When Indigenous Peoples reclaim their place names and re-inscribe them on map and memory, they take a bold step toward self-determination and the preservation of their biocultural heritage.
Native Land is an interactive online map that showcases Indigenous languages and territories and highlights the fuzziness of these boundaries, compared to the often straight, rigid lines of modern colonial borders. This map shows the Indigenous languages of northwestern North America. Map: Native-Land.ca, 2020
A seed of trust, rooted in the comforting presence of names.
The Magic of Names and Naming
Ever notice the first thing people do when introducing themselves? After the obligatory “how are you,” they usually exchange names, of course! Depending on local custom, they may then ask one another where they are from — a further exchange of names.
Through the magic of names and naming, strangers first ground themselves, then trust becomes possible. And from this seed of trust, rooted in the comforting presence of names, a relationship may eventually grow and flower.
A woman’s hands weaving connections to her Indigenous traditions. Photo: Tulio Dávila, 2021
Weaving the World into Being with Names
Similarly, when moving or traveling, what do you do to ground yourself? Instinctively, you reach for a map. Thanks to the weight of the names on them, maps anchor you to a place as you move across it. (Whether the names on modern maps actually carry any biocultural meaning or not, is something we will see further down.)
Naming is literally calling into reality.
Indeed, from the moment we gain the ability to speak, we begin to weave our world into being through names. Why do names matter? They matter because they are powerful.
Ask anyone what name they prefer to be called by, and you will very likely get an assertive answer. Use the wrong name, and you will just as likely cause offense, sow distrust, and inflict pain, even lasting trauma.
Obviously, learning and using the right name for the right person, place, or object is a crucial social skill. But this skill is also the key to recognizing and remembering that person, place, or object.
In other words, names root us. They remind us of who we are, where we live, where we come from, and how we see the world.
Names Inscribe Themselves Back onto our Reality
Now, here’s the truly “magic” thing about the names we give and receive. Etched with meaning and memory, they in turn inscribe themselves onto our reality. They become reality. Naming a place means wielding the power to describe it, celebrate it, defend it.
A name can claim, steal, or reclaim a place. Naming is literally calling into reality.
You might say that the living tapestry we call biocultural diversity is woven of single threads – names. Together, countless name-threads bind us to the human and more-than-human worlds in a rich, two-way meaning-making.
Rock carvings, Manawatu River Walkway, New Zealand. Photo: Geoff McKay / Wikimedia Commons
A Name for Each Stream, a Landscape Within Each Name
What happens when a place named by its original occupants is violently renamed by invaders?
So, what’s in a name? More specifically, what’s in an Indigenous place name? To put it simply, a lot.
If there is deep power in naming, then who gets to name a place really matters. For instance, what happens when a place named by its original occupants is violently renamed by invaders with no connection to it?
Further, can a place whose original name has been erased for many generations be reclaimed and re-inscribed on the land by the cultures that evolved with it? What happens when Indigenous place names — and entire Indigenous languages — go through erasure, then reