Settler colonialism

This article interrogates the settler colonial history of Thunder Bay through place names and argues that gendered forms of anti-Indigenous violence are part of the city's social architecture. Between 1860 and 1910, settlers produced vast amounts of wealth and built a local industrial economy founded upon land-based resources such as silver, timber, and shale; at the same time, settlers forcefully relocated Anishnaabe peoples to multiple reserve sites, prevented them from participating in the emergent industrial economy, and used their sacred mountain as a quarry for brick-making and as a stop-butt for a settler rifle range. The article deploys the concept of settler colonial reterritorialization to critique the ways in which this history has been sanctioned and celebrated through local place names such as Mount McKay, Fort William, Port Arthur, and Simpson Street. Ultimately, I show that the material violence of enfolding the land and its resources into an exploitative and exclusive settler colonial economy emerged in tandem with the power to name the land in honour of white men who played primary roles in that very violent historical process.

Few aspects of the 1916 Central Asian revolt are more controversial than the measures taken by the Russian imperial authorities for its suppression. This article explores the punitive expeditions and settler vigilante violence against the Kyrgyz population of Semirech'e during and after the revolt, and the proposals to separate Kyrgyz and settlers by deporting the latter from the Issyk-Kul region and the Chu Valley to the mountains around Naryn. It argues that these persisted under the Provisional Government and into the early years of Bolshevik rule.

Not-guilty verdicts, mistrials, and impunity for the Bundy family and many of their supporters in the armed confrontations over public land use in Nevada and Oregon. Expanded access for private oil, gas, mining, and logging industries and the downsizing of national monuments such as Bears Ears lead by Secretary of the Interior Ryan Zinke. A number of highly contentious debates and sensationalized events have again focused attention on land held in the public domain by the United States. This essay argues that federal land policy as a form of colonial administration has been constitutive for the logic of expectation as property in what is now the United States. From the state land cessions negotiated on behalf of the Articles of Confederation to the preemption acts (1830–1841) to the homestead acts (1862–1916) to present-day demands for land transfer, the acquisition and disposal of the so-called public domain have been central to westward colonization, the consolidation of the nation-state, and the promise of land ownership as the ostensible foundation of individual liberty. These dynamics are evident in contemporary conflicts over public lands and arguments for the transfer of public lands to either state or private ownership. Approaching the Bundy occupations as flashpoints that illuminate competing interpretations and claims to land within the history of westward colonization, this essay seeks to demonstrate the ways in which expectation emerges from particular economies of dispossession of indigenous peoples that have historically worked through and across the division of public and private property.

The contemporary notion of global citizenship, in its contested and multiple manifestations, has developed out of the idea of cosmopolitanism, which dates back to the Stoics, and more recent formulations of world citizenship and the ideal of world governance. In the past decade, the concept of global citizenship, as a concept which signifies the way in which one’s identity and ethical responsibility is not limited to their “local” community (i.e. family, nation), has increasingly become a conceptual mantra for international development and humanitarian agencies, and a primary mandate of the institution of the North American university. In this article I argue that theories of global ethics, such as that presented by Dower, echo in their rhetoric the imperial project of civilization, and, more importantly, the discourse of global citizenship, while it represents the idea of universal inclusivity, produces insiders and outsiders: not everyone is a global citizen. In contrast, cultural theorists and philosophers such as Butler (2004), Mohanty (2003), and Appiah (2005, 2006) have sought to interrogate the ethical framework for a global community or transnational solidarity. The work of these critics, however, is informed by specifically feminist and/or postcolonial approaches to understanding global relations of power. In this essay I critically examine the discourse of global citizenship specifically as theorized by Dower (2003) and Appiah (2006), and I draw upon the example of the university where I teach, the University of British Columbia (UBC) Okanagan, for which fostering global citizenship has become a primary mandate of the academic plan. While I am sympathetic to the desire for a way of imagining community that transcends the legacy of European colonialism and hence transcends the material and symbolic borders of nation, race, religion, etc., I believe that the unselfconsciously celebratory appeals to global citizenship that currently circulate in OECD (Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development) states are indebted to earlier European, and specifically Eurocentric, formulations of humanity, civilization, and peace. While global citizenship purports simply to identify an ethical philosophy and a politics of identity, the discourse produces the global citizen as a specifically positioned subject that is constituted by the ability to act, and specifically to “make a better world” for, rather than with, Others.

Nonhuman bodies in many sizes and diverse social roles are central to Israel's control mechanism in the Occupied West Bank. Delving into the agricultural record of the Israeli Civil Administration, I ask how the Israeli system of control operates through animal bodies. What does a bureaucratic record so invested in monitoring animals' production, treatment, disease, and death tell about the potential disruption of power? Through a political ecology of human-animal entanglement, I argue that nonhuman bodies both reproduce human colonial relations and allow their constant interruption. Nonhumans challenge the power regime through their unpredictable mobility as well as in their role as both objects of a political economy and subjects of potential agricultural diseases, ecological risks, or public health threats. Breaking from contemporary multispecies scholarly literature's focus on endangered species and relations of care, I place nonhuman bodies as actors of international-interspecies relations in colonial conditions and point to nonhumans, which are here to stay in the climate change era. By doing so, I reflect on the continuous significance of nonhuman bodies to the operation of power in the "borderlands" of Israel/Palestine and beyond.

(2022). "Beyond 'causes of causes': Health, stigma and the settler colonial urban territory in the Negev/Naqab." Urban Studies (Sage Publications, Ltd.) 59(3): 572-590. This article critically analyses and theoretically conceptualises the links between settler colonialism, planning and health. Based on the case of the Bedouin community in the Negev/Naqab, we argue that the production of settler colonial space has a profound impact on health, and should therefore be referred to as a specific category for analysing health disparities, simultaneously entangling territorial control and biopolitics towards indigenous communities. Furthermore, we suggest that this relationship between space and health constructs stigma that justifies and facilitates-in turn-the ongoing territorial control over the indigenous Bedouin population in Israel. By reviewing existing data on health and planning, especially in relation to infrastructure and access to services, we contribute to the growing literature on the nexus of settler-colonialism/health with urban and regional planning. Importantly, throughout this paper we refer to the Bedouin localities as part of the production of urban territory, illuminating the urban as a multidimensional process of political struggle, including the metropolin informal fringes. (English)

Following the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada's ninety-four Calls to Action (2015), many art music composers, ensembles, arts organizations, and administrators have taken up the task of decolonization by exploring possible modes of collaboration between settler and Indigenous artists. In this article, the authors report on their experiences as audience members in three recent productions and as witnesses to Indigenous-led discussions to explore trends and problematic assumptions constitutive of these collaborations. Against the ideal of collaboration as a model of social harmony, the authors explore ongoing tensions between settler colonial logics of authorship, collaboration, and appropriation and argue that embracing the discomfort of ally-ship remains key to moving forward in solidarity work in scholarship and creative practice.

From its vivid cover, Ambelin Kwaymullina’s anti-colonial handbook, ‘Living on Stolen Land’, renders in bold brushstrokes the culture of oppression that plagues settler systems, culture and subjectivities. It addresses readers open to considering that colonialism need not be permanently with us, but is maintaining its power through the repetition of particular modes of thought and action.

In 1854 Charles Tompson described that the ‘village of Camden’ had ‘the aspect and the attributes of an English village’ (p.118) In doing so he was probably the first European to describe Camden’s Englishness, an attribute that numerous writers have agreed with, particularly in the early 20th century. Tompson was not the first to note the Englishness of the Cowpasture district. That privilege belonged to John Hawdon in 1828.

These are some of the observations of the Cowpastures drawn from the pen of Charles Tompson in a new collection of his work, Camden Through a Poet’s Eye, Charles Tompson (Jnr).

This paper draws on articles published in the New Zealand Herald between 1914 and 1933 by the writer and journalist Elsie K. Morton to demonstrate how nostalgia for childhood experiences in the forest, or the bush, as it is labelled colloquially, have acted as an antimodern response to and critique of deforestation in New Zealand. Morton's articles are situated within the wider body of cultural antimodernism in New Zealand, locating them after the antimodern literature of Maoriland in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century, but before the antimodern writing of several prominent authors who published their works in the 1930s and 1940s. The author makes the argument that the bush landscape is central to the expression of antimodernism as a response to the modernisation of New Zealand.

Settler colonialism involves processes of destruction and substitution aiming to replace indigenous with European/western worlds. But indigenous worlds persist in numerous spaces, moments and interactions where distinct ontologies and ways of being-in-the-world prevail. In Aotearoa New Zealand these spaces of the Māori world persist most obviously on marae. Māori and western worlds also briefly come together in public contexts where Māori protocols are used to mark openings of various sorts, temporarily governing public space and sociability. In this paper, I explore a different case where, I argue, Māori and western worlds are entangled or knotted together in the carved pou in the atrium space of a new community building in Kaitaia.

The recent upsurge of interest regarding environmental social work is unfolding against a backdrop of centuries of continuous struggle on the part of Indigenous peoples to protect their lands and waters. In this article, we consider the ways in which environmental social work frameworks engage the realities and resistances of Indigenous peoples in the context of settler colonialism. We contend that to ethically engage with environmentalism, social workers living and working on Indigenous territories must understand and resist settler colonialism, our implication in upholding its structure and practices, and its contribution to ecological destruction. Drawing upon the work of Indigenous scholars, we briefly describe Indigenous peoples’ conception of their relationships to land and sovereignty and how settler colonialism as a structure is organized with the explicit aim of eliminating these relationships. We then review prominent texts addressing several competing environmental social work frameworks, considering how each takes up (or not) histories of colonialism and Indigenous dispossession and addresses Indigenous identities, relations to land, and assertions of sovereignty. We conclude by offering principles and practices that might foreground the disruption of settler colonialism and respect for Indigenous sovereignty as necessary frameworks for Canadian environmental social work.

Traversing eras and spaces from the colonial to the postcolonial, from the New Caledonian and Hebridean bush to Noumea to Sydney, from dream to reality, from the land of the living to the land of the dead through heaven, hell and purgatory, Hélène Savoie takes the reader on a poetic, poignant and often fantastic journey of self-discovery. Using the frameworks of both Kanak and European myth and legend and drawing on personal and collective memories, Savoie highlights the great hybridity of the Oceanic spaces she inhabitants and traces the development of a truly local identity among the descendants of European immigrants (both free and forced) in New Caledonia. Karin Speedy's introduction and translation of Half-Moon Lands brings this Francophone voice from the Pacific to the attention of English-speaking readers. Her translation upholds the otherness of the stories by privileging their difference and local singularity, preserving the interplay between the inclusive and exclusive elements of the original, thus putting readers from the so-called Pacific periphery at the centre.
http://books.google.com.au/books?id=jNo-wCJ-Q5AC&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false

In this article, the authors critically and generatively encounter emergent curriculum, drawing from their experiences working as pedagogistas in three different early childhood education centres in Western Canada. The intent is to engage with the concept of emergence as that which can bring ethical and political engagements with curriculum and pedagogy; complicating understandings of emergent curriculum as simply following the lead of children. The particular interruptive orientations that the authors bring forward include: possibilities for responding to and cultivating the conditions for emergence in ways that disrupt the managerial concerns of everyday practice; troubling the co-optation of emergence by human-centred consumptive practice; and unsettling emergence in conversation with settler colonialism and antiblackness in the places and spaces of early childhood education.

This paper explores the value of theorising about colonialism that is specific rather than universal, informed by our locations in colonial struggles and driven by engagement with our continuing material colonial relationships with land, place and people. We do this by examining recent scholarly engagements with our contemporary precarious global economic and environmental conditions, particularly within settler colonial theory. We argue that using analogy to think our way out of material colonial and racial relations can obscure the authority of Indigenous peoples and reproduce colonial epistemologies. This attempt to create solidarity through political equivalence risks reifying imperial relationships and resecuring white possession. Rather than seeking to evade our positions as colonisers embedded in violent political systems, we argue it is possible for colonisers to act in solidarity from a position of complicity. Working towards justice from our own locations involves building solidarity across differences, without first needing to reduce these differences to sameness.

