri and Taromenane Peoples by failing to protect their territory from oil drilling, logging, and violent attacks. The ruling sets international precedent for the rights of Indigenous communities living in voluntary isolation.
Colombia | Protected Territory Established for Yuri-Passé Peoples
MARCH
Colombia has designated over 1 million hectares in the Amazonas department as a protected territory for the uncontacted Yuri-Passé Peoples, prohibiting economic development and forced human contact within the area to ensure the group’s autonomy and survival.
U.S. | Executive Order Enhancing Tribal Sovereignty Rescinded
MARCH
President Donald Trump revoked a 2023 executive order aimed at strengthening Tribal sovereignty and self-determination for 574 federally recognized Tribes.
U.S. | Karuk Tribe Gains Right to Conduct Controlled Burns
MARCH
California’s Karuk Tribe became the first to gain state approval to conduct controlled burns on ancestral lands without prior permits.
Brazil | Supreme Court Removes Proposal for Mining on Indigenous Lands
MARCH
Brazil’s Supreme Court removed a
proposal allowing mining on Indigenous lands from a controversial bill. The proposal, criticized for violating Indigenous rights, aimed to open territories to public interest activities.
New Zealand/Aotearoa | Controversial Māori Rights Bill Rejected
APRIL
A controversial bill seeking to reinterpret New Zealand’s founding document, the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi, which established the rights of both Māori and non-Māori in the country, was defeated at its second reading.
Australia | Britain’s Natural History Museum Returns Aborginal Remains
APRIL
The Natural History Museum in London has repatriated the remains of 36 Indigenous Australian ancestors, bringing the global total of over 1,775 remains returned. Six ancestors were handed over to representatives of the Woppaburra, Warrgamay, Wuthathi, and Yadhighana communities, with the remaining 30 ancestors to be identified.
U.S. | Resolution Commemorating 50th Anniversary of Indian Self-Determination and Education Assistance Act Passed
APRIL
On April 7, the U.S. Senate unanimously passed a bipartisan resolution commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Indian Self-Determination and Education Assistance Act, an act of Congress that radically changed federal Indian policy.
U.S.
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California Tribes Secure Historic Water Agreement
APRIL
On April 2, the Yurok and Hoopa Valley Tribes signed a landmark agreement to share 50,000 acre feet of federal water from the Trinity Reservoir. This historic pact addresses water rights granted in the 1950s.
In March, Lucia Witbooi (Nama) became Vice President of Namibia. Photo: Wikipedia.
ADVOCACY UPDATES
Guatemala: K’iche’ Ancestral Authorities Detained
APRIL
On April 23, former K’iche’ leaders Luis Pacheco and Héctor Chaclán were arbitrarily detained and accused of terrorism by the Public Prosecutor’s Office, stemming from their participation in 106 days of peaceful pro-democracy protest. Their imprisonment is a violation of fundamental rights guaranteed by the Guatemalan Constitution and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, to which Guatemala is a signatory. The criminalization of the two activists and leaders from the 48 cantons of Totonicapán seeks to undermine ancestral Indigenous institutions and reflects the Public Prosecutor’s Office strategy to discourage and weaken social movements against government corruption and impunity. Cultural Survival demands respect for ancestral Indigenous mayoral offices and the immediate release of Pacheco and Chaclán.
Paraguay: Yvy Pyte Community Without Full Access to Traditional Territories due to Land Invasions
APRIL
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.
Cultural Survival and the SIRGE Coalition, where she denounced the human rights violations her People are facing due to nickel mining extraction without their Free, Prior and Informed Consent. Guadalupe Fernandez (Quechua) from the Sura Nation of the Ayllu Acre Antequer, and Pastor Carvajal Blanco (Aymara) from the Seque Jahuira community in Bolivia, participated in two official side events hosted by Cultural Survival and the Indigenous Environmental Network. Carvajal made an intervention denouncing the arrival of illegal miners in his community’s territory and the impacts of the pollution of the tailings. Fernandez spoke about the effects of the mining activities of the Santa Cruz Silver Mining Ltd. and Glencore mining companies, including the persecution and criminalization of Indigenous land defenders.
The Yvy Pyte community, who are part of the Paĩ Tavyterã Indigenous Peoples in the department of Amambay, Paraguay, have been consistently threatened and under attack since 2021 by illegal invaders on their lands. In April 2025, the Prosecutor’s Office conducted an operation to gather evidence on the community’s invasion complaint. The Yvy Pyte community cannot access their traditional territories, and many children cannot go to school due to the invasion of their land by outsiders. The community is currently carrying out land measurement work to demarcate and protect their territory; however, without implementation support from the National Indigenous Institute, these demands will not be realized.
US: CS Staff and Partners
Attend 24th Session of UNPFII to Advocate
for Indigenous Rights
APRIL
Cultural Survival, with our partners from Indonesia and Bolivia and youth fellows from Ecuador, attended the 24th session of the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues held in New York City from April 21-25. Novenia Ambeua (Tobelo) from Indonesia participated in official side events organized by
On March 20, a significant police operation in the Pataxó villages within the Barra Velha and Comexatiba territories of southern Bahia, Brazil, led to the unwarranted arrest of Indigenous leaders along with severe human rights abuses, impacting vulnerable populations such as children and the elderly. Since 2022, the Pataxó Peoples have been facing persecution, armed invasions, defamation, systemic attempts at criminalization, and murder in retaliation for their legitimate struggle for the demarcation of their ancestral territories. Cultural Survival stands in solidarity with the Pataxó Peoples and urges the State of Brazil to guarantee the physical and psychological integrity of the Pataxó communities with effective, impartial protection coordinated by the federal government. We also call for the immediate completion of the demarcation processes for the Barra Velha and Comexatiba Indigenous territories as required by the national constitution and international treaties ratified by Brazil.
France: Indigenous Leaders Advocate for Indigenous Rights at OECD Forum
Cultural Survival and the Securing Indigenous Peoples Rights in the Green Economy (SIRGE) Coalition participated in the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) Forum on Responsible Mineral Supply Chains in Paris, France, from May 4–8. A delegation of Indigenous representatives and allies coordinated advocacy efforts to highlight the impacts of the global transition mineral boom, particularly for electric vehicle batteries, on Indigenous lands, rights, and ecosystems.
Read more news at www.cs.org/latest
WHEN SILENCE SPEAKS LOUDER CANNUPA HANSKA LUGER ON ART, ANCESTRY, AND ACTION
Installation view of "Cannupa Hanska Luger: Speechless," February 13—July 6, 2025. Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University, North Carolina.
Tia-Alexi Roberts (NARRAGANSETT, CS STAFF)
Cannupa Hanska Luger (Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara, and Lakota) is a New Mexicobased artist who creates influential works at the intersection of ancestral memory and future vision. Through sculpture, performance, and installation, Luger explores 21st-century Indigeneity using land-based practices, speculative fiction, and community collaboration.
Luger is a 2025 Eiteljorg Fellow, 2025 Ourworlds Award recipient, and 2024 Herb Alpert Award winner, and has previously received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, United States Artists, and more. His work has appeared at the Whitney Museum of American Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Crystal Bridges Museum of Art in Bentonville, Arkansas, and internationally in the UAE, Shanghai, and Zurich. Some of his previous works include “GIFT (2023–24),” a site-specific critique of colonialism; “Sweet Land (2020),” an opera confronting settler narratives; “Every One (2018),” a memorial to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two-Spirits; and the “Mirror
Shield Project (2016),” supporting resistance at Standing Rock. His work appears in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, among other institutions.
Cultural Survival recently spoke with Luger to discuss the ideas and inspirations behind his work.
Cultural Survival: What challenges did you face as a Native artist when you first started your career?
Cannupa Hanska Luger: As a Native person, there is a historical hurdle of us being a part of antiquity. Trying to forge a useful tool in the realms of what our experience is in the 21st century and into the future—that’s the more relevant conversation to me. But it wasn’t necessarily what the market was interested in when I started making work. I think many challenges come from a population with their minds full of a mythical and/or false narrative around our culture and population.
CS: How does the connection to your ancestors influence your work?
CHL: There is an awareness that I am no greater than any other living thing here, and in fact, on a temporal line—I’m only borrowing the air that I breathe, the water that I drink, and the space that I inhabit. I’m borrowing it not just from the environment itself, but future generations, and the privilege of that is entirely due to what my ancestors did in order to be here: the sacrifices made, the horrors endured, the glories reveled in are all a part of what it means to be alive presently.
CS: How do you view your work within the broader context of contemporary Native art?
CHL: There is a bit more pressure than, say, my EuropeanAmerican peers may have to face. I’m operating in the contemporary art field, and having access to that is a hardwon battle fought over generations. The public-facing part of my practice needs to be worthy of praise by my commu-
Photo by Joel Johnson. Image courtesy of the Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University.
nity, and that makes it challenging, but that challenge is a gift. Indian Country is not afraid to call you out on your shortcomings. Rather than that being depleting, I just see it as a gift. What other cultural group or other communities have that sort of access to their relations?
We are hundreds of different cultures, language groups, dances, and ceremonies. There are things that connect us for sure, but there are things that separate us by the land that you come from. I think it’s important to have those conversations, because in the public sphere of the American art canon, now that we are getting exposure in those spaces, I think we have to amplify the fact that we are not a monolith.
CS: The title of your exhibit, “Speechless,” invites powerful reflections on communication. How does this theme appear in the exhibition?
CHL: “Speechless” was built out of a question that I was having in relation to the access and privilege that I have in institutional spaces. I started to feel like a virtue signal for American institutions; I was starting to feel as though I was not being heard. So “Speechless” was like, you know what? It doesn’t matter if you are a virtue signal for the institution, because at the end of the day, what if I am a signal for virtue? Not for the institution to show what it cared about in 20242025, but for what future generations will be looking at in the historical art canon. It’s not so much about what you say, but that you are communicating.
The way that I try emphasizing this [is through] these enormous speaker stacks that look as though they would be kicking out tremendous sound, but no sound comes out of them. It’s a silent exhibition, and the visual motifs that are on the speaker stacks is a recurring theme of “bite your tongue.” As I was doing this, I was thinking about these bases that were being built in the remote islands in the Pacific and in Africa in World War II. As the armed forces were coming in, they were dropping paratroopers and cargo
into these sites. The Indigenous populations that were on that land were aware that this was happening, and they would make their own symbolic radio towers and emulate some of the marching and whatnot as dance. The Western anthropological look was angled in the trajectory of the “primitive people,” marveling at our technologies.
CS: How do pieces like “The Keep” and “The TIPI [Transportable Intergenerational Protection Infrastructure]” symbolize the complex relationship between Indigenous Peoples and colonial powers?
CHL: I’m Northern Plains, and we use tipis on both sides of my family. I’ve always struggled with the tipi being one of these blanket stereotype forms. Whenever I work with the tipi as a form, there’s always a little bit of hesitation or an internal cringe, like, am I reinforcing this narrative by working with this form? But at the end of the day, a tipi is a spaceship. It travels through space and provides shelter for its inhabitants. It’s also a nomadic transportation infrastructure, which is so contrary to the colonial model of own, possess, and extract.
Putting a tipi up in the museum . . . I like putting these in those spaces because they are a literal visual lens for an important message that what is true in the universe is true here on the land. They are literally a scientific illustration of the lensing of the cosmos. I think there is so much valuable Indigenous technology embedded in the tipi as a form.
CS: What kind of conversations do you hope to spark with your work?
CHL: On one hand, I like the interpretation of my work by my audience. If it only registers as what I built it for, then I feel that I somehow failed as an artist. But if I can present it in a way that allows people to imagine differently or challenge even some of their own internal ideas and preferences, then I feel that that’s successful. Outside of them interpreting my intention, I’m more interested in their interpretation. I don’t get access to most of the people walking through the museum and having a moment, so please don’t let it be just what I think. Whatever you think is more honest because I’m not there. You’re there, you’re experiencing it, and I can’t really influence that. But I can accept it, and in acceptance, I think there’s a great reward.
”Joint Chiefs of Staff (verso),” 2023, by Cannupa Hanska Luger. Ceramic, steel, leather, fur, fir, repurposed speaker boxes, repurposed military lockers, synthetic hair, hand blown glass, and paint.
Photo by Wendy McEahern, courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery.
“Wealth,” 2023, by Cannupa Hanska Luger. Ceramic, synthetic hair, ammunition can, steel, and artificial sinew.
Photo by Wendy McEahern, courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery.
BULLETS AND BEATINGS Are Business as Usual for Canadian Mines
“
Brandi Morin (CREE/IROQUOIS)
“
If it’s terrorism to defend the land, if it’s terrorism to be at the head of a community and say no to a foreign extractive company—if that’s terrorism, let them condemn me. I’m here,” says Juan Carlos Carvajal Silva (Montuvio), president of the Collective Defenders of Water and Life. At 38, Silva leads the Las Pampas community in northwestern Ecuador in their fight against La Plata, a new mining project in Ecuador’s northern Cotopaxi province brought to them by Vancouver, Canada-based Atico Mining.
Criticism of Canada’s role in enabling projects like this came to a head in early February when Ecuador finalized negotiations on a new trade deal with Canada that the country’s conservative president says will promote local job growth and hold both countries to the highest of labor and environmental standards. But the Atico endeavor is raising serious questions about environmental protection and human rights in one of the world’s most biodiverse regions. The project, valued at $91 million, aims to extract copper, gold, silver, and zinc. Every day, approximately 850 metric tonnes of rock will be excavated in an operation expected to run for eight years.
As yet, the company has only explored 1.6% of its land holdings, suggesting the potential for expansion, and locals are rallying against Atico’s state-backed operation due to concerns about the project’s environmental footprint. Ecuador’s government and military have responded swiftly
to quell dissent, resulting in violent clashes. The mine’s shadow has turned neighbor against neighbor and poisoned daily life in the surrounding rural communities.
On a family-owned farm nearby, Silva moves through his family’s operation. His hands sift dried cane and feed spent stalks into the fire beneath the heating vats. Steam rises from the boiling liquid, carrying the scent of generations of knowledge. “This is really our way of life. This is our gold, as they used to say,” he says. “The product inside has given us our daily life here, clothes, food, medicine . . . everything.” Silva’s words reflect the pride and determination of Las Pampas, a farming community where traditional knowledge and modern resistance go hand in hand. But that tradition is under threat because of the La Plata project, which is set to break ground only 15 kilometers away.
Las Pampas is a vibrant, close-knit community where everyone knows each other, where daily life continues as it always has. Silva’s connection to this land was forged in childhood, growing up poor but happy on a family farm in Las Pampas. “To be born in the countryside meant becoming familiar with each tree, to be able to play and interact with a tree, to be able to play in the water,” he recalls. “What really identifies me [as being of this place] is to be able to defend a tree and know that when I was little I played in that tree, and today that tree is so big. Today, I say to that tree, when I was little you were also little, but today you are bigger than me, and today you give me shade.”
The same deep connection extends to the waterways that sustain the region: “To be able to see a river and say
Jeremias Quishpi Medina tends to dairy cattle at his family’s farm.
to that river, when I was little you were big for me and I was afraid of you, but today you are my best friend, because I share with you, because you refresh me. How could I not love a river? It’s part of my life. It grew up with me and it still continues to flow in the same place it has for as long as I can remember, and it will be there for generations to come.”
But this pastoral life exists under constant threat. Since 2017, the community has successfully stalled the mine’s advance through peaceful resistance. In response, the government has deployed a familiar playbook of criminalization, intimidation, and violence. More than 100 community members now face charges of terrorism and organized crime for defending their land. “People are being criminalized because there exists no basic guarantee of the right to protest,” Silva says. “They are criminalizing small-scale farmers who don’t have the financial resources to access justice and who also don’t have the means to organize and travel far distances. It’s a strategy to wear people down. It’s a burden with economic, physical, emotional, and psychological implications.”
In March of 2021, the threats turned terrifyingly real for Silva as he was kidnapped by unknown assailants at gunpoint on his way to a community meeting in a neighboring province. “They surrounded us, pointed guns and pulled us out of the car, threw us into the trunk, and took us to dump us in the bush,” he recounts. “Feeling a gun to your head, being told if you move, they will kill you . . . those were tough moments. I said, ‘if you’re going to kill me, I just want to see where I’m going to die.’ Let me raise my head and then kill me.’”
He survived, but the dangers continued. He says government authorities attempted to buy his silence with offers of a ministry position. “The state wanted to play me, they wanted to buy me and I didn’t agree,” he says. “Above all else I hold my dignity and loyalty to my people. I will not sell my dignity.” When bribes failed, threats followed. “We are going to put you in prison. La Roca jail is waiting
for you,” he says he was told by local authorities. The government’s latest weapon is Decree 754, which attempts to fast-track environmental consultations for mining projects. “The decree enables and facilitates the government being able to do what it did with the armed forces,” Silva says. “A consultation that should take six to seven years—they want to rush it through.”
The executive order was struck down as unconstitutional by Ecuador’s highest court in late 2023, yet, in a
Marcelo Robayo points to the scar left by a bullet in the back of his son Mesías Masapanta’s neck.
Locals participate in a demonstration against mining in Las Pampas.
contradictory move, the court allowed the decree to remain in effect until new laws could be passed—creating what environmental lawyer Mario Melo calls “a legal gray area that hurts not only local communities, but many government projects that also need clear rules.”
Then in March 2024, amid the legal chaos created by Decree 754 and multiple failed attempts to impose an accelerated consultation process, the clash between community and corporate narratives erupted into violence.
More than 1,000 heavily armed personnel descended on the towns of Palo Quemado and Las Pampas, transforming the peaceful farming communities into what residents describe as a war zone. The confrontation left multiple community members seriously injured from bullets and tear gas canisters fired at close range. Among them is Mesías Masapanta (Montuvio), a 40-year-old farmer and father who now lives with permanent disfigurement after being shot in the face and back of the head, left unable to work and support his family.
In the courtyard of Masapanta’s rented home, laundry hangs on the line and chickens scratch in the dirt. He sits outside in a wheelchair with his loyal pet parrot named Chou, who hasn’t left his side since he returned from the hospital seven months ago. Every word is a struggle now, his speech slurred from injuries inflicted by military forces during March’s environmental consultation protests. “I grew up here. I dedicated myself to agriculture, and with it I was able to get my daily bread,” Masapanta says. Before the military shot him, he worked the land like his ancestors —tending livestock, harvesting naranjilla, processing panela sugar cane. Now it’s hard for him to even walk around.
The day that changed everything started like many others in this resistance. “We went to the environmental consultation protest with a group of friends,” he recalls. “When we arrived, we found the surprise that the military had been waiting for us.” What happened next plays on
repeat in his fractured memory: “The soldier was aiming at me and hit me in the face. I flipped backwards and I don’t remember any more.” Masapanta spent nearly three months in a coma. When he finally woke and was able to recognize his family again, doctors said he was lucky to be alive, let alone able to walk or speak. But seven months after leaving the hospital, Maspanta faces a new battle— finding $100,000 for urgent surgery to repair his jaw. In addition to the bullet that shattered his face, another is still lodged near his cervical spine.
In the courtyard, Masapanta’s father, Marcelo Robayo, 60, bounces Maspanta’s eight-month-old daughter in his arms, throwing her up in the air as she squeals with delight. The joy of the moment is pierced by his father’s tears, his calloused hands a testament to a lifetime of working the earth. “My son was a very hard worker in supporting the family,” he says, breaking down. “I taught my son to work hard and to be an honest person. He wasn’t fighting with anyone; he was a good boy.” The family lives day to day, grinding sugar cane for whatever money they can earn.
“There are days that we eat, there are days we don’t eat,” says Robayo. When Maspanta was hospitalized in Quito, his parents traveled there with almost nothing, often going a day with just one meal. “I was calm, because I’m not a terrorist,” his father, who is also facing charges of terrorism and organized crime, says. “I have a clear conscience. I am a hard-working campesino.”
Maspanta’s wife, Marcia Leon, 30, breaks down as she shows x-rays of her husband’s skull, the thick chain visible where bone should be. She can’t work because he needs constant care.“It’s very hard to see him. He used to be on his own,” she says. “My daughter is small… It’s been eight months and I’m still fighting. I only ask God to give me strength to move forward.”
The family faces more than just medical challenges. Maspanta’s sister, Martha Masapanta (Montuvio), 43, says
A private property sign erected by Canadian company Atico Mining at the site of its La Plata project.
Maria Guasti and José Balseca sift and boil raw sugar.
that while he was in a coma, there were attempts on his life. “They even ordered him to be killed,” she says, placing the blame on the mining company and the government.
The family took turns guarding Maspanta day and night, checking every medication. Phone calls came from unknown numbers—people claiming to be sergeants, demanding information. “It was scary for us,” she says. Now Leon reports what she describes as constant surveillance. “They are always watching . . . the police or those who work in the Atico mining company. They always know more and they say about me, there she is, what she does, where she goes.”
Maspanta has mostly been quiet about what happened, until now. “They don’t want me to speak, nor do they want me to give my version,” he says. “They said that I am like this because I have fallen, I have stumbled, but I did not fall. It was the bullets.” Martha, herself charged with terrorism and organized crime for opposing the mine, refuses to be silenced. She and other community members take turns working Maspanta’s land one week, their own the next, trying to support the family. “After all, he gave the only thing he had,” she says. “Imagine giving your life for all of us. So we cannot disrespect that.” The community is helping build Maspanta and his family a small house so they’ll have something of their own. “When this accident happened, when he went out to fight, he had nothing. He was just a working man, just like all of us here,” she says.
Their resistance continues, even as many face charges of terrorism and organized crime. “We are campesino defenders of water and life,” Martha declares. “We want our voices to be heard . . . Please stop this because they are killing us day by day.” “We want to live in peace like every human being,” Maspanta says. “That is what I
would ask on my part, that our voice is heard.” As evening approaches, Robayo cradles his baby granddaughter, who barely knew her father before the shooting. His weathered voice carries both pride and pain: “We are humble, hardworking people. I am not afraid. What I ask is that the company no longer comes here. I ask from the bottom of my heart that they don’t come. We don’t want them to spill blood anymore.”
On a different day in nearby Palo Quemado, the scene is tense as another government sanctioned environmental consultation process is underway. Unlike what we might expect from a consultation meeting, the building is surrounded by police officers. Silva, dressed for business in his crisp white shirt, black jacket, and perfectly pressed jeans, peers through the tinted windows of a van parked at a safe distance. “I stayed in the car for my own safety,” he says, eyes fixed on two plainclothes officers scrutinizing the vehicle.
“See these two people who are always surrounding the car? They are people that the mining company sends to persecute me, together with the police, because I have many complaints against me for mobilizing the people.” Silva’s voice remains steady but his tension is palpable. “I’m always on the defensive in this area, because there are many people who have already put a price on my head. So coming here is for me like almost coming looking for death.”
In December 2024, award-winning Indigenous journalist Brandi Morin (Cree/Iroquois) and photojournalist Ian Wilms traveled to Ecuador to report on the impact of transition mineral mining on Indigenous communities. Read the full four-part series at www.cs.org/morin3.
Left: Mesías Masapanta’s x-rays showing injuries to his skull and the chain that holds his jaw together.
Right: Juan Carlos Carvajal Silva cuts sugar cane.
REMATRIATION
RESTORING LAND, CEREMONY, AND INDIGENOUS LEADERSHIP
Dr. Crystal Cavalier-Keck (OCCANEECHI-SAPONI)
Rematriation is more than the return of land or cultural items. It is a sacred process of restoring Indigenous relationships to land, water, language, and spiritual responsibility. Where colonization sought to sever these relationships, rematriation centers Indigenous women, matrilineal knowledge systems, and cultural continuity to heal what was disrupted, displaced, or violently stolen. The term itself challenges the dominant colonial concept of “repatriation,” which often frames the return of objects or remains to Tribal communities as a bureaucratic or institutional gesture. In contrast, rematriation is a spiritual and political act of reconnection, one that reclaims Indigenous worldviews where land is not property but kin, where leadership emerges from responsibility, not hierarchy, and where women are the carriers of life, law, and legacy. As an Indigenous rights advocate, educator, and founder of 7 Directions of Service, rematriation is at the heart of everything I do. I have spent years protecting sacred sites from environmental destruction and standing against pipelines that threaten burial grounds, waterways, and ancestral territories. These efforts are not only acts of resistance, but also remembrance and return. They are rematriation in motion, guided by the voices of our grandmothers and the needs of future generations.
Rematriation is not always peaceful. It often begins in the face of erasure and extractive violence, pipelines, highways, gravel pits, and development projects that proceed without consent and ignore the sacred. Indigenous Nations like the Occaneechi, Tuscarora, Meherrin, and Lumbee continue confronting these threats in the southeastern United States. Many of us, unrecognized federally or overlooked by state systems, must fight twice as hard to defend our lands and ancestors. When I stood before the threatened sites along the Mountain Valley Pipeline Southgate Extension and the Southeast Supply Enhancement Project, I wasn’t just opposing fossil fuel infrastructure: I was protecting our Peoples’ right to exist on the land.
These burial sites, forests, and rivers are not relics. They are living archives of our history, prayer, and sovereignty. In the colonial imagination, land was a resource to be controlled. But to us, land is a ceremony, a grandmother, and a memory. That is why our resistance is about stopping destruction and restoring our responsibility to the land as a relative. This is the core of rematriation.
A Personal Journey of Return
Rematriation has deeply personal meaning within my own Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation. Our people have endured centuries of displacement, broken treaties, and misrecognition. Despite that, we’ve held onto what we could, fragments of stories, foods, ceremonies, and burial grounds that tie us to our ancestors. I have worked to help document and protect ancestral sites along the old Occaneechi Trading Path—an ancient route that once connected tribes from the Great Lakes to the Carolinas. This land is not a metaphor; it contains the bones of our people, the tracks of our trade, and the teachings of those who walked before us. Rematriation here means restoring ceremony and self-governance. I have supported the revitalization of traditional foodways and public education around our sacred places. I continue to advocate for constitutional reform in our Tribal governance so that our leadership structures reflect Indigenous values of balance, consensus, and circle, not colonial mimicry. I work to ensure that women, Elders, and youth, those traditionally silenced, are once again central to decision-making. Through our organization, 7 Directions of Service, we’ve developed programs that bring these ideas to life. Our youth river journeys are not just summer outings; they are immersive experiences rooted in land-based pedagogy, Traditional Ecological Knowledge, and intergenerational learning. Youth learn how to identify medicinal plants, trace the rivers of their ancestors, and engage in community-based environmental stewardship. We teach them not just how to survive, but also how to listen to the water, the trees, and their Elders. We help them understand that the land remembers them, even when systems
A view of the backyard at Yesah Farm in Mebane, North Carolina, where community, culture, and cultivation come together.
try to erase them. In doing so, we prepare the next generation of land protectors, culture-bearers, and tribal leaders. This kind of education is not optional—it is essential. In a time of climate crisis, cultural erasure, and rising youth mental health disparities, reconnecting our young people to land and identity is both a form of healing and a blueprint for survival. Rematriation offers more than a return to tradition; it provides a path forward.
Land Back and Ceremony Forward
Rematriation is often linked to the “Land Back” movement, but it goes deeper than land return alone. Land Back is a critical demand for justice, but rematriation adds the spiritual, ceremonial, and gendered dimensions that reflect how we relate to land. It asks: Who will steward this land? Who will sing for it, pray with it, raise children on it? In many nations, that responsibility belongs first to women—life-givers, knowledge keepers, water protectors. Colonization displaced not only our people, but also the roles we held within our societies. Rematriation re-centers Indigenous women’s leadership in theory, ceremony, governance, and land stewardship. You cannot restore the land without restoring the systems that once protected it, and grandmothers guided those systems.
Too often, rematriation is mistaken for the return of artifacts in museum vaults. While returning ceremonial items, wampum belts, and ancestral remains is vital, we must understand that these items are sacred because they are part of something larger. They are expressions of cosmology, kinship, and responsibility. True rematriation returns not only the physical, but also the spiritual and cultural wholeness that those items represent. It restores language, songs, food, governance, and memory. It returns to us what was taken and invites us to pick up what was left behind. I’ve witnessed this firsthand when young people taste traditional foods grown in repatriated gardens, participate in coming-of-age ceremonies that were once banned, or see their river as a water source and an ancestor. These moments transform them—and us.
The Role of Women in Indigenous Futures
Indigenous women have always been at the forefront of protection movements, resisting boarding schools, organizing against pipelines, reviving ceremonies, and demanding accountability from our institutions. We are not just survivors of colonial violence, but builders of postcolonial futures. Rematriation honors this leadership. It moves beyond inclusion and toward restoration. It asks not, how can we make space for Indigenous women? But how can we return to a world where their leadership is the foundation? This means addressing not only external systems of oppression, but also the internalized structures that have sidelined our voices in tribal politics, organizational hierarchies, and movement spaces. If rematriation is to succeed, it must be practiced in governance, in institutions, and everyday relations.
Rematriation is not a metaphor. It is a daily practice of living in proper relation with the land, each other, our ancestors, and those yet to come. It requires humility, accountability, and ceremony. It means listening more than speaking, tending more than taking, and leading from the heart rather than the podium. For me, it is not an abstract idea; it is the way I live, teach, and lead. It shows how we farm, organize, resolve conflict, and prepare our youth. As we continue this work in North Carolina and across Turtle Island, I invite others to join us in protest and practice. Rematriation is a return, but also a reawakening. It is an invitation to all Indigenous Peoples to remember who we are and to live accordingly. When we repatriate land, we don’t just restore territory; we restore law, love, and life. And that is how we begin to heal.
Dr. Crystal Cavalier-Keck (Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation) is the founder and Executive Director of 7 Directions of Service, an Indigenous-led collective rooted in environmental justice and community organizing based in the homelands of the Occaneechi-Saponi in rural North Carolina.
A community
Left: Jason Keck and a dedicated volunteer planting blueberry bushes during Fall community planting day.
Middle: Jason Keck and Crystal CavalierKeck proudly with their new tractor, a vital tool for expanding food sovereignty and stewardship at Yesah Farm.
Right:
workday with dedicated 7 Directions of Service volunteers.
CORN SISTER CIRCLE
Honoring Our Ancestors, Grounded on Our Ancestral Homelands
Brailyn Frye (Mashpee Wampanoag), Aukeeteamitch Uppeshau Brown (Narragansett & Eastern Pequot), Lauren Peters (Mashpee Wampanoag), Annokquus “Star Fire” Yoteeg (Narragansett & Eastern Pequot) at Mounding Moon Gathering at the Maushop Tribal Farm in Mashpee, MA.
Lauren Peters (MASHPEE WAMPANOAG)
On a sunny day in May 2021, I took my two young sons to my favorite childhood spot: the Nation House, where my aunt and Clan Mother, Anita “Mother Bear” Peters, tends a 13-acre farm on Garrett’s Pond in West Barnstable, MA. We gathered with our Wampanoag seedkeepers and our allies, and rematriated King Philip (Metacom), corn back to Wampanoag soil for the first time in over 300 years. The crop was decimated during King Philip’s War, the bloodiest war to ever be fought on American soil.
In 2021 and 2022, we grew the corn on the Maushop Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Farm and at the Nation House. This allowed us to get to know the crop and understand how best to feed it using our traditional methods. The following year, in 2023, we invited the community to join us. Dozens of women, children, and Two-Spirits from Tribes across the Northeast came together to honor the crop, our communities, and our ancestors. This communal-style garden is the traditional way to grow our crops. Historically, in the spring (seeqan), villages moved close to the water to be near our main food source for the season, seafood. While our men were hunting and fishing, our women and children would gather and grow food to support our seafood-rich diet for the community. We tended a single garden as a group. This ensured everyone in the village ate, because there were plenty of hands to do the work. Everyone had a job and every job was important; even the children participated by playing on watchtowers to chase out the crows and other animals. Today, the Corn Sister Circle continues this tradition. We have a word in Wopanaak, nuwneek, meaning everyone has a place in the circle.
I am grateful for the lessons I have learned and the Elders who have guided me throughout my life. One very special Elder who has always been right by my side throughout my life is my aunt and Clan Mother. She is the Clan Mother of the Bear Clan, a master regalia maker, and an Elder seedkeeper. Mother Bear is one of the women who raised me, who made me who I am today. I had parents who loved me very much and taught me many things, but my aunt was my favorite. She is who the school would call when I had a “stomachache,” which meant I just wanted to go home to make regalia for my dolls. She led many of the cultural programs for our Tribal youth when I was growing up, and she nurtured the gardens I loved to play in with my cousins. When I went to fashion school, it was her regalia-making and her attendance at the School of Fashion Design in Boston that inspired me. Growing up, learning how to make regalia and tend to the gardens under her was the richest childhood I could imagine. When I had children, I wanted them to experience the magic of that land and those gardens. Today, in the garden, we honor our ancestors and those we have lost. In Mashpee, we have lost a disproportionate number of Tribal
King Philip/ Metacom corn.
members to overdose, suicide, and vio lence. In 2012, we lost our sister, Danyelle “Smiling Bear” DaSilva, to suicide. It was at the Nation House, where we grew up playing as kids, in our Clan Mother’s gar dens. Losing my childhood partner in crime hurt, but it wasn’t until I had children of my own that I understood just how much it hurt to not have her here. Through dreams and guidance from my ancestors, I felt an over whelming need to honor her and make a space for women and children to come together, love each other, and heal from the intergenerational trauma we carry as Natives. As women, we are the backbone of our matriarchal Tribe. If our women are not strong, we cannot carry our people. Our goal is to build up our women, help them reach their goals, defy statistics, and over come. We are resilient.
The American Psychological Association has confirmed what we already knew, that the best course of treatment for Natives struggling with intergenerational trauma is through practicing our traditions and cultural revitalization. The first step to cultural safeguarding is nurturing our connection with Mother Earth. To be connected to Mother Earth, you must understand what it is to live in balance, and you develop your understanding of a reciprocal relationship. The way we connect to her is by getting our hands in her soil. The Corn Sister Circle pro vides space for our people to enhance and nurture their reciprocal relationship with Mother Earth and their connection to their home lands. My grandfather John “Slow Turtle” Peters’ words are with me every day, his teachings of living in balance and having a connection to Mother Earth. He taught me from a young age the importance of this relationship, and to this day, when I have something I need to work out, I go to the woods or ocean for guidance. It has never failed me. I share these teachings with our women and children to honor our homelands and strengthen our ability to communicate with our ancestors and Creator.
We come from long lines of strong, resilient people, people who have cared for this land for thousands of years. My aunt taught me in the garden, as did her mother (my grandmother, Barbara “Morningstar” Avant), her grandmother, Mabel Avant, who lived and gardened at what is today our Mashpee Wampanoag Museum, and her greatgrandmother, Anna Attaquin, who lived in a large house up the street. We cannot be in balance with Mother Earth and continue to live the way that we currently do. Mother Earth is out of balance. She is sounding the alarm. We need to go back and learn about our ancestors and how they once lived. The garden is a place of healing and remembering. We all have the skills to grow these seeds: it is in our DNA. We must slow down enough to tap into these memories and allow the intuition we have as Native people to guide us. The garden is a small example of what can happen on a larger scale when we all work together as a community, each in our place in the circle, in balance, with a strong connection to Mother Earth.
Lauren “Sun Turtle” Peters (Mashpee Wampanoag) is a seed keeper, mother, and founder of the Corn Sister Circle, a project powered by her love for her community.
Grandmother Barbara “Morningstar” Avant (child), her great-grandmother Anna Attaquin (seated right), Tink Pocknett, who escaped Carlisle Indian Boarding School (top left), Dorcas Coombs Gardner (top right).
Vanessa Mendes (Tobey) tending to corn at Maushop Tribal Farm in Mashpee, MA.
Anita “Mother Bear” Peters.
Left: The tedong -tedong tradition is a cultural heritage of the Indigenous Mamasa Peoples in West Sulawesi, Indonesia. While the Mamasa and Toraja regions are geographically close, they each have distinct cultural identities. Right: Banua (Mamasa traditional house).
TEDONG-TEDONG Bringing Ancestral Memories to Life in Mamasa
Taufik Rama Wijaya (MALA’BO’)
In 2025, the Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara Pengurus Daerah Pitu Uluna Salu Kondo Sapata’ Wai Sapalelean received a Keepers of the Earth Fund grant to support their work to revitalize their culture through teaching and documentation of their language, arts, and rituals. Their work also includes mapping their territory to protect forests and restoration of ancient tedong-tedong burial sites, which are fundamental in their spirituality.
The tedong (buffalo) holds immense cultural and spiritual significance for the Mamasa Peoples, symbolizing strength, prosperity, and high social standing. It is a central figure in many traditional ceremonies, particularly rambu solo (funerals). By carving a tomb in the shape of a buffalo, the community honors the deceased’s influence and social status, reinforcing their legacy in the afterlife. In Toraja custom, tombs are more than places of rest; they are symbolic vehicles to the afterlife. These tombs may take the form of various animals or objects, each with its own cultural meaning. One of the most iconic and widespread forms is the buffaloshaped tomb, known as tedong-tedong.
The story of tedong-tedong is more than a reflection of the Mamasa Peoples’ artistic and spiritual legacy: it is a living testament to the enduring relationship between a people and their ancestors. These sacred wooden tombs are vessels of memory, identity, and belief, carved from ancient trees and a deep-rooted wisdom passed down through generations. As the forces of time, climate, and
modernization threaten to erode this tradition, the Mamasa Peoples stand at a crossroads. At stake is not merely the survival of a funerary custom, but the preservation of a worldview that places harmony with nature, respect for Elders, and communal responsibility at its center.
Land of Seven Riverheads
Pitu Uluna Salu Kondo Sapata’ Wai Sapalelean is our official Tribal name. It is often shortened to Kondo Sapata’ or Mamasa, and while these terms are sometimes used interchangeably, it is important to note that Mamasa is the name of just one of the many Tribes that make up the Kondo Sapata’ Indigenous Nation. Kondo Sapata’ has long inhabited the highlands of what is now known as West Sulawesi, Indonesia. According to our tulasan or tula’ tomatua (ancestral oral traditions), the first to arrive and establish civilization in this land was Nene’ Pongkapadang, who came from Sa’dan Toraja. Outsiders often distinguish us from the broader Toraja Indigenous Nation, but we recognize and acknowledge ourselves as part of that larger cultural and spiritual kinship.
People living in the central Toraja regions often refer to us as Toraja Barat, or West Toraja. In English, Pitu Uluna Salu Kondo Sapata’ Wai Sapalelean means “Land of Seven Riverheads with One Embankment in a Vast Rice Field.” Our community originally consisted of seven major traditional groups. Over time, these expanded in a cultural process known in the Mamasa language as Di Tawa Pole Mana, eventually forming the 25 traditional communities that today span across Mamasa Regency. We are an Indigenous federation of communities, each governing itself through its own adat (customary law) while remaining
united under a shared responsibility to protect and steward the ancestral lands of Kondo Sapata’. Despite our diversity, we are bound by mutual respect, a deep relationship with nature, and shared values. Each community upholds its unique customs and laws, yet all recognize the unifying principle of Ada’ Tuo, our most trusted and effective guide for resolving conflicts and sustaining communal harmony.
Tedong-tedong embodies the spiritual beliefs of the Mamasa Peoples, particularly their connection with ancestral spirits. These spirits continue to watch over and guide the living. The tedong-tedong serve as a spiritual home for the ancestors, a sacred space where their presence remains active. The practice of tedong-tedong burial is inextricably linked to the tongkonan (clan) system of the people.
People in the same tongkonan share one tedong-tedong, so the number of skeletons in each tedong-tedong sometimes reaches into the hundreds. The diameter of the tedong-tedong can reach up to two meters and is made from Uru wood, which is now increasingly rare. Skilled artisans who inherit the craftsmanship through generations carve these wooden tombs, a process that can take months depending on the size and complexity of the carvings.
Tedong-tedong are not buried underground. Instead, they are placed in sacred locations such as rock caves or traditional burial sites called Liang. Some are adorned with intricate carvings that depict the life story of the deceased and ancestral legends passed down through generations. Tedong-tedong tombs are increasingly under threat, particularly from environmental degradation, loss of Traditional Knowledge, and climate change.
Traditionally, many tedong-tedong are placed near rivers or water sources, reflecting the Mamasa Peoples’ deep connection to nature and the belief in water as a spiritual conduit. However, increased rainfall, intensified weather patterns, and riverbank erosion have begun to endanger these sacred tombs. Heavy rains lead to landslides and flooding, gradually weakening the ground beneath the tombs. The once-stable terrain now suffers from soil instability, causing many tedong-tedong to collapse, tilt, or be swept away entirely. The organic nature of the materials makes them particularly vulnerable to rot, mold, and decay in increasingly humid and erratic weather conditions.
Efforts have been made by Indigenous communities to protect and conserve these ancestral legacies through building protective roofs, reinforcing the surrounding soil, and creating drainage systems. These actions are not simple engineering tasks—they are sacred responsibilities. Any intervention must go through strict customary protocols, beginning with the mabulang messita ritual, a ceremonial act to seek spiritual permission. Before any physical work is carried out, there must be a kombongan kalua (great assembly) of adat (Elders) from the tongkonan to deliberate and approve the preservation efforts. These rituals ensure the community’s spiritual safety while reaffirming the
sacredness of the site and the people’s continued commitment to ancestral values.
Compounding the environmental threats is the historical trauma of cultural looting and vandalism. During the mid-20th century, during the Darul Islam/Tentara Islam Indonesia rebellion, numerous tedong-tedong tombs werelooted. Many precious heirlooms, ceremonial jewelry, and spiritual objects were taken and sold on black markets, resulting not just in a material loss, but a deep spiritual wound for the communities. In recent years, there have been rare, but significant, cases where artifacts resurface serendipitously, found by farmers while tending to their fields. These discoveries are treated with great care. After appropriate rituals, such items are ritually returned to their original tombs or guardians, demonstrating the enduring resilience of Mamasa Peoples’ customary values.
Despite these restoration efforts, the number of artisans capable of crafting tedong-tedong is declining. With youth migrating to cities and modern professions, the transmission of this specialized knowledge has been disrupted, and the loss of skilled carvers, ritual experts, and tongkonan leaders threatens the continuity of the practice.
Today, the Mamasa People are navigating a delicate balance of protecting sacred traditions while responding to rapidly changing environmental and social conditions. Preserving the tedong-tedong tombs is not just about saving wooden structures; it is about defending an entire worldview, one where the past, present, and future are spiritually and communally interwoven. Safeguarding tedong-tedong means more than physical preservation. It means honoring the ancestral covenant, supporting the artisans and Elders who still hold this knowledge, and inviting younger generations to reconnect with their roots. It also calls on the broader public, researchers, policymakers, and cultural institutions to stand in solidarity with Indigenous communities like Kondo Sapata’ to ensure their stories are not silenced or forgotten.
Taufik Rama Wijaya (Mala’bo’) belongs to the Pitu Uluna Salu Kondo Sapata Wai Sapalelean Indigenous Federation, an organization of Mamasa Peoples.
Some of the tedong-tedong are decorated with typical Mamasa carvings.
International Gathering of INDIGENOUS TATTOOERS Spotlights Reawakening of Wayuu Ancestral Ways
Paloma Abregu (QUECHUA CHANKA)
It’s 40 degrees Celsius in the desert of La Guajira, Colombia. The landscape is arid, the trees are sparse, and the soil is sandy, orange, and hot. The most common animal you’ll see is a goat, which is found in most dishes throughout the day. This land is also charged with dreams, as this is how the Wayuu receive their messages and stay connected. The Wayuu are the largest Indigenous community of Colombia, but also make their home in Venezuela. In 2023, the first gathering of Wayuu tattooers took place in La Guajira, the traditional territory of the Wayuu Peoples. Two years later, the First International Gathering of Indigenous Tattoo and Ancestral Markings was hosted in the Wayuu community of Majali from March 21-23, 2025, bringing together both tattooers and non-tattooers to discuss the role that tattooing plays within the Wayuu culture, cosmology, and their journey after death.
This multi-generational gathering was born out of the journey of two Wayuu filmmakers who intended to trace the path of Native tattooers and the stories they had to share. Wayuu attended it from different communities and clans, who created a space where they could remember together, dream together, and reawaken the traditional practice of tattooing, together and on one another. Both older and younger women gave and received tattoos. For some, it would be the beginning of their journey to deepen their connection with this traditional practice of marking their skin. The gathering would hold a space for Wayuu who once held judgments and prejudice against tattoos to embrace marking their skin as an active act of keeping their ways and connection to their clan alive in the afterlife. “I used to be embarrassed to be Wayuu, which hurt me because it meant I was ashamed of who my mother was. I love and respect my mother, so this embarrassment hurt me. The first gathering helped me realize that I came from so much knowledge and such strong people. Elders then encouraged me that I would grow to be a strong Wayuu,” one young Wayuu participant said. A grandmother added, “We are not used to sharing so much, and this gathering has helped me see and understand the importance of sharing our memories and ways.”
Traditionally, younger people weren’t allowed to ask questions to the Elders, and the Elders didn’t allow youth around when they were talking. Knowing this was a common
experience shared by many Wayuu, hearing an Elder say that she now sees the necessity and importance of sharing her memories and ways was powerful. The gathering that created a space for grandmothers to share memories and express the desire to keep sharing with the younger generations was a sign that intergenerational transformation was happening before our eyes. It was also a space for urban Wayuu who grew up outside of their community to come home and reconnect with their identity with pride; a space where tears were shed and laughter would echo while memories, stories, names, and images were resurrected. By the end, the participants knew that fueling this momentum would require the support and solidarity of other Indigenous communities who had faced the same challenges of reawakening the practice of marking their skin.
Participants from the Matis, Inuit, Emberá, Maori, Nasa, and Kichwa Peoples came together to share the journeys undertaken by their communities to reawaken the practice of tattooing and the meaning and impact it has had on reawakening these elements of their Peoples’ ways. Each member shared the meaning of tattooing in their respective communities, describing its role within their cultural context and the efforts made to reawaken or strengthen the art. Discussions were held about how the Wayuu wanted to navigate this awakening of their ancestral practice. Among the questions considered were whether they would only tattoo Wayuu and other Indigenous Peoples, or if they would open the possibility of tattooing non-Indigenous people—and if so, whether this could open the doors to cultural appropriation.
For the Wayuu, the asho’ojush (a tattoo of one’s clan’s symbol using cactus spine and charcoal) is important because it will help them connect with their clan and allow them access to the waters in the afterlife; it is a bridge that will connect them to life and community. During the 1980s and 1990s when many Wayuu children were forcibly taken from their families and homes and placed in new adoptive homes around Colombia, these babies’ and children’s first tattoos were a marking so mothers could later find their children. The Emberá shared their cultural practice of temporary tattooing with plant dyes, explaining that the markings change depending on what stage of life or practice they are involved in; they use the temporary tattoos to tell their story on their skin.
The Matis community from Brazil were very special guests at this gathering, because their community has had the most recent experience of involuntary contact. The Matis who participated traveled with an Elder medicine man to share stories of their Peoples’ experiences in keeping the ritual practice of tattooing alive. The medicine man said he was 16 the first time he saw a white man, only 50 years ago. His Peoples were tormented by the diseases that the white people brought to their communities, which killed nearly everyone. With only 80 Matis people surviving, the younger generations migrated to the cities. The Matis Elders saw the tradition of celebrations where young men would get their facial tattoos and piercings coming to an end, and were surprised when the very same youth who had gone to the cities came back and asked for their tattoos to recognize their first rites of passage. These stories of coming home to one’s territory, land, community, and traditions were held tightly by all ears and hearts in attendance. The echo of the medicine man’s story—that the younger generations were on the right path to revive tattooing as an active part of their traditional practice—was poignant.
“A few years ago, I started with the idea of doing traditional tattoos and helping young people learn about the symbolism of the Nasa People through tattooing. Tattooing has always been a way of seeing the world in my life,” said Michael Guetio Cobo (Nasa), a tattooer from Colombia. “When I met two people who also wanted to rescue and strengthen tattooing among the Wayuu, I began to pursue this process with more enthusiasm. Jonatan and David [co-organizers of the gathering] told me about this process. They wanted to bring together a group of Indigenous tattoo artists from around the world, and, well, the day happened. It was magical to see how we felt united in different languages and techniques; it was the first time we all spoke the same language, united by our art. This group felt like a big family of wild people from all over the world, and this convening taught me that the struggle to preserve our cultures, origins, and who we are is enormous. Tattooing and our different ways of thinking help us continue to be Indigenous Peoples, no matter where we are. Tattooing will continue, and we Indigenous Peoples will continue to exist.” Kunaq Tahbone, an Inupiaq tattooer from Nome, Alaska, shared, “It was an amazing experience to attend the tattoo gathering. There were amazing people there, and I feel even closer to our Indigenous kin in South America. The people and communities were so welcoming and made it feel like home. I’ll remember this time and keep the memories in my heart. The connections have been made.”
A small family was created at this gathering through the sharing of each Peoples’ ways, joy, stories of resistance, laughter, and moments of vulnerability. Spaces like these, where peer-to-peer solidarity creates fertile ground to seed efforts and movements within Indigenous communities to deepen and expand the repatriation of our ways, are critical for the survival of our cultures.
Paloma Abregu (Quechua Chanka) has been working within the Indigenous rights and reclamation movement in Peru for over 10 years through Saphichay.
� Kunaq Tahbone (Inupiaq) tattooing the hands of Yesibeth, a young Emberá woman, via the hand poke technique. � Fern Ngatai (Māori) tattooing Tumi, a young Matis man. � Kunaq Tahbone (Inupiaq) tattooing the arm of Paloma Abregu. � Michael Guetio Cobo (Nasa) tattooing the arm of Binan, a Matis Elder. � Binan Shapu (Matis) tattooing a local person.
QATŜ’AY
Bringing T^silhqot’in Spirits Home
Contemporary Tŝilhqot'in artists inspired by the designs of their ancestors. L-R: Sierra William, Loretta Jeff-Combs, Chantu William.
Inset:
Film poster for “Qats�’ay: Bringing Our Spirits Back Home.”
Indigenous communities in western Canada are reclaiming their ancestral belongings and bringing the spirits of their ancestors back to the communities where they once lived. Efforts to return ancestral remains and cultural belongings from external museums began in the late 1970s, but only in recent years have truly collaborative relationships between First Nations and museums developed.
Located within the unceded, ancestral territories of the xwməθkwəy ’ əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, the Museum of Vancouver (MOV) is one of Canada’s premier institutions of civic history, where hundreds of items from many First Nations across British Columbia have been held. It was not until 2006 that the MOV developed a rematriation policy for its Indigenous collections, committing to: “The return of human remains and directly associated burial Objects, upon the request of an Indigenous individual, family or community with a demonstrable claim of a historical relationship to those materials in question or as a result of the MOV’s own initiative; The return of Objects that may have been acquired under circumstances that render the MOV’s claim invalid, at the request of a governing body, community, organization or individual; The return of material culture of spiritual significance or essential to cultural survival; and The adoption of shared Cus-todial Arrangement Agreements or Loan Agreements in lieu of repatriation agreements, where appropriate.”
Museum of Vancouver has implemented this policy, the requests are on a caseby-case basis, often leading to a negotiation depending on the requested objects. Recently, the MOV shifted their collections mandate to focus on the city of Vancouver and host Nations, so they are actively returning belongings to First Nations whose territories are in other parts of British Columbia. The Museum initiated the rematriation of over 60 Tŝilhqot’in belongings to the Tŝilhqot’in National Government. The belongings were retrieved from the MOV by a delegation of youth and Elders in February 2024.
Every qatŝ'ay is unique in the combination of designs and motifs.
Since then, many Indigenous Nations have been advocating for recovering their own ancestral artifacts and requesting rematriation processes. Although the
Sacred woven baskets are known as Qatŝ’ay for the Tŝilhqot’in Peoples of British Columbia. Woven during a time when the Tŝilhqot’in lived in full harmony with their land and language, the baskets embody the craftsmanship, stories, and lifeways of their ancestors. Tŝilhqot’in territory spans the Chilcotin Plateau, west of the Fraser River and east of the Coast Mountains in British Columbia. The Nation consists of six communities that unite as one Nation, and includes forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers that have sustained them for thousands of years. The rematriation of their ancestral baskets is not just a physical return; it is about restoring spirit, culture, and connection to the land.
Tŝilhqot’in youth Loretta Jeff-Combs, Peyal Laceese, and Dakota Diablo, along with Chantu and Sierra William, attended the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues in April to share their efforts to reclaim these sacred woven baskets and to speak about their personal and spiritual motivations for retrieving
Photo by Jeremy Williams, River Voices Productions.
them from museums to private collectors worldwide. The film, “Qatŝ̂’ay: Bringing Our Spirits Back Home,” directed by Trevor Mack and Jeremy Williams, showcases the journey of the rematriation process in collaboration with the Museum of Vancouver. The film, which premiered in 2025 and was presented as a side event at the Forum, will be a central feature of the Tŝilhqot’in rematriation exhibit, “Nexwenen Nataghelʔilh,” that is part of the larger exhibition, “The Work of Repair: Redress & Repatriation at the Museum of Vancouver,” opening this June.
Jeff-Combs is a leader, mother, and advocate for Indigenous youth leadership in decision-making spaces, who, alongside other youth and community leaders, has been at the heart of a growing movement to reclaim sacred baskets held for decades in museums and private collections. "I am Tŝilhqot’in, meaning 'where the rivers meet.' I'm from Tlesqox First Nations, which translates to ‘Mud Creek’,” she says. "I'm also an elected women's council representative for my community of Tlesqox. For me, this journey almost felt like a calling. My partner (Laceese) and I were walking in downtown Victoria with his late ?etsu [grandmother], who had dementia, but in that moment she was fully there, she looked at the basket and started talking about it being a Tŝilhqot’in basket. And we got to go [inside the private collection], where we got to experience this also with our daughter. It was like this was a time we needed to start bringing back these baskets, whether it be from museums or private collectors."
Diablo is a Tŝilhqot’in youth ambassador for drug use awareness and advocates to hold the colonial government accountable for the drug crisis in his community. “The first thing that motivated me was seeing our artifacts in these museums, in these dark places, and feeling their spirit. They’re trapped in these foreign lands all across the country. It awakened something in me . . . to try and get those things back into our territory so they may thrive again,” he says.
Laceese is a Tŝilhqot’in cultural ambassador who holds spaces for healing through singing and drumming. “For myself, it was growing up hearing stories and teachings [about] who we used to be as people. Those were the people who were truly Tŝilhqot’in before European contact, and those people were in harmony and true to themselves and spoke our language. They wove these baskets during these times. These baskets were even a legend within our own Nation, and that is what drew me . . . not only to see them, but to bring back our traditions, our cultures, our language, through these baskets, through these different items that are outside of Tŝilhqot’in throughout the world,” he says.
Bringing the baskets back is a long process that involves more than just logistics; it demands diplomacy, research, cultural knowledge, and heart. “We had to build relationships with museums, with governments, with other Indigenous Nations, and in turn, help others on the same path,”
Laceese says. The most impactful thing for the youth has been the stories from the baskets, as Elders started remembering legends, names, and teachings they hadn’t heard before. Jeff-Combs recalls, “We brought our daughter. Some of the Elders brought their granddaughters. And when we went home, all of our children in our extended family were asking questions: Did we pick berries with this? Did we collect medicine with this? Can I go up the mountain and use it for medicine?”
The Tŝilhqot’in delegation to the Permanent Forum also visited ancestral belongings at several museums in New York City, while the Tŝilhqot’in National government continues to search for belongings held in museums and private collections. “We started digging, researching, and reaching out. Eventually, we became the main ones in the forefront of getting our baskets back,” says Jeff-Combs.
