IRSHDC Reflection – October 24, 2017
Assignment #3: Following your experience in the IRSHDC, write a blog post about the type of new media installation you would like to see at the centre. Tell us about how your installation would respond to the ongoing histories of residential schools and speak to the various audiences that will inhabit the space (survivors, students, researchers, etc.). Where in the space would you install your piece and what type of technology would you use to display it? (projection, multitouch screens, sound, video, etc.).
At first, I was quite overwhelmed with the thought of creating this prototype. I am not Indigenous, so I am still struggling to understand what my role should be in conceptualizing a project for the IRSHDC (Indian Residential School History and Dialogue Centre) that will address, among a wider public, residential school survivors. I am not sure what my place is in creating something like this, so I am going about this process with as much caution, openness and respect as possible. Creating this project with a group has been particularly helpful in thinking through my positionality in relation to the assignment. Throughout discussions with my group, it is important to continually ask myself, “What am I privileging?,” as I want to make sure to center Indigenous stories and perspectives.
The actual process of collaboration and sharing with my group is a very important aspect of the project. I think that the method in which we are going about creating the prototype, via open communication, is just as important as the finished product. The group works to facilitate a dialogue where everyone feels comfortable. We also took the time to learn a bit about each other – what we study and what our main interests are, so as to better understand where we are all coming from. Our main goal is to get everyone to agree on the direction of the project and feel excited about working on it. Before we entered the IRSHDC, we were briefed on the ethics of care and how we can bring that into the space. Although this has not been spoken about explicitly in our group, it does seem that this document is reflective of how we are treating each other.
In terms of the prototype itself, we decided we wanted to create something that focuses on telling the story of residential schools. More specifically, we want to detail the stories of residential school survivors while also accounting for the inter-generational trauma that has occurred, highlighting that this is not an issue that is in the past, but continues to affect communities. In our installation, we want to communicate how time has passed. To do this, we want to create a short video of a survivor telling their story, and also hear from the generations below them, their children, grandchildren, etc. Each generation can speak about their experiences of residential schools and how it has impacted them. Although we want to emphasize the trauma and devastation that this has caused, the group agrees that we also want to accentuate the resiliency and resistance of residential school survivors. To carry out this kind of project, of course, there would need to be immense dialogue with community members, supporting them in telling their story in the way they feel comfortable. Our ultimate goal would be to facilitate the stories, not take ownership of them.
We want the technical part of the installation to be responsive to these stories, not the other way around. We do not know the exact stories that the survivors and their families would tell, so it is quite difficult to design technology around content we do not yet have. With this in mind, the technological installation would be best if it was able to be quickly programmed and installed, as well as quite inexpensive, because it has to be robust and able to be easily adjusted.
When designing the installation, it is also important to consider what scenarios would be triggering to survivors and their family members. The majority of the group does not identify as Indigenous, so we want to make sure that we would be engaging with the community in compassionate and informed ways, always foregrounding Indigenous experiences. With this in mind, I am extremely open to my ideas being critiqued, because my ultimate goal, as well as my groups’ goal, is to concentrate on productive and decolonial knowledge dissemination, which means communicating trauma respectfully and compassionately.
Although we have not talked about the exact details of the technological aspects of the installation yet, it seems that the group is not particularly interested in utilizing augmented or virtual reality. These tools can cause a user to lose sight of the ideological framework that the content is crafted and delivered within. I think that the framework, in this case, must be visible at all times. Considering this parameter, the idea that I am leaning the most strongly towards is to have video projections in all 4 corners of the downstairs main room where the tech team is currently set up. About a meter away from each corner, there would be pads on the ground that the user steps on, which would activate the video to start playing on the wall. As soon as someone steps off the pads, the video stops playing. This is a bodily experience and you control when it ends and begins. From standing on the pads, you can watch videos of the survivors and their family members recounting their stories. Because you are activating the content with your body, you are intimately engaged. Each corner would feature a different family telling their story, or it could be the same video, depending on how many families agree to tell their story, or if the community thought it was appropriate for more than one family to be filmed. We want to account for empty space as well, because there are many traumas and crimes that will never be reported. Considering this, in one of the corners, when you step on the pads, nothing will come on the screen, which symbolizes and acknowledges that the story of residential schools will always be incomplete, as well as the Indigenous knowledge that has been lost via the cultural genocide that these schools helped facilitate.
Rendering of IRSC. Credit: Formline A+U.
