Noted aspirations, such as the “active participation and full consultation of Arctic Indigenous Peoples Organizations” in the Council’s Vision for the Arctic or the US’ assertion that it will “account for indigenous communities”, in its newly released National Strategy for the Arctic Region, by “engaging in a consultation process with Alaska Natives, recognizing tribal governments’ unique legal relationship with the United States and providing for meaningful and timely policy affecting Alaskan native communities” is NOT the same as ensuring that that Free, Prior and Informed consent be obtained with regards to matters effecting Arctic indigenous nations.  While consultation with indigenous nations may indicate engaging in dialogue – certainly an important diplomatic step — it does not imply granted permission.

The UN Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples outlines the proper implementation of FPIC: “The element of ‘free’ implies no coercion, intimidation or manipulation; ‘prior’ implies that consent be obtained in advance of the activity associated with the decision being made, and includes the time necessary to allow Indigenous Peoples to undertake their own decision-making processes; ‘informed’ implies that Indigenous Peoples have been provided all information relating to the activity and that that information is objective, accurate and presented in a manner and form understandable to Indigenous Peoples; and ‘consent’ implies that Indigenous Peoples have agreed to the activity that is the subject of the relevant decision.”

So what would FPIC look like in the Arctic Region?  It would respect the local governance and decision-making processes and structures of Arctic indigenous nations, occur in their languages, be on Arctic indigenous people’s time frames, and be free of coercion and threat. Ultimately, Arctic indigenous nations would be the judges on whether the consent-obtaining process had been inclusive and meaningful.

In the article, We Have a Different Understanding, David McLaren writes about epistemological conflicts between Western and Aboriginal ways of knowing and doing. He also discusses the Ojibwe notion of akinoomaaugae-win, meaning “what the land teaches”.  Amidst the labyrinth of conflicts that exist worldwide, perhaps it would be a worthwhile, creative endeavor to step back and ask the land what solutions it has to offer.

In his article Turtle Island First Foods Devon C. Peña writes of the “living autonomy” he witnessed while taking part in a Skokomish First Foods Ceremony:

“Ceremony is the daily lived practice of the Skokomish people as enduring constituents of their own power in the exercise of their sovereignty. First Foods are the constitutive force that nurtures this sovereignty because the sacred six are rooted in deep histories of cultural practices that are much, much older than any European barley fields. They directly connect people to the ecological sources of right livelihoods” (Peña, 2010).

In an al Jazeera video entitled “Fault Lines”, reporter Josh Rushing investigates claims that Mexican security forces, supplied with ammunition and oversight from the United States, are using the narco-economy as a pretext to repress rural indigenous campesino communities.  Numerous indigenous communities are caught between the narco-trafficantes, who forcibly remove them from their lands, the Mexican military and police, who are quick to label them as narco-growers, and transnational corporations—such as Canadian-based Goldcorp Inc.–seeking to exploit the land and abundant resources these communities have depended upon for generations.  In addition to forced turnover of lands and false imprisonments, Rushing’s investigation confirmed countless cases of extra-judicial killings and other abuses by Mexican military and police forces which continue to go unchecked.

Nowhere is this creative cultural assertion more apparent than in one of the most celebrated holidays in Mexico:  Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe (Our Lady of Guadalupe) which culminates on December, 12^th.  While the celebration is widely perceived as Catholic, the undeniable indigenous symbolism is worth noting. The original virgin was actually based on the indigenous deity, Tonantzin, the earth mother of the Mexica people. Conquering Europeans sought to Christianize her so as to convert the indigenous populations to their religion. Over the years, however, both the indigenous and mestizo (those of mixed indigenous and European descent) peoples of Mexico continue to re-appropriate Guadalupe– through the dawning of indigenous clothing and the preparation of maize-based foods, thereby reasserting her mother-earthly roots.

I had accepted the six-month assignment with the Center for World Indigenous Studies as part of my graduate work in sustainable development. The ominous clouds looming ahead seemed symbolic—of what, exactly, I did not quite know. While hurricane Jova ended up sparing the community from severe structural damage, it wreaked havoc on a series of towns south along the coast.