While historians broadly agree that the US Homestead Act of 1862 allowed white settlers to take over the ancestral lands of Native nations, research rarely goes beyond the scope of individual case studies to map out how exactly Indigenous dispossession and homesteading intersected. The how, where and when of this relation has more commonly been assumed in the research literature than explored in any substance. This article offers a critical appraisal of recent interpretations and presents new evidence to make sense of the general relationship between homesteading and Native dispossession.

In early April 2016, Attawapiskat First Nation declared a state of emergency when 11 young people tried to kill themselves in one day alone. The response from the state was to send in crisis workers. As I write, occupations and protests have erupted across Canada to draw attention not only to youth suicides in First Nations communities, but also to the state’s response to them. As protests continue, the state’s reactions to these situations raise alarming questions about its relationship with Indigenous peoples. On April 10, Justin Trudeau tweeted, “The news from Attawapiskat is heartbreaking. We’ll continue to work to improve living conditions for all Indigenous peoples.” We, the state, will work to improve living conditions for all of you, Indigenous peoples. Taking a page out of an old paternal script, the state sees itself as the champion that can deliver improvement – and, in doing so, it erases its own direct role in inflicting the ravages of structural violence in the long history of this settler state. Against this backdrop, Sherene Razack’s Dying from Improvement is a critical intervention, as it provides an analysis of the banality of settler-state violence framed through narratives of improvement and inquiry….

Deserts have a special prominence in apocalyptic visions of the future. As a trope, the desert frequently indexes apocalyptic visions of the warming planet and future challenges of securing food, energy, and water in a changing environment. This article considers how diffuse visions of "environmental apocalypse" are spun through narratives constructions of the desert as sites of utopia and dystopia -- places where humanity is simultaneously portrayed as meeting its most dire possibilities of collapse, but also places where hopeful futures might be tested out and extremes overcome in an era of climate catastrophe. This article offers a genealogy of techno-scientific schemes in the Arizona desert and the "visioneers" behind them, focusing on the most iconic example of Biosphere 2. Initiated in the mid-1980s, Biosphere 2's history illustrates how such projects are underpinned by multiple forms of spectacle, which draw on the ideals of science, technology, and environmental salvation to build settler colonial structures of exclusion and Indigenous dispossession. By centering the question of whose apocalypse we are being sold in such techno-centric "solutions" to ecological dilemmas, this article expands recent discussions of environmental injustice and settler colonial violence to show how ostensibly "progressive" ideals and initiatives are also violent and routinely overwrite histories and presents of colonial dispossession.

My starting point is the generation that inherited Africa's colonial legacy. Our generation followed on the heels of nationalists. We went to school in the colonial period and to university after independence. We were Africa's first generation of postcolonial intellectuals. Our political consciousness was shaped by a central assumption: we were convinced that the impact of colonialism on our societies was mainly economic. In the decade that followed African political independence, militant nationalist intellectuals focused on the expropriation of the native as the great crime of colonialism. Walter Rodney wrote How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. 1 But no one wrote of how Europe ruled Africa. We were convinced that political economy was the most appropriate tool to come to analytical grips with the colonial legacy. The great contribution of un-derdevelopment theorists was to historicize the construction of colonial markets and thereby of market-based identities. The popularity of political economy spread like a forest fire in the post-independence African academy precisely because it historicized colonial realities, even if in a narrowly economic way. Political economy provided a way of countering two kinds of colonial presumptions , embedded in various theories of modernization. 2 The first was that colonial cultures were not grounded in historical processes. The second was that colonial contact marked the beginning of a history for these societies, since colonialism was presumed to have animated them culturally, economically, and politically. The limits of political economy as a framework for political analysis began to surface in the face of postcolonial political violence, for political economy could only explain violence when it resulted from a clash between market-based identities—either class or division of labor. From this point of view, political violence had to be either revolutionary or counterrevolutionary. In the face of political violence that cut across social classes rather than between them—violence that was neither revolutionary nor counterrevolutionary but simply nonrevolutionary, violence animated mainly by distinctions crafted in colonial law rather than sprouting from the soil of a commodity economy—ex-651

Course outline/syllabus for 4th year undergraduate class on transitional justice. The focus is on Canada and the relationship between transitional justice and settler colonialism. A secondary focus is on understanding the Canadian and South African transitional justice policies in comparison.