In terms of the audience profile, we decided that we want this content to be for Indigenous residential school survivors and intergenerational survivors, who can see their stories recounted back to them and have their resiliency acknowledge and honored. We also want our installation to be compelling for groups who know little about residential schools. Through showcasing personal accounts of families, I think that people who have minimal understanding of this history will be introduced to it in a powerful way, listening to first-hand accounts. Through engaging people who are unfamiliar, the bodily experience of stepping on the pads implicates them in the videos while also facilitating a space of active listening to bear witness.
We also want the audience/users to be able to contribute, and have the installation be a unidirectional exchange. We think it would be extremely powerful if the viewers could express their gratitude directly with the survivors and their families featured in the videos for sharing their stories. We were hoping this could be done perhaps via a video message, digital guestbook or audiobook using an iPad that could be available at the door. Before these messages were shared with the family, it would be important for them to be screened by a third party to make sure they are appropriate.
Furthermore, one of the main priorities for our group is to have material that is able to be engaged with and accessed outside the IRSHDC walls. We believe that a social media project in conjunction with the installation could facilitate learning and communication. We are still thinking this through, but I think it would be powerful to create something on Twitter or Instagram where residential school survivors or intergenerational survivors tell their story and share information about the schools.
None of these ideas are fully fleshed out yet, but through continued collaboration with my group, I am confident that we will be able to create a prototype we are all proud of.
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Aboriginal Narratives in Cyberspace Reflection – October 11, 2017
Assignment #2: Using Loretta Todd’s essay, Aboriginal Narratives in Cyberspace, address the question, “What are the potentials of VR spaces for Indigenous storytelling? What are the pitfalls?” Make specific references to one or more of the VR pieces studied in the FNIS 454 VR workshop.
Virtual reality seems to be widely considered the “next big thing,” the technology set next in line to be popularized and adopted by a mass audience. There is much speculation as to what the possibilities of this digital tool will hold for entertainment, commerce and communication, but in this blog post, I will engage in a more specific inquiry around how these advancements can impact Indigenous communities. In particular, I will attempt to respond to the question: “What potential do VR spaces hold for Indigenous storytelling?” I have limited knowledge of VR but an article by Loretta Todd, a Métis Cree writer, filmmaker and artist, entitled Aboriginal Narratives in Cyberspace serves as a starting point to tackle this question. Midway through the text, she writes, “Tribal cultures are not all oedipal plenitude, we cannot make cyberspace purer for the White folk” (158). I intend for this idea to be the axis of my analysis. It is not Indigenous peoples’ responsibility to grapple with these kinds of ideas for the benefit of non-Indigenous peoples. As a white settler, I want to use this post as a starting point to begin to put forth intellectual and emotional labor in order to think through these complex concepts around VR.
To begin to address these subjects, it has been valuable to confront the questions that Todd asks throughout her essay, including, “…what Ideology will have agency in cyberspace?” (154) and, “Can native worldviews — native life — find a place in cyberspace?” (156). Although many of her inquiries are about cyberspace in general, they also are tremendously useful when applied directly to VR. This technology is still at its early stages – its true capabilities are not yet known, so asking these types of questions at each new phase of development can serve as powerful guide lines in evolving and adopting VR in ethical ways. Todd says that “…the origins of cyberspace… are important to examine when talking of creating Aboriginal meaning in cyberspace” (154). VR is still in its infancy, so tracking its continuing developments is extremely important in order to best suit this technology to Indigenous communities’ needs.
VR Headset by Oculus, owned by Facebook (2016)
VR is immersive. Putting on those goggles creates an intimacy with the digital world, essentially erasing all traces of the “real” world. The user can lose all awareness that they are engaging with a technological medium, and instead, directly participate with the content of that medium. This means that the viewer may be able to enter spaces where they are uninvited and unwelcome. This seemingly “free” access creates the potential for viewers to adopt settler colonial modes of operation – insensitively entering and essentially, conquering, digital territories. Todd warns that these types of problems are likely to emerge, as her essay highlights that cyberspace is an embodiment of western ideology.
Todd underscores this argument by declaring that, “A fear of the body, aversion to nature, a desire for salvation and transcendence of the earthly plane has created a need for cyberspace. The wealth of the land almost plundered, the air dense with waste, the water sick with poisons, there has to be somewhere else to go” (155). So, how can VR be used to encourage people to get back in touch with themselves or to connect with the world around them? Are these things even possible?
It seems like these opportunities do exist, especially when considering the concept of transformation that Todd introduces. She explains, “The transformation that is a regular experience in native narratives is not like the experience of escapism in western narrative nor the disembodiment of cyberspace” (156). She recalls that, “… shape-shifting does not occur simply for the thrill of a new body. Instead, shape-shifting has purpose — very often a healing purpose” (156). This concept may provide inspiration for VR designers and users alike, to envision these digital environments where one does not need to forget their body, but in fact, brings their identity into these spheres through an embodied experience, which can lead to long lasting healing and learning.