In the future, the Tŝilhqot’in are determined to build their own spaces to house and honor their culture and sacred items. Other members of the Nation are looking into creating their own museums back home, and ultimately, they want to have a space for their belongings in each of their six communities that would reflect the teachings and practices of that place. “There are also plans for contemporary work like baby baskets, beadwork, and dip nets that reflect our culture as it lives today. These, too, can be part of museum displays, to show we are not frozen in time. We are living, growing, and creating,” says Jeff-Combs.
While relationships with some museums have been positive, Laceese attributes the Museum of Vancouver’s rematriation of the 60 belongings to happening “because we built a strong relationship with them,” noting that the interaction with private collectors has not been as generous. “They see the value as a dollar sign. What might have been $1,000 suddenly becomes $30,000 or $50,000 when they find out we’re trying to rematriate. Some of our items are being held hostage, but we do what we can. We go to auctions. We even check thrift stores. And when we can, we buy them back,” says Laceese. “Relationship is everything—with museums, with other Indigenous Peoples, with the holders of our artifacts. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we share. To build those relationships, so we can bring our ancestors home,” adds Diablo.
Loretta Jeff-Combs with daughter Nildziyenhiyah Laceese at the Museum of Vancouver.
Photo by Tŝilhqot’in National Government.
WHO OWNS THE PAST? The Return of Our Ancestors
Since the dawn of humanity, human beings have been creators of culture, shaping it according to their worldview to construct an identity. The stories of Indigenous Peoples have been recorded in stone, wood, palm, clay, bone, and skin. These relics reflect how our ancestors saw the world and hold profound value, as there is a direct link between material culture and living heritage. Funerary, religious, sacred, and ceremonial elements directly connect with our cultural practices: they are not simply “decorative objects,” but have safeguarded a history and shaped a collective identity.
With the arrival of the colonizers, many of these pieces were stolen from their place of origin and scattered around the world, uprooting a valuable part of a Peoples’ history. Today, these pieces are displayed in museums, academic institutions, and private collections where they are frequently named in another language and cataloged and classified as “objects of curiosity” without considering their true meaning. Meanwhile, in our communities, these pieces were forgotten. The colonial education that we, descendants of Indigenous Peoples, received was designed to make us forget our roots and view everything that came from outside as better. It’s a story that repeats itself in Indigenous cultures worldwide.
The rematriation of the material cultural heritage of Indigenous Peoples seeks the return of these elements to their place of origin, where the main beneficiaries are the cultural descendants, as an act of social justice and human rights. This movement originated in the late 1960s, when a group of Native Americans demanded the rehumanization of their ancestors’ remains. They questioned the power of archaeology to excavate sacred sites and tombs to collect, display, and study their ancestors. Calling out the desecration
of their ancestors’ graves and demanding the return of both their remains and their material cultural heritage marked the beginning of a greater struggle for decolonization. Rematriation is a matter of both ethics and morals. It constitutes a collective right of Indigenous Peoples and represents a form of postcolonial reparation. Some see it as a symbolic and social act, while others define it as a social relationship in itself. Today, some 60 years later, countries such as the United States, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and Chile have made significant progress on the issue of rematriation. Thanks to this progress, rematriation is now a right recognized in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Although this agreement does not yet have binding legal status, it represents a significant step forward because it officially recognizes the right of Indigenous Peoples to recover their cultural heritage.
This struggle for rematriation has sparked critical global conversations, forcing major museums to reflect on what they have collected. At the same time, these achievements have served as a guide for Indigenous Peoples demanding the return of their material cultural heritage and ancestral remains. This is a particularly sensitive and complex issue, as these remains represent not only physical, but also
Izaira López Sánchez (NTYIVI ÑUU SAVI)
Tour to the Sacred City of Tyiyo Ka’nu in San Pedro Teozacoalco, Oaxaca.
Photo by Omar Aguilar Sánchez.
Inset: Archives of the National Museum of the American Indian, Washington, D.C.
spiritual, dispossession. Remains that were unearthed and taken in the name of science were manipulated, studied, and even displayed without any ethics or respect.
It is essential to clarify that rematriation and restitution are different. In rematriation, Indigenous Peoples are the main actors and seek recognition of their right to recover their cultural heritage. In restitution, it is the governments that negotiate the fate of the artifacts. Current laws recognize the State as the legitimate owner of cultural assets, which are considered national heritage, thereby ignoring the rights of Indigenous Peoples and denying the living relationship they maintain with their ancestors. Despite the significant presence of Indigenous Peoples in Mexico, there is still no law that addresses the right to rematriation of ancestral remains or cultural elements belonging to these cultures. This presents a challenge and a constant struggle with the nation-state for the recognition of the cultural rights of Indigenous Peoples in a context where State interests are always prioritized.
On this journey toward the recovery of cultural heritage are the Ñuu Savi (Rain People), also known as “La Mixteca,” who live in a region located in northeastern Oaxaca and the areas bordering the states of Puebla and Guerrero in what is now Mexico. Here we speak Tu’un Savi (the Language of the Rain), a tonal language with 81 spoken variants: 4 in Puebla, 21 in Guerrero, and 56 in Oaxaca. This culture developed as a civilization that left behind an immense material cultural wealth, represented in remnants of gold, wood, bones, and skin, where our ancestors captured historical events, lineages, sacred narratives, and ritual acts, shaping a history and identity.
Centuries of colonization and extraction resulted in our cultural heritage ending up in large display cases as “Mixtec collections” without any cultural or spiritual context, separated from its surroundings. Through a long period of dispossession and neglect, we were alienated from our own heritage to the point of no longer recognizing it. Achieving rematriation for the Ñuu Savi is a long, but necessary, path. The active participation of the Ñuu Savi is essential to ensure that the return of our cultural and
ancestral remains responds to our needs and unique ways of treating their heritage. There must also be collaboration among the Ñuu Savi, the three levels of government, institutions, museums, and organizations: a collective effort that can make the difference between the success or failure of the return.
The challenge is not only to address rematriation internationally, but also to strengthen our collective identity as a Nation. To achieve this, we must work on reappropriating and recovering our material cultural heritage, language, and culture to recognize and value who we are. It is crucial to raise awareness and involve young people and children in the care and preservation of cultural elements and sacred sites, as well as to strengthen our language in a context where we have rights, but also responsibilities. Furthermore, collaboration with Ñuu Savi specialists is essential. Their contributions from archaeology, anthropology, history, law, linguistics, and international relations can strengthen the foundations for demanding rematriation internationally. It is also necessary to develop a protocol for the rematriation of Ñuu Savi. These defined courses of action can help successfully carry out rematriation.
Forming a support network with other Nations striving for rematriation can provide valuable tools based on shared experiences. As a Ñuu Savi ña’a (woman), I have been privileged to access the archives of important international museums and observe Ñuu Savi cultural elements up close. Although this is an opportunity few people have access to, this experience carries a tremendous responsibility to share this knowledge with my community. Only by recognizing our roots, strengthening our identity, and working as a team can we progress in demanding the return of our heritage and ancestral remains stored in international museums. This path may take generations to fully realize, but its seed has already been sown with the power of memory and collective commitment.
Izaira López Sánchez (Ntyivi Ñuu Savi) is Project Coordinator at the Americas Research Network (ARENET) and leader of the Ñuu Savi Collections Around the World Project.
Left: Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, D.C.
Photo by Omar Aguilar Sánchez.
Right: Workshop Series, “The Return of Our Ancestors,” Yucu Saa Community Museum, Villa de Tututepec, Oaxaca.
Photo by Omar Aguilar Sánchez.
REMATRIATION OF YULIĆA Offers Profound Healing
Clare Van Holm & Shelly Covert (NISENAN)
In Fall 2023, the California Heritage: Indigenous Research Project (CHIRP), a Tribally-guided nonprofit serving the Nevada City Rancheria Nisenan Tribe, was presented with an opportunity to purchase 232 acres of land near Nevada City, California, in the Sierra foothills. This land was once part of the thriving Nisenan community and town of Yulića. In a successful grassroots campaign, CHIRP fundraised over $2.5 million. Escrow closed in September 2024 following a lengthy negotiation with local government, the sellers, and county code enforcement. Tribal spokesperson Shelly Covert commented, “Contained within what might look like an everyday land transaction are the opportunities to re-identify and re-ignite our cultural identity through land rematriation as well as building a framework for revitalization of land, cultural practices, and culturally informed community protocols.”
The Nisenan (pronounced nee-see-nan or nee-she-nan) are the Indigenous Peoples of the Sierra Nevada foothills. Their territory extends from the crest of the Sierra Nevada mountains and the north fork of the Yuba River to the west side of the Sacramento River and the northern banks of the Consumnes River. The Nisenan, whose name means “from among us,” or “from this side,” were a vibrant, sophisticated Nation of highly sought-after healers and holy people known for their beautiful, water-tight basketry. Following the discovery of gold in their territory in 1848, the Nisenan Peoples and their ancestral homelands were at the epicenter of the environmental and humanitarian disaster. The influx of settlers during the ensuing California gold rush led to widespread displacement, violence, cultural
erasure and assimilation, and the destruction of the land’s natural abundance.
In 1887, Chief Charlie Cully secured a federal land allotment for the Tribe, which was later converted into the Nevada City Rancheria in 1913. The Rancheria was illegally “terminated” following the U.S. Congressional Rancheria Act of 1958, which sought to disband the entirety of the state’s rancheria system. The U.S. government sold the reservation land at auction, leaving the Nisenan homeless and stripped of their federal recognition status. Despite significant legal efforts by the Nisenan Tribe over the last two decades, the Nevada City Rancheria remains one of three Congressionally terminated California rancherias whose federal status has not been restored.
To address the vacuum created by the loss of federal recognition, Tribal members and community allies founded CHIRP. Established in 2015, the Tribally-guided nonprofit takes direction from the Tribal Council to identify, fund, and implement programs and projects to address and mitigate the ongoing social, environmental, and racial injustices brought to the Nisenan homelands in 1848. As a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, CHIRP acts as a proxy for the Nevada City Rancheria Nisenan Tribe and its approximately 140 members, providing cultural revitalization services, land rematriation and stewardship efforts, Tribal visibility and community education, and ongoing advocacy and litigation efforts to restore the Tribe’s federal recognition.
Homeland Return: An Unprecedented Opportunity
In late 2023, CHIRP was given an opportunity to purchase and rematriate 232 acres of ancestral homeland on behalf of the Nevada City Rancheria Nisenan Tribe. The land,
Tribal Members and CHIRP Staff at Yulića.
Photo by Sean Patrick Leydon.
located on the historic Nisenan village site Yulića, was previously stewarded by the Woolman Quaker Experiential Education School and Friends Meeting House. When CHIRP leaders were notified of the intent to sell Woolman, they engaged the opportunity to purchase the property with hopes to establish a land base for the Tribe—and with it, an opportunity to reclaim their land-based ceremonial and cultural practices, provide much-needed Elder housing, and renew the Tribe’s relationship with its ancestral homelands and its animal kin.
Thus began the Homeland Return, an urgent grassroots campaign to raise $1.4 million in 10 weeks. Despite the tremendous ask from the community, the campaign was immensely successful, mobilizing the community in support of Land Back and exceeding the fundraising goals. Much of the campaign’s success was built upon CHIRP’s long-standing work of amplifying the visibility of the Tribe through art, education, and local community partnerships. During the height of the fundraising efforts, allies participated in community meetings to brainstorm ways to support the campaign, hosted independent fundraising events, and spread awareness through their networks. These grassroots efforts were amplified by CHIRP’s outreach to foundations to honor dollar-for-dollar match opportunities.
Tribal wisdom into the future, reimagining what is possible in light of this Indigenous Traditional Knowledge and modern technologies, and revitalizing cultural and environmental practices, CHIRP and the Tribe hope that Yulića may one day be a model of Indigenous innovation and stewardship.
Ultimately, CHIRP and its supporters exceeded the Phase 1 goal and raised over $2.5 million within 4 months, a testament to the community’s dedication and solidarity in engaging in reciprocal giving to address historical injustices, champion cultural revitalization, and support the goals of restoring a piece of the Nisenan Tribe’s ancestral homeland. While skeptics assumed that the ability to raise the necessary funds on such a short timeline would be the greatest barrier to purchasing Yulića, the substantial code issues uncovered during the discovery process and the tension between Tribal protocols and Western government regulations were the most significant hurdles to navigate during the Homeland Return Campaign.
As with any large land acquisition, the discovery process was complex and required lengthy negotiations. Conversations revealed that the needs of the Tribe, the land, and the animal kin are not considered in the modern framework of government policy. The negotiations, though laden with historical complexities and power differentials, required significant patience and commitment to Tribally-informed conservation, and ultimately served as an invitation for colonial systems to evolve and incorporate diverse perspectives. CHIRP and the Tribe have continued to engage this land acquisition as an opportunity to foster genuine collaboration between Indigenous communities and western conventions.
Vision For Yulića
With escrow closed and the rematriation of Yulića secured, the long-term goals of healing and stewarding the land,
To heal the Earth, ultimately, humans must return to their natural place as stewards, protectors, and kin to the natural world, living both on and with the land. One of the most significant outcomes of Yulića’s rematriation is the ability for the Nisenan Tribe to begin to heal their relationship to the Earth, starting with the Elders. For the Nisenan, the Elders are the culture. The opportunity to have Tribal Elders living together on the land is central to providing safety and security to a generation that experienced extreme hardship and trauma, as well as preserving and protecting Nisenan culture and wisdom for future generations.
Restoration and healing of the land go hand-in-hand with revitalizing community ties and culture. As such, the rematriation of Yulića offers a profound healing opportunity for both the Earth and the Tribe. In returning undisturbed access to their ancestral homelands, and thus the revitalization of sacred ceremonial traditions, reclamation of cultural and land-based practices, and re-establishment of Indigenous environmental practices, the land and the Tribe heal in unison.
Many Indigenous traditions share the understanding that the health of the Earth, a Tribe, and its culture are symbiotic—neither Tribe nor land can thrive without connection to the other. As with many of the Indigenous communities of Turtle Island, colonization has ripped Tribes from their homelands, and the Earth and the Tribes have suffered in innumerable ways. Homeland return and rematriation of Yulića stands as a profound step towards healing.
Shelly Covert (Nisenan) is the Tribal spokesperson of the Nevada City Rancheria Nisenan Tribe.
Nevada City Rancheria Nisenan Tribal Council Members at the Yulića Medicine Rock.
Photo courtesy of CHIRP.
PEOPLE, NOT ARTIFACTS Bringing Our Relatives Home
Candyce Testa (MASHANTUCKET PEQUOT, CS STAFF)
Michael Thomas (Mashantucket Pequot) works at the Cultural Resources Department of the Mashantucket Pequot Tribe and serves on the Board of Directors for the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center. A leader in the community since a young age, he now lends his powerful voice to inspiring the youth of his Nation with the use of traditional songs to represent the Pequot community in ceremonies, socials, and powwows.
Candyce Testa (Mashantucket Pequot), Cultural Survival Bazaar Events Manager, spoke to Thomas about recent rematriation efforts.
Cultural Survival: Your team recently helped recover and rematriate some ancestral remains. What is the significance for the community?
Michael Thomas: In our most recent effort, there were items uncovered that belong to our Wangunk relatives, who are Connecticut River folks, and their ancestral lands, what is now Wesleyan University. Wesleyan had some Wangunk remains, and others had been discovered in construction projects nearby. Our Tribe and the Mohegan Tribe sent Historical Preservation Office and Cultural Resource Department teams to help the Wangunk relatives reinter their ancestral remains.
All of those returned to the Earth are important and beautiful to be a part of, [but] this one was extra special because of how few of our Wangunk relatives are remaining. To see two Tribes come together to help handle those ceremonial responsibilities was beautiful. These were collection items that were accumulated during the years when most colleges didn’t keep very good records of such things. They were responding to recent changes in the Native American
Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, which has been amended to require universities to catalog the things they have. Wesleyan has known for only a few years that they were Wangunk remains and that they had them.
CS: How were you able to get the remains returned?
MT: Wesleyan contacted the Tribal Historic Preservation Office of our Tribe, as well as Mohegan, and asked for the help that we provided. And if anyone asks for that help, we step up and help to the best of our ability. One of the people in attendance from Wesleyan was a descendant of John Underhill. [Underhill led a militia during the Pequot War and is remembered for his graphic retelling and woodcarved rendering of the genocide of the Pequot people during the Mystic Massacre on May 26, 1637.] Remarkably, she was a kind, young lady who felt much differently about the history than Underhill himself. And so she asked all of the Tribal people in attendance how she could go about properly showing her perspective on that history to Tribal people. My advice was to go speak to as many people from Tribal communities as possible, not just Tribal officials.
CS: How was the rematriation celebrated?
MT: There was a reinterment ceremony. The Wangunk relatives dug the pit, and we prayed around it and offered sacred herbs. Then the Wangunk people, along with some of our young people from both Tribal communities, put the items into the pit and helped cover them after another set of songs and prayers. After that ceremony (which was in a cemetery called the Indian Hills Cemetery, ironically enough), there is a hilltop where there are ancient Wangunk graves that have not been disturbed. After we were done at the bottom of the hill where the pit was, the Tribal people let the rest of the folks leave, and we went together to the top of the hill so that we could pay our respects to the area of unmarked graves up there with one of the most beautiful
Yootây drum group singing powerful flag and victory songs at Foxwoods Resort Casino's anniversary party.
Connecticut views that I’ve ever seen. It immediately became apparent to us why it was a place chosen by Wangunk relatives as soon as we got to the top, and so the ceremony itself was fantastic. What we did afterwards at the top of the hill with just the Tribal people alone was equally beautiful.
CS: Who from the Tribal community were a part of that ceremony?
MT: From our community, myself, Mike Johnson, and Jolina from the Tribal Historic Preservation Office. There were a couple of Mohegan nephews there who helped out, along with Two Dogs and Jay Levy, also from Mohegan. There were probably two or six people from each Tribal community [alongside] the university and town officials and two Wangunk relatives.
My role in the process was to support the Tribal Historic Preservation Officer through my Cultural Resources Department responsibilities and to provide support from the community level regarding the traditional singing that was a part of the ceremony.
CS: What have you learned from this process?
MT: I learned about Indian Hills Cemetery. I’ve driven by it for decades and I thought it was just another one of those things that they named after our people but didn’t have much to do with us. I learned about the real history of the Indian Hills Cemetery as it sits today, and learned more about the Wangunk history. I also learned what kinds of things are more important than a museum conference. We had a major museum conference happening that day that was put together by our museum, Brown University, and Mystic Seaport. I was supposed to be moderating a panel discussion at the conference that morning. This, obviously, was a higher priority than a conference that took six months to plan, so we adjusted. One of our Bermuda relatives, Stephen Tucker, son of Brinky Tucker [an Elder Pequot descendant of Bermuda], filled in for me as moderator on a panel that included his dad.
CS: Can you speak a little more about the youth involvement with the reinterment ceremony?
MT: The pit was quite deep at the request of the Wangunk relatives, so these young people had to climb down inside
and place the items. I think one of those young people was Wangunk and two were Mohegan. They placed the things as they were told and climbed out so that we could finish the ceremony. They also replaced the majority of the soil when we reached the end of the ceremony. We all left spiritually satisfied. It was a great gift to be involved in, that help that our Tribal community gave and our Mohegan relatives gave. It made it a little more special because it wasn’t just about us.
CS: Why is rematriation of sacred objects so important?
MT: I think to have things the way the ancestors left them in the first place, or as close as we can get to that, is what’s most important—trying to redo the work of our ancestors that’s been undone in a way that respects and honors them. That is number one on the list for us.
CS: What is your message to the people or museums that hold Native sacred items?
MT: You should think about the fact that these are people, and not pieces, or artifacts, or any other dehumanizing word that you could use. Some of what was returned to the Wangunk Peoples came from a private family collection. Just like the Underhill descendant, these are people who went through some of their grandfather’s old things and were mortified to find remains that he had classified as Wangunk remains. Those were also interred, and that was beautiful. Those folks were overwhelmed by the idea that their grandfather had those things, but they wanted them returned properly, and they returned them properly.
from the Pequot community daycare.
Mashantucket Pequot Medicine Woman, "Laughing Woman," giving a prayer while flag bearers prepare to ceremonially enter the circle, opening the space for all Schemitzun dancers.
Little Fox Dance Troupe made up of preschoolers
NARAMAT INDIGENOUS WOMEN’S ARBORETUM
Safeguarding Samburu Knowledge in Traditional Medicine
address increasingly unpredictable weather and protect their ecosystem.
The Samburu and Turkana Indigenous communities in Kipsing, Isiolo County, northern Kenya are pastoralists who rely on livestock keeping for survival. Pastoralism is essential not only for meeting their basic needs, such as sending children to school, but also for maintaining their traditional lifestyles. However, due to the devastating impacts of climate change, particularly the severe drought that has lasted for more than three years—the longest since 1997—the pastoralists have been forced to sell goats and sheep for cattle feed, and over 95% of their livestock has been lost through drought and ethnic conflicts. The few cattle that survived the drought were later swept away by severe floods, which also destroyed the small manyattas (traditional homesteads) of the communities, leaving people extremely vulnerable. Their primary source of livelihood was cut off, their homes demolished, and their household items carried away by the floods.
Recognizing the gravity of this situation, Samburu Women Trust donated a 10-acre piece of land to establish the Namarat Indigenous Women’s Arboretum. By partnering with the communities in Kipsing, they are working to restore hope and protect women and young girls in particular from the impacts and vulnerabilities of climate change. Together, they have brainstormed and developed alternative survival strategies for these women and girls. The nomadic communities who live in the savannah drylands understand well the effects of drought and how floods have impacted the day-to-day life of local communities. They have the skills, knowledge, and solutions to
The name Naramat is associated with women as custodians of the environment. The arboretum serves as a hub for Indigenous women; it is an agroecology demonstration center for native seeds, preserving native plants of medicinal value that are threatened to become extinct in the Indigenous landscapes, thereby restoring the land and protecting the region’s biodiversity. In pastoralist communities, plants hold great cultural and spiritual importance. Without these plants, essential cultural rituals like initiations, marriages, and child naming would not be possible. Traditional herbs used for treating illnesses are crucial for the community’s well being. Thus, the arboretum was created to restore the land, safeguard the endangered species, and protect the local biodiversity.