The coastal Isthmus of Tehuantepec region of Oaxaca, Mexico – known locally as the Istmo – is regarded as one of the best wind energy generating sites in the world. Marketed as a preeminent solution to mitigating climate change, wind energy is now applying increasing pressure on indigenous groups in the region. The article begins by outlining a definition of colonialism that assists in identifying the temporal continuity of the colonial project to understand its relationship with wind energy development. The next section briefly reviews colonial genocide studies, discussing disciplinary debates between liberal and post-liberal genocide scholars, the relevance of self-management within colonial systems, the genocide-ecocide nexus and the ‘intent’ of destructive development projects. This leads into reviewing the claims and findings that emerged from fieldwork in the Istmo, which is divided into the north and south to show the different, yet similar dynamics taking place in the region. Finally, the article concludes that wind energy development as a ‘solution’ to climate change not only distracts from its dependence on fossil fuels and mining, but renews and continues a slow industrial genocide, assimilating and targeting (indigenous) people who continue to value their land, sea and cultural relationships.

In 2015, the Australian federal government proclaimed that violence against women had become a national crisis. Despite widespread social and economic advances in the status of women since the 1970s, including growing awareness and action around gender violence, its prevalence remains alarming. A third of all women in Australia have been assaulted physically; a fifth of all women have been assaulted sexually. Intimate partner violence is significantly more prevalent in Australia than in Western Europe or North America. One woman each week is murdered by an intimate partner, and recent research suggests that nearly forty per cent of all women who suicide have a history of domestic or family violence. Domestic violence is a precipitating factor in a third of all homelessness. The resulting strain on government services and lost productivity means that family violence has been estimated as costing the Australian economy around $13.6 billion a year. The histories presented in this collection indicate exactly where these violent behaviours come from and how they have been rationalised over time, offering an important resource for addressing what amounts to a widespread, persistent, and urgent social problem.

Explanations for suicide are theorized primarily in terms of the individual , seldom considering the interdependent orientation of Indigenous communities. Drawing on the interpersonal theory of suicide and settler colonial theory, this study addresses Indigenous suicide on two levels: the individual and the collective. Twenty-one interviews were conducted with members of the Cowi-chan Tribes to understand reasons for suicide in one community. Qualitative analysis identified explanatory constructs proposed by the interpersonal theory as well as negative conditions stemming from colonialism, as proposed by settler colonial theory. These results argue that Indigenous suicidal behavior is best understood from an interdependent standpoint.

There are few places where mobility has shaped identity as widely as the American West, but some locations and populations sit at its major crossroads, maintaining control over place and mobility, labor and race. In Collisions at the Crossroads, Genevieve Carpio argues that mobility, both permission to move freely and prohibitions on movement, helped shape racial formation in the eastern suburbs of Los Angeles and the Inland Empire throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. By examining policies and forces as different as historical societies, Indian boarding schools, bicycle ordinances, immigration policy, incarceration, traffic checkpoints, and Route 66 heritage, she shows how local authorities constructed a racial hierarchy by allowing some people to move freely while placing limits on the mobility of others. Highlighting the ways people of color have negotiated their place within these systems, Carpio reveals a compelling and perceptive analysis of spatial mobility through physical movement and residence.

Megumi Chibana translated into Japanese the "Teaching for Maunakea: Kiʻai Perspectives” forum from Amerasia Journal. The translated article published in a magazine entitled Ekkyo Hiroba. This magazine has targeted readers and customers in East Asia interested in social movements, literature, and other creative and critical activities in Okinawa. This volume's theme was "Politics of Islands."

In this article, I discuss potential roles for curriculum studies in upending settler colonialism, which I locate as the anchor system that permits hetero-patriarchal white supremacy. As a whole I want to attend to possibilities for anti-colonial curriculum within what I call a “methodology of repatriation.”

In May 1770, James Cook sailed north along a part of the coast of New South Wales that he named the Great Sandy Peninsula. Through his telescope he observed people gathered on a rocky promontory, which he called Indian Head. The people watching him were the Butchulla. They commemorated Cook’s passing and, later, the landing of Matthew Flinders on the island that they know as K’gari with songs, one of which describes Flinders’ sailors’ heads as ‘like dingoes’ tails’. In winter 1836 several survivors of the shipwrecked brig Stirling Castle spent six weeks living with the Butchulla. When they described the K’gari bush as ‘a massive wall of impenetrable wicker work’ they were, like the Butchulla, using something familiar to comprehend something very strange. These castaways observed Butchulla relationships with dingoes, and commented on the dingoes’ antipathy toward white men. In the late nineteenth century insecurity, wilful ignorance and brutal impunity on the part of British settlers and the colonial government shaped contact relations around K’gari, named Fraser Island by settlers in the 1840s after the ill-fated captain of the Stirling Castle.

This essay explores how legacies of K’gari contact dramas, such as the Stirling Castle survivors’ narratives, the Native Police raid in 1851-1852, the abduction of two girls in 1859 and the incarceration of Indigenous people at the Bogimbah mission from 1897 to 1904, still play out in human responses to dingoes on the island. With reference to the life and death of a dingo I met on K’gari’s eastern beach in May 2015, this chapter thinks about the nature of authority and how relationships between people and dingoes on K’gari might be recast.

Claiming that the criminal justice system fails to effectively prohibit protest and civil disobedience, corporate lawyers embrace the pervasive use of injunctions and contempt of court charges in struggles over resource extraction in British Columbia, dubbing this approach the “new normal.” Yet even a cursory review of protest policing in Canada reveals that state intervention in resistance movements is alive and well and that Indigenous peoples and allied social movements are made subject to repression, surveillance, and criminalization through the mechanism of injunctions and contempt, among other legal tools. Based on my direct experience with injunctions and contempt in BC as an activist legal support organizer and a settler ally, this article argues that the reliance on injunctions by extractive industries embroils the courts and police in struggles over public and/or collectively held lands and resources that are nonetheless constructed by the law as private disputes, largely ...

The drive to decolonize the academy has led to the reconstruction of old understandings, yet much of the critical studies tradition does little more than add “data” from colonially suppressed peoples without re-examining the dominant discursive narratives. This paper explores the historiography of indigenous sport to pose questions about the ways the Imperial Archive has shaped our understandings and the manner of access to that source material, suggesting ways that they might be used to disrupt the dominant epistemologies of colonial(ist) sport history. It constructs a sixfold typology and explores each type through the analysis of a single representative source. In doing so, it tests the limits of researchers’ moral responsibility to include research communities in the process of development and production of data and critiques the view that responsibility for and conduct of the analysis rests solely with the researcher. In posing the problem of “the archive,” the paper explores ways in which the decolonization of sport history and the indigenization of the subject can help reconfigure the meaning of modern sport and develop a more fluid, dialogic approach to historiographical practice.

In June 2019 Canada’s National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls released its final report. This short Reflection focuses on the National Inquiry’s supplementary legal analysis, which concerns the law of genocide. I contend that this analysis is correct in holding that the murder and disappearance of large numbers of Indigenous women, girls, and other persons ought to be understood as an ongoing crime facilitated by specific policy choices, legal decisions, and socio-economic structures. I also contend that the systemic, recurrent, and large-scale nature of this crime is best captured by the term “genocide.” I argue that formal legal definitions of “genocide” such as the one offered in the 1948 Genocide Convention, though conceptually clunky, historically contingent, and politically inadequate, are key to illuminating some of the structural forces underlying and animating a range of events that may otherwise appear unrelated. Genocide, the ultimate collectivist crime, is a concept of preponderantly legal origin, which means that serious consideration must be given to its specifically legal definition when trying to determine whether it is justifiable or appropriate to apply it to a given social phenomenon. Its standard legal definition may be unable to do justice to the specificities of different modes of group violence, but its abstract generality is also what enables those who employ it to highlight the intrinsically systemic character of such destruction. Ultimately, I suggest that Canada’s genocide “debate” turns on the relation between “law” and “society”—the question, that is, of how precisely a legal definition is to be interpreted and applied under different, and often rapidly changing, social conditions.