Everyday Indigenous resurgence during COVID-19: a social media situation report

Introduction

Pandemics are not new occurrences for Indigenous peoples. The stark reality is that “We are the descendants of those who survived epidemics” (Wood, 2020). Yet, for several Indigenous Nations on Turtle Island (Canada and the USA), COVID-19 has exacerbated food insecurity and adverse health outcomes. Heiltsuk land-based educator and writer ‘Cúagilákv (Jess Housty) discusses some of the challenges when harvesting during a pandemic: “The reality is it’s so hard to find ways to go out and safely harvest any kind of marine or intertidal sea foods while still practising physical distancing and other basic safety measures around COVID-19.” ¹

How do we as Indigenous peoples regenerate our relationships to the land and natural world during COVID-19? Everyday actions bring to light the intimate ways we engage with relatives at the kitchen table, within ceremony, and other spaces that are often hidden from public view. Focusing on everyday actions allows us to better understand the small-scale dynamics of community resurgence, such as talking story, sharing food, and the multitude of ways that we nurture and renew our relationships. Often overlooked and unacknowledged, everyday actions are important for understanding how revolutionary and transformative change occurs.

Everyday Indigenous resurgence online

We write this report from the unceded territories of the Lekwungen, W̱SÁNEĆ, Cowichan, and T’Sou-ke nations in so-called British Columbia, Canada. At the onset of COVID-19 outbreaks in Canada and amid new social distancing measures, including the closing of several Indigenous borders to the public, a small group of Indigenous scholars and land-based practitioners started an Instagram account entitled “Everyday Indigenous Resurgence” (EIR). ² Beginning on 21 March 2020, EIR sought to highlight the daily ways that Indigenous peoples across Turtle Island engaged with their Indigeneity. Our goals were modest—post at least one thing every day, highlight the diverse ways Indigenous peoples engage with cultural and familial practices during a pandemic, and inspire other Indigenous peoples to engage in actions that strengthen their health and well-being.

In the spirit of collaboration, we invited people from different Indigenous nations and communities to share their perspectives. We also had several guest hosts—an Indigenous person or entire families who would take over the account for a 1-week period and provide glimpses into their daily realities. Much like photovoice and other image-based mediums, the photos and videos shared on EIR were effective tools for amplifying Indigenous voices and conveying larger messages and themes around food security, ceremony, language, health, storytelling, gender, solidarity actions, artwork, and relationships to the land/water. According to Songhees knowledge-holder and land-based practitioner, Cheryl Bryce, social media can connect Songhees and Esquimalt members with plants of the area, and is “. . . a way to keep connected to our traditional foods and to the land and to our history, to our ancestors, to who we are” (Tennant, 2020).

Robynne Edgar

I am a Cree and Japanese herbalist, privileged to live on the beautiful lands of Cowichan territory along the Koksilah River, translated from xwilkw’ sale, a Hunquminum word meaning “place having snags,” a reference to a corral or gathering place.

COVID has brought me many unexpected gifts. It has provided me the opportunity to press pause and move away from the forward energy I have come to know, back to a place of calm. I am grateful that I have been able to achieve this through my relationship with plants and their medicines.

Our medicines present an immense opportunity for us to get back to the land in a more mindful way than ever, and with greater purpose. Knowing which plants have supported us over thousands of years allows us to get away from a sole reliance on pharmaceuticals. I want to help empower our communities to be as self sufficient as possible.

Many have noticed changes in our environment during COVID such as an unexpected abundance of symbiotic relationships occurring in the forest. I have also observed a prolific presence of sacred and traditional medicines this year. Plants that some say tap into the nervous system of the forest suggest that mother nature’s nervous system is healing as humans retreat during this time.

Some amazing examples of humanity and innovation exist in our communities including elder check-ins, medicine sharing, community gardens, new food security programs, and the resurgence of vegetable and medicine gardens! EIR provides a unique opportunity to share these inspirational stories demonstrating how we can co-exist with our natural environment in a good way.

Engagement with traditional plants as food, medicine, and technologies has been very encouraging and there is considerable thirst for this knowledge (among both Indigenous and non-Indigenous people). Social media can be a powerful tool, but it can also have negative effects and expose our communities if not used in the right way.

While cross-cultural understanding is an important piece of reconciliation, we also have a responsibility to protect Indigenous knowledge, and we must continue to consider what we share on social media as the popularity of the EIR site grows. It is a good challenge to have.

Renée Monchalin

Kwey! Renée nidijinikaz. Abitawizì (Anishinaabe, Scottish, Métis, and French). Attiwonderonk niin nindoonjibaa. T’Sou-Ke nindaa. COVID-19 has led Indigenous communities to adapt “public health” oral protocol teachings that have been passed down through generations of epidemic survivors. In the video called “Anishinaabe Pandemic Prophecies (Yellowhead Institute, 2020),” Isaac Murdoch (Anishinaabe) states,

All of the Laws that are being broken right now is what’s causing the sickness. Because of this, we have to go back to the old way of life . . . The Elders are constantly reminding us to go back to the land because it’s the biggest and most powerful healthcare system we have.