Mexico has suffered increasingly intense drought, four major hurricanes, and devastating floods which have led to soil degradation and destroyed crops, infrastructure, and human settlements. Indigenous communities, and the bio-culturally diverse regions they represent, are vulnerable to the recognizably changing climate. I have begun to learn that rural communities in western Mexico have the capacity and desire to adapt to the changes using knowledge learned from earlier generations of farmers and residents. This knowledge is a key point of debate in Durban, South Africa where climate change treaty negotiations started on November 28th. Given what I have experienced on the ground in western Mexico, it is critical for those in the midst of the United Nations Forum on Climate Change (UNFCC) and other “leading experts” to look at how ready and willing THEY are to adapt to inevitable climatic changes and related food insecurities.

Part of my work focuses on the local use and production of climate sensitive plants while engaging in long distance colloquies over the incorporation of language in the climate change treaty negotiations supportive of indigenous peoples. The question of how ready and willing self-described “developed” nations are to adapt to climate change is not intended as a direct plea for their higher levels of social and environmental accountability (although I do believe such governments and the corporations who fund them should be held accountable). Rather, it stems from a long overdue acknowledgement that the 5,000+ indigenous communities worldwide, who hold 80% of the world’s remaining biodiversity within their lands, have proven to be incredibly resourceful in adapting to historical climatic changes in their respective eco-niches through a consistent and symbiotic relationship with Mother Earth. Instead of spending time not agreeing to global mitigation plans, government decision-makers representing the monetarily prosperous sectors of nations should be asking for guidance from indigenous communities as they consider their own layers of vulnerability: concrete food deserts, oil-dependent infrastructures, and an incessant need to consume well beyond human and environmental means. As the climatic shi(f)t hits the fan, will they have not only the hands-on skills to make adaptive responses but also the collective ability to creatively and more responsibly reconfigure their societies?

In a recent visit with members of the indigenous municipality of Cabo Corriente, Jalisco, I met a subsistence farmer named Bety. Dr. Rudolph Ryser, the leader of this research effort sent me to Bety’s community to ask about the food availability and distribution patterns of certain nutritionally-dense foods. What I had read about the security of such communities and what I found were two different things. In current economic and agricultural discourse subsistence societies are primarily described as those who do not produce a surplus; they produce only the minimal amount of food or goods that are necessary for their basic survival. Based on this definition, one might envision—as is often depicted on the front cover of UN and NGO briefing reports—families on the brink of starvation, eager to acquire the technological and financial transfers necessary to upgrade their production capacity.

This was not the scenario I encountered as I talked with Bety and observed what actually transacted on her farm. Set amongst a backdrop of lush hillsides, Bety, her parents, and about thirty other residents have been subsistence farming for generations. Maize, heirloom tomatoes and squash, maguey, hibiscus, sugar cane, beans, plantains, avocados, chickens, pigs and cows are just a handful of food sources that Bety proudly showed me as we toured their small, incredibly-efficient parcel of land. Subsistence clearly produced considerable abundance and variety. “Why would I want to work in an factory or an office all day when I can work out here; move my body and breathe fresh air?” she asked. “The land wants to provide–if you are willing to put in the time and love–she is more than willing to produce”.

Nearing sunset, Bety and her family literally kicked up their heels, relaxed in hammocks, and invited us to partake in home-fermented raicilla—a regional, moonshine version of Tequila. It was apparent that subsistence communities celebrate happy hour as well.

Life-Supporting Societies
While I recognize that the degree to which different subsistence communities around the world can or cannot fully provide for their own needs varies tremendously, especially given uneven climate change effects, I think it is important to highlight a positive, yet often-neglected view of subsistence living. In her seminal work entitled Subsistence Perspective, Maria Mies presents a vision for an alternative ecological model for societies. It is not an economic model; rather, it is a way of looking at the economy—a perspective. She describes it as subsistence perspective because it focuses on the creation, recreation and support of life and it has no other purpose than this. It is life that stands at the center of this vision, rather than money, economic growth or profit.

Prior to my visit with Bety, I might have read Maria Mies revised definition of subsistence, and quietly tucked it away as a cozy, past-oriented notion that is no longer plausible within today’s fast-paced, growth-oriented ideology. Yet when I make my daily trek to the neighborhood Mercado, an open-air market teeming with color, variety, and intricate layers of human interaction, I recognize the numerous ways in which Mexico continues to boast tremendous life-supporting cultural infrastructure.

Indigenous communities, which comprise most of Mexico’s population, have cultivated these life-supporting systems for millennia. Their role in local, regional and international discussions on climate change and food security is vital, not only because of the vulnerabilities their own communities face, but because of the critical knowledge–the science– they have developed as a result of successful historical adaptations.