Due to climate change, many important plants have disappeared from certain areas, forcing people to travel long distances to fetch them. The Naramat Arboretum serves as a center for conserving and protecting these essential plants. It also provides a space for nature-based practices that Indigenous women are already engaged in through knowledge transfer from Elders to younger generations and empowerment programs. It will also serve as a nomadic school for Indigenous women, tapping into their rich Traditional Knowledge and passing it on to students, youth, researchers, and the university to incorporate the pastoralism and nomadic lifeways. Elders will teach the community about cultural materials and demonstrate their use. This center will also be a tourist attraction, drawing visitors from across the country and the world to explore the Samburus’ rich cultural heritage. The income generated will be reinvested in supporting Indigenous women.
Geoffrey Lasanguriku
Women from the Namarat Indigenous Women’s Arboretum stand proudly with tree saplings.
As the world begins to return to herbal medicine, it is crucial to re-evaluate the wealth of Traditional Knowledge surrounding traditional remedies. Two plants of particular significance are Acacia nilotica (Lkiloriti) and Acacia tortilis (Ntepes). Acacia nilotica, known as Lkiloriti in Samburu language, is an Indigenous tree found in Kenya and East Africa that plays a vital role in the Maasai and Samburu communities. The Lkiloriti tree has long been utilized in Samburu communities for its wide array of medicinal benefits, with all parts of the plant being employed to treat various ailments. Its medicinal uses include treating diabetes, ulcers, wounds, dry and persistent coughs, and asthma. It has anti-inflammatory, anti-oxidant, antibacterial properties, and can be used to manage hypertension. The seeds of the Lkiloriti are used to treat oral issues, and are also ground and used in porridge to promote overall health and wellness. The leaves are consumed by goats and camels, offering both nutrients and health benefits. The yellow flowers of the tree are a key element for bees to produce honey, adding flavor. Once the flowers mature, they shed and become food for goats. The inner part of the bark is boiled in water or made into soup, or roasted and ground to treat coughs, improve digestion, and enhance general health.
The Acacia tortillis tree, commonly known as the Umbrella Thorn, or Ntepes in the Samburu language, serves as a key gathering point during conflict resolution
Areas of Focus of Naramat Indigenous Women’s Arboretum
Conservation of Indigenous Plants: The arboretum is focused on preserving endangered Indigenous tree species that have been vital to Indigenous communities’ cultural, medicinal, and economic practices.
Women’s Empowerment: This initiative empowers Indigenous women by providing them with the knowledge, skills, and resources to sustainably manage the land, engage in tree planting, and promote agroecology practices such as kitchen gardening.
Community Education and Awareness:
The project seeks to educate the community and other stakeholders on the importance of biodiversity, climate resilience, and sustainable land management.
Sustainability of the Ecosystem: The arboretum supports the restoration of degraded lands, the replenishment of soil health, and the overall revitalization of local ecosystems.
and discussion of important community matters. The Ntepes tree is widely distributed across northern Kenya, thriving in arid savannah regions. It is known for its distinctive umbrella-shaped canopy, which provides shelter against the harsh sun, and its ability to withstand extreme heat, drought, and dry soil conditions. Its broad canopy provides essential shade for livestock during the hot, dry periods, offering relief from the scorching sun as well as a primary food source for domesticated grazing animals such as camels and goats. The tree’s leaves and seed pods (known as sagaram) are a valuable source of nutrition for livestock. The bark is used to make strong strings for building houses and crafting various items. The tree is also utilized as a medicinal herb, helping to alleviate the negative effects of excessive red meat consumption. Fallen branches provide firewood, essential for cooking in the community. The tree also produces an edible gum. The extensive growth of Ntepes helps limit the movement of sand dunes and combats desertification, especially during seasonal droughts. Young, growing Ntepes trees are used as burial sites, as the tree is believed to be immortal. This belief symbolizes the continuity of life, with the tree representing the ongoing journey of the person’s spirit.
In 2024, the Samburu Women Trust received a Keepers of the Earth Fund grant. Founded in 2006, the Samburu Women Trust is composed of 1,000 Indigenous groups and individual women from Isiolo County, northern Kenya. Their project aims to increase the population of indigenous medicinal plants by establishing seed banks and nurseries while strengthening Indigenous women’s climate change preparedness.
WALKING WITH COURAGE, LOVE, AND HOPE TO KEEP THE MEMORY OF MY ANCESTORS ALIVE
Miguel Cuc (Maya Kaqchikel), Accounting Associate
A Childhood in Nature
I come from the Iximulew territory (Guatemala) of the Maya Kaqchikel Peoples. I grew up in the high mountains of this territory, surrounded by forests and rivers. My first words were in Kaqchikel, which I learned primarily from my mother. It is the language my ancestors spoke, and we still speak it today. I helped my parents work in the fields. I remember playing with my brothers and sisters in the forest after our chores were done. When I started school, interacting with non-Indigenous teachers and students for the first time and not knowing Spanish well, it was the first time I experienced racism. It was difficult, but I overcame those challenges over time while maintaining a strong connection with my family, the land, and the forest.
Modernity and Education
When new agricultural techniques were introduced, my father began to experience crop losses from using insecticides, pesticides, and synthetic fertilizers, and the unpredictable climate started to affect the farming cycle. I needed to pursue higher education because agriculture as a livelihood had become too difficult. Due to a lack of financial resources and guidance, I couldn’t study what I originally wanted to, but I have since specialized in a field that has opened doors to new opportunities and allows me to further specialize in other academic areas of interest. Now I can also better understand the political, economic, and social systems of my country and the world.
Joining the Cultural Survival Family
I started as a part-time consultant helping with the implementation of a new accounting system, and I began to learn about and understand the work that Cultural Survival does. After a few months I was offered a full-time position, and it was so important to me because I knew I could be part of an organization that is faithful to its mission and vision. As I’ve spoken with the staff at CS and gotten to know their skills and personalities more, I’ve come to understand that they are key pillars of the organization; in them, I have found the spirit of struggle and honesty in the organization’s activities.
Supporting Indigenous Peoples Struggles
I am interested in the rights and livelihoods of Indigenous Peoples. I have witnessed how various institutions act without considering Indigenous rights, taking advantage of them. They use false narratives, promising development in the modern world and a better quality of life. In reality it’s unequal development, and, most regrettably, development that involves destroying many of the traditional ways of life that our Peoples maintain. I am eager to learn how to defend our rights and livelihoods and to support solutions to the struggles Indigenous Peoples face.
Inspiration and Interests
I admire the struggles of leaders from my community and country, and my father, who has been a courageous person and has contributed to efforts seeking social justice, especially for our People. I enjoy walking in the forest alone or with my family, crossing rivers, and climbing mountains. I like taking care of a small garden I have at home. I love having time to watch the sunset anywhere and to go hiking. I enjoy traveling and getting to know Indigenous Peoples in Iximulew, observing their clothing, customs, ways of seeing and living life, and, if given the opportunity, learning about Indigenous Peoples globally.
Personal and Professional Dreams
I want to gain more experience and knowledge in my field and in other areas I would like to specialize in—to contribute to and help create a world where equality and equity exist, as all Peoples deserve, especially those whose rights have been violated, like Indigenous Peoples. I envision my path filled with happiness, well being, and harmony, but also with obstacles and injustices, so I must be brave and fight for a better world as my grandparents did. To keep their memory alive, I will walk with great courage, love, and hope throughout my life.
Miguel Cuc with his parents
MAPUCHE FUTURISM IN THE BRONX TARIN ANDREA GONZALEZ
In every sense, Tarin Andrea Gonzalez (Mapuche) is diasporic Indigenous pride, resistance, and joy. Born and raised in the late 1970s to Chilean Mapuche and Diaguita parents who fled the military dictatorship, Gonzalez has spent her life forging and redefining Mapuche life in the Bronx. Her Mapuche identity was first cultivated in her home, and today she reclaims this identity as a jewelry maker based in New York.
Living Mapuche identity far from the homelands, Gonzalez says she feels the pain of diasporic displacement, and that her art navigates an ongoing resistance against both historical and present-day colonialism as it is upheld in Chile and New York. As a child, she loved to paint and considered herself “crafty.” In adulthood, she found her love for jewelry making in the community organizing space. “I started [making earrings] as a hobby and as a way to decompress from a stressful workday,” Gonzalez recalls. “I used to run a food pantry in a community center—I grew up going to food pantries with my family as a kid. When I got this job, I remember asking my mom, ‘How would you like a food pantry to be run?’ and I started running the pantry as if it were my home, a space that was welcoming. If the women wanted to sit and chit chat and gossip, they could do that in my space . . . and then I started making earrings in that process.”
Gonzalez began to see that her jewelry-making had not just been a hobby, but a practice embedded within her own family.
“My grandmother was someone who made things. She sold socks. She washed the wool and she would make socks and go down to the tourists at the beach to sell them. Because I’m from the Bronx, I thought, ‘Oh, she was a hustler! I’m a hustler just like my grandma.’ [Similarly], my mom has this incredible sense of plants and seeds. My Grandma was a curandera in our community. She used plant medicine, and my mom carried that on.”
In creating wearable art in the form of jewelry, Gonzalez began to feel that love exponentially, especially in seeing the individuals who supported her creativity and starting conversations with them. “People send me pictures of them wearing my art, and I think, ‘oh my God! Look at my art, look at my creations, look at where they are!’ I really love that. I love when people share their stories with me. Being an artesana has given me freedom, the sovereignty and
independence that I needed. After years of working for nonprofits, I can now do and say what I want and support or partner with whom I want. The money I receive is not tied to anything I don’t support,” she says.
Within each earring is much labor and love, which emerges in conversations when she sells her work. “I want to tell [people] how I made this, what I was thinking when I made it. Maybe it came from a dream . . . it is important for [the buyer] to know that, because it transfers energy. I’m working with wood, I’m working with leather, I’m working with things that had a life at some point.”
Gonzalez’s jewelry is composed of materials sourced from other Native artisans and contains both implicit and explicit statements about her experience in the Bronx in community organizing and activism; it was in the activist space that her art blossomed into wearable statements declaring solidarity with Indigenous Peoples globally.
“When I started to create my art, I wanted to bring the flavor of the Bronx and of being an activist—I was making statement pieces. People wear regalia, these beautiful adornments. It makes a statement of who you are and who your people are. That’s what I do with my jewelry,” she says, adding, “I feel so honored to be a vendor at Cultural Survival because I feel seen. I am seen by my counterparts as an Indigenous artist, and that feels amazing.”
Don't miss the Cultural Survival Bazaars!
July 19–20: Newburyport, MA
July 25–27: Tiverton, RI bazaar.cs.org
Esénia Bañuelos (CS INTERN)
and start your own
Misty Rasdall, of Kansas City via Seattle, is raising funds for Cultural Survival as she takes on a longdistance challenge motorcycle ride! In the summer of 2026, she’ll ride her 2010 CVO Street Glide Harley-Davidson, beginning and ending in Woodstock, IL, as part of the Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge. “It’s 10,000 miles in two weeks with no interstates, no GPS, and no hotels. That means we sleep on the ground next to our bikes. During the two years in between rides, we raise funds for a charity of our choice.”
“I chose to support Cultural Survival because it is doing good work. Many other charities receive significant attention and funding. Still, I feel that Cultural Survival, which advocates for Native American and Indigenous Peoples, is just as important and deserves someone out there giving them a voice, and raising funds for their work.”
Check out Misty’s campaign!
We thank Misty for her dedication and wish her a safe and meaningful journey!