The EIR page, in combination with the reduced hours at the grocery store, made me reflect on returning to the land. EIR has highlighted how resurgence in many ways, is COVID-19 prevention.

As uninvited settlers on T’Sou-Ke territory, my partner and I, who is a Persian immigrant, decided to start a garden as our way of returning to the land during COVID-19. Coming from an urban setting, the closest I ever got to gardening was helping my settler Scottish mom as a kid pulls carrots out the ground or pretending that cattail (apakweshkway) in our yard were hotdogs. But with the combination of blood memory and Google, I was up for the task and aligning with Anishinaabe pedagogy, I was learning by doing (Simpson, 2011). In this process, I have learned to never underestimate the size of a tiny seed and its potential for growth.

Margaret Robinson (Mi’kmaq/ Scottish) states, “Gardening in my yard, I notice that root systems grow together. Our cultural roots also do this, I think” (Robinson, 2020). I relate to this quote and am learning so much from this garden. What started as a small everyday act of resurgence to provide content for the Instagram page, has grown, like my seeds, into an abundance of teachings.

Jeff Ganohalidoh Corntassel

Osiyo nigadagwu. Jeff Ganohalidoh Corntassel dagwado’a. Tsalagi ayetli agwenasv’i. Nigohilv tsigesvi anehe’i Ani Lekwungen nole Ani W̱SÁNEĆ ahani tsitsinela’i nogwu. I am writing to you as a Cherokee (on my Dad’s side and Scottish, Irish, and German on my Mom’s) from the unceded lands and waters of the Lekwungen and W̱SÁNEĆ nations. Amid the difficulties of the pandemic and profound changes to our lives, our family had to slow down and live at a different pace. A Cherokee word for this is tõhi:, which is about peacefulness or not being rushed; everything is flowing smoothly (Altman & Belt, 2009). Deviating from tõhi: means that you are rushing things and illness and aggravation often result.

Our family experienced tõhi: in several ways during the pandemic and we were inspired to grow medicines and foods, such as tsola (tobacco), yarrow, beets, peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, and strawberries. Rather than hurrying out the door each morning, we spent time with the plant nations, singing to them and ensuring that they were healthy. Interestingly, the more we planted, the more we spoke Cherokee together and more stories would emerge.

Inspired by EIR posts, such as Robynne’s, we learned more about the plants in our own backyard, such as stinging nettles, and how to prepare them for tea. ³ We also learned how to harvest douglas fir tips and about their many healthy uses. EIR postings were more than just recipes or performative gestures—they were reminders of the many ways our nations live according to the principles of tõhi: and how we honor these healthy relations in everyday ways.

Hayalthkin’geme—Carey Newman

Yo! ’Nugwa’a̱m Carey Newman, He’ma̱n bak̕wa̱mx̱tłe’ Hayalthkin’geme. Through my father, I am Kwakwak’awakw from the Kukwaḵ̕a̱m, Gix̱sa̱m, and Wawałaba’yi clans of northern Vancouver Island, and Coast Salish from Cheam of the Sto:lo Nation along the upper Fraser Valley. Through my mother, my ancestors are Settlers of English, Irish, and Scottish heritage.

The isolation brought on by COVID-19 has affected people in many different ways. Something that it took from me during the early stages was inspiration—an unsettling irony for an artist whose work thrives on confronting social and environmental issues related to colonialism and capitalism. Beyond the collective trauma and personal triggers, my creativity was shaken because I rely so much on connection with community. But ḵ̕wa̱la hima̱nała t̕at̕a̱nx̱ila (life always balances the boat) and this pandemic has given me ’wa’wayas nanoḵi’ksila (time to think about things). I spent time thinking about how concentric rings of trauma, that begin with one injustice, ripple outward through generations, causing multiple, often exponential harms. I thought about how the people of this coast—my people—have experienced pandemics before, such as smallpox and the 1918–1919 Influenza Pandemic.

The people of this Coast are survivors. Our cultures are fluid and we adapt our traditional and ceremonial ways. Devastating as those diseases were, lessons were learned, and there was eventually healing. But what happens when the source of trauma is continuous?

I began to think about colonialism as a disease that went from pandemic to endemic, virulent today in the systems built and upheld by those who they benefit most. People cannot fully heal until the source of their trauma is resolved. As Indigenous peoples that means ensuring that the structures contributing to the dispossession of our lands, languages, and cultures are dismantled and forever changed. The persistence of colonialism means that we are in a perpetual state of survival, unable to heal. I see resurgence as a tool of survival, that when connected the collective work of decolonization and reconciliation, forms the foundation of our pathway to emancipation.

That is what the EIR account is for me: Comfort in a time of discomfort. A point of connection and tool of my survival. A place where, by sharing and learning traditional ways, I witness and absorb enough of the beauty, power, and resilience of Indigenous people to regain inspiration, replenish hope, and perhaps most importantly, remember my purpose—making artwork that contributes to positive change.

Until there is a vaccine for colonialism . . . i’ax̱a̱latła̱n (I will be working).