These concepts are directly put to use in Lawrence Paul Yuxweluptun’s Inherent Rights, Vision Rights (1991-92), a digital art/VR piece that primarily takes pace in a longhouse. Through different visual tactics, Yuxweluptun demands that the viewer does not “…forget your body. Your identity is…intact here…” (160). He employs strategies to remind you that you are still yourself in this digital space, including making the viewer open a door to enter the longhouse, which provides somewhat of a frame to the artwork itself (160-161). The audience is challenged to “make [their] own ‘psychological connections,’” since they “portray” themselves (162). This piece offers an example of how someone can enter unfamiliar surroundings and learn based on their own experiences.
The question still remains, however, that even with the radical educational and healing possibilities of a work like this, what if users abuse this technology and act disrespectfully while in the longhouse? Todd reminds us that is important to think of the consequences of these kind of experiences, “The point is precisely to ask the questions about possible scenarios beyond the immediate gains” (158). The effects of this kind of piece being misused are important to consider, although, the misuse of technology is not just confined to VR, as all digital (and non-digital) technology can be harmfully appropriated. Taking account of this argument is why I have chosen to not include any images of Yuxweluptun’s installation in this post. Given the history of white Canadians taking advantage and abusing images of, and created by, Indigenous people, I have refrained from posting any stills from his piece.
Another notable example of Indigenous storytelling in VR is Lisa Jackson’s documentary short film Highway of Tears: 360 Video. It follows Matilda Wilson who tells the story of her daughter, Ramona Wilson, who was murdered in 1994 on the Highway of Tears in northern British Columbia. This work can feel disconcerting and jarring, as the viewer is essentially put in the position of Ramona Wilson walking along the highway in the opening scene. This can inspire empathy in the viewer, while also creating the possibility of retraumatizing audience members who may have had with family or friends go missing on the highway. In another scene, the viewer has access to a 360 view of Matilda Wilson’s home, which can feel incredibly inviting or incredibly invasive, depending on your point of view. What is the responsibility of the creators of the film to consider the different audience reactions? Do they have more of a responsibility, considering the immersive and intimate nature of VR? This piece highlights the power and potential of Indigenous storytelling, while also demonstrating its risks.
*****WARNING***** The following video features references to extreme violence against women and Indigenous peoples:
Highway of Tears: 360 Video by Lisa Jackson (2016)
Considering the works by both Yuxweluptun and Jackson, there is tremendous power in Indigenous voices telling stories about their own communities in VR, but there can also be several dangers that arise in this way of communicating. Using Todd’s essay as a reference can help creators and consumers be more conscious of these risks, specifically through grappling with the questions Todd poses.
As a closing thought, I would like to advance the idea that powerful Indigenous storytelling in VR can ONLY be achievable if Indigenous people have access to these technologies. So, perhaps, before talking about all the possibilities that VR can present for Indigenous storytelling, it is essential to first provide resources and opportunities to young Indigenous people through technological training and the availability to equipment in order to empower them to share their own experiences.
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Network Sovereignty Reflection -September 20, 2017
Assignment #1: Provide a close, critical reading of Chapter 1 of Marisa Elena Duarte’s book, Network Sovereignty (2017).
Marisa Elena Duarte believes that technology can be harnessed by Indigenous peoples as an incredibly powerful tool in their efforts to decolonize. The potential of this relationship has been demonstrated by the emergence of the Idle No More movement, which reveals what is achievable when Indigenous peoples utilize digital communication networks to organize, community build and tell their own stories. In Chapter 1 of her book Network Sovereignty, Duarte argues that Indigenous peoples can “resist and subvert colonizing systems, rules and practices, and state power through social and political engagement and mobilization…” via “digital devices and systems” (17-18). She opposes the archaic notion that conscripting technology to do this work is “in conceptual contradiction to Indigenous philosophies, spiritualties, and everyday practices” (18). In fact, she believes that using technology is “becoming a technique of Indigenous praxis” (18). This is her main point – that technology presents an avenue with massive possibilities for Indigenous activism and connection. In this way, the chapter is about how “Native and Indigenous peoples leverage information and technology to subvert the legacies and processes of colonization…” (14-15).
Social media gives people a chance to “observe, participate, and document,” and herein lies one of the lasting impacts of Idle No More (24). Although members of this movement were ignored by main stream media outlets, they took their narrative into their own hands, seizing social media channels to communicate and build networks of like-minded individuals. Duarte explains that the movement was “a first visible manifestation of the sociotechnical networks created by Native and Indigenous peoples” (25). It represents just the beginning of what could be possible for Indigenous activism when it is mobilized online. One needs to look no further than Black Lives Matter as well as the resistance of the Dakota Access Pipeline, which were largely organized through social media, to see how impactful online organizing has become in preceding years.
To provide more background on Idle No More, Duarte details a “prayer rally,” she attended in January of 2013 at Peace Arch State Park in White Rock, British Columbia (23). The event was “heavily recorded,” by supporters of Idle No More and journalists alike (24). She writes that “[t]he moment was a compelling intersection between systems of technical networks and various Indigenous spiritualties and intentionalities” (24). The recounting of this event highlights what continues to be possible when Indigenous peoples harness technical networks. In this instance, “[f]irst-world technologies” allowed “…Native women [to] creat[e] Indigenous cosmovisions that allow[ed] for the spiritual significance of devices” (25). The women who organized and participated in this rally were able to mobilize technology in pursuit of spiritual and sacred ceremonies, which speaks volumes to the potential that technology has in the decolonization process.
Even with all the hopefulness that Duarte holds for digital devices, she does not let us forget that technology is ripe with ideology and tied to progress of the nation state. Whether it is through railroads (9), wire-line telegraph posts (10), letter writing (10), maps (12), drones, or anything in between, the newest technology seems to always be employed in order to subjugate Indigenous peoples (11). Sharing information is how Turtle Island has been colonized, so the Internet and social media have the potential to become another iteration of that fact. This makes the Idle No More movement all the more powerful, as now, Indigenous peoples are using technological advancements for their own means, challenging classical methods of colonial knowing (13).
Duarte suggests that the content produced from this particular Idle No More rally, “is like a mirror,” which highlights “…the strength of Native women, who, in spite of facing radically higher levels of interpersonal and environmental violence than almost any other social group, and especially in borderlands, chose to organize through peaceful means” (24). This demonstrates that there is power in visibility, as the videos and images that emerged from this gathering meant that “Native women [were] commanding a section of the interface layer of global information flows” (25). Through the circulation of this media, Indigenous women demanded to be seen and acknowledged. Duarte points out that Indigenous peoples are already connected to one another “through a shared experience of overlapping waves of colonialism,” but now, they have online networks in which these collective experiences can be more easily shared, which can build resilience, community and support for further activism (17).
With so much promise in how the Internet and social media can be utilized to decolonize, there are still many prices to pay to be visible online. Just through creating a Facebook or Instagram account, you are making yourself more susceptible to hyper surveillance and police tracking, which was prominently demonstrated through the monitoring of activists at the Dakota Access Pipeline protests. Furthermore, digital mass surveillance disproportionately affects low income people and people of colour, so by having movements primarily take place online, there are serious risks one is enduring to participate in this way. Duarte does not really acknowledge these risks, but does point out that some Indigenous people do not “allow their photograph to be taken by American anthropologists because they recognize how the camera, the photo, the anthropologist, the database, and the gallery will likely be weaponized to work against Native and Indigenous peoples…The anthropologist’s camera becomes a tool within a greater colonial assemblage” (22). With this in mind, how do Indigenous peoples continue to employ social media and not allow it to be used as part of the colonial assemblage, especially considering the extreme surveillance that goes along with it. How do Indigenous peoples post images of themselves and share content without it being used for violent, colonial interests? These are questions that may be worth thinking about as Indigenous activism continues to grow online.
Considering these ideas, I feel extremely uneasy writing about and critiquing Duarte’s work. After reading her chapter, I wonder what my right is to address the question, “How does the concept of technology relate to the concept of Indigeneity?” I am a white settler on unceded Coast Salish territory, I think that it is my duty to listen to Indigenous peoples and hold up their voices, not necessarily produce content about them. This is why I have chosen not to include photographs or videos in this blog, as I am uncomfortable about sharing media that I have no control over once it enters the World Wide Web. I am even weary about using creative commons or open access images, as the Intellectual Property Issues in Cultural Heritage (IPinCH) project website, based at Simon Fraser University, explains that Indigenous materials “…need to be managed according to alternative sets of rules to those provided by copyright and creative commons license models.” I am not yet familiar with those rules and do not want to post anything that may be disrespectful or insensitive. Through reading Duarte’s text, the most important question I can ask myself is, “How can I help promote and honour movements like Idle No More, and not let my voice drown them out?” Being a supportive and compassionate ally is my number one priority and I hope this class gives me space to explore how to do this to the best of my ability.