Weaving Knowledge: Navigating Intercultural Dialogues About Generative Knowledge-Exchange in the Marine Sciences

Abstract

As the ongoing ecological crisis disrupts the world as we have come to know it, there has been a growing concern with the barriers of science practiced in academic institutions, which are still by and large informed by Western traditions.1 In particular, this realization that there is a pressing need to diversify the ways in which we come to know has triggered attempts to actively decolonize academic research practice, which has had a profound effect on how Indigenous knowledge systems are formally recognized (Goodchild 2021). For example, Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK) defined by Berkes (2008, 7) as “a cumulative body of knowledge, practice, and belief, evolving by adaptive processes and handed down through generations by cultural transmission, about the relationship of living beings (including humans) with one another and with their environment,” is by now not only accepted, but oftentimes encouraged in policymaking and institutional circles. Certainly, within the field of the marine sciences, there has been a recent uptick in collaborative engagement with local and Indigenous communities, especially related to the management and conservation of coastal ecosystems (Thornton and Adela 2012).

While this move toward embracing different ways of knowing instead of delegitimizing them out of misunderstanding is surely a step in the right direction, we still need to be aware of the often unequal ways in which these processes are implemented both in academia and in large-scale institutions. Indeed, as we start to think of TEK as a valuable resource in our research, it is important to keep in mind the issues that come with thinking of Indigenous knowledge systems in terms of “resource” in themselves, whereby we are risking the distillation of complex ways of being into essentialized stories that are taken out of context by those who cannot understand them in their full. It could be said that the question of how we may produce knowledge responsibly should lie at the heart of any process that entails the integration of diverse knowledge systems. More specifically, how do we include others without Othering?

Embedded within the term “knowledge-exchange” lies the assumption that the integration of knowledge can—and should—be bidirectionally beneficial and complimentary to all parties involved. In the case of marine sciences, both the scientific community and locally-embedded groups often struggle with issues that may be beyond their scope precisely because of the entangled and multiscalar ways in which these problems surface. The potential of knowledge-exchange is something that is emphasized by a number of Indigenous scholars, such as Robin Wall Kimmerer's work Braiding Sweetgrass (2013), which explores the difficult space of negotiation between her often clashing identities as a botanist and an enrolled member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, or Hawaiian Indigenous scholar Noelani Puniwai's term “weaving knowledge” which allows us to think about knowledge as a continuously evolving fabric rather than a static product, where different strands of knowledge are carefully selected and arranged through a process of co-creation.

Thinking Puniwai's concept further, TEK and Western science knowledge (WSK) may be imagined as being arranged on a metaphorical loom that assists in visualizing this complex process of negotiation. Notably, this metaphorical space is a critical point of departure rather than a fixed destination. Indeed, the framework of weaving knowledge is by no means a prescribed model that fits all contexts equally. Just as a handwoven tapestry can never be perfectly reproduced in another time and place, the process of weaving together strands of (at times initially incongruent) systems of knowledge needs a case-by-case analysis that honors that contextual specificity. Thinking about these different knowledge systems in terms of their functional pathways acknowledges that ultimately the generativity of either does not lie in their ontology (their way of being) but rather in the relational networks that are enabled by them.

Setting up the weaving process entails carefully arranging the lateral so-called warp strands on a loom, which serve as a foundation around which the horizontal weft strands weave in and out (Fig. 1). This arrangement is significant in two ways: first, it means that the horizontal strands are only added once the foundational lateral strands are secure, and second, it enables only the horizontal strands to be switched out more readily to create a pattern, for example. Arguably, when working in a context where there is already a strong base of Indigenous and local knowledge, then these knowledge systems may be conceptualized as the integral structure around which the many, generally more flexible methods and methodologies of WSK can weave around.

On a loom, a woven fabric only exists because of the unique combination of the warp and weft strands that attend to two different functions, meaning that the end result is contingent on the processual components coming together to manifest in the production of something that is larger than the sum of its parts. This should also be the case when working with diverse knowledge systems—though there is a utility to either TEK or WSK on their own, their joint applicability in addressing common goals from different angles can be harnessed as a strength. After all, if, in the words of Red River Métis scholar Zoe Todd (2016, 8), “the climate is a common organizing force,” then we need to collectively figure out ways in which we can go about assembling these overarching goals.

Discussing knowledge integration in terms of convergence by no means intends to convey that this is a linear process that always leads to generative results. Indeed, the identification of a common problem notwithstanding, there is often even an incongruence in defining the overall goals and objectives that would lead to a desirable solution. For instance, the defined goals of marine restoration practices often still incur the trickle-down effect of nature being defined in terms of the restoration of “wilderness,” a notion that is haunted by its articulations of a state of being where there is a decisive absence of human presence. Native Hawaiian scholar Pelika Andrade talks about marine protected areas with reference to museum spaces, which speaks to the complex ethical dilemmas that emerge when Western preservation tactics are confronted with the genealogical bond between certain peoples and their land (Pintér 2023). The fundamental differences in relating nature to culture in these two worldviews presents just one of the many challenges that may lead to tensions. Ultimately, the overarching end goal for marine conservation and restoration should be to nurture the richness and the diversity in the ecology as best as possible. However, it seems that there is a disconnect in defining what an “ecology” and “ecosystem” is in the first place, as Andrade states, “that ideas of Āina Momona,2 we all know that that's the goal. However, we get there, that's the diversity” (Pintér 2023).

The question then turns to how we get to a place of diversity that is non-extractive and beneficial for all included. The weaving of knowledge takes a significant amount of trust, which is an iterative process that requires time and effort to build. Often, laying the groundwork for knowledge co-production with Indigenous communities in an academic space entails continuously reckoning with the deeply embedded mistrust that is directed towards scientific research. Yet, reckon we must, precisely because when practiced carelessly, the process of co-production bears the risk of its outcomes contributing to further loss of Indigenous self-determination through processes of homogenization, and thus contributing to—rather than combatting the histories of—colonialism still haunting Western scientific practice (Todd 2016). It is therefore extremely important for the process of weaving knowledge to be a self-conscious effort that deliberately chooses to retain and honor the distinctiveness of all knowledge systems, but especially those that originate from Indigenous communities. In this sense, the visual of handwoven cloth again aids in understanding the ways in which this is possible: when looking at a tapestry from afar the individual strands form a cohesive whole while from up close one can still trace the trajectory of each individual strand.

The concept of weaving knowledge does not claim to offer an operational toolbox for knowledge co-production; however, it does extend a loose conceptual framework for thinking critically about the nexus of Indigenous and WSK systems that emerge in marine conservation now perhaps more than ever before. Weaving knowledge is by no means an easy task, but to attempt to implicate oneself into the process of weaving perhaps even imperfectly is already a step toward addressing—and responding to—the acute need for multilayered narratives that enable conservation practice today to prepare itself to face dilemmas emerging from a complex web of intertwined, yet at the same time increasingly fragmented, systems. Arguably, the act of weaving knowledge itself is as much about learning to “stay with the trouble,”—a process of learning how to negotiate the past with the present—as it is about changing the status quo for a better future (Haraway 2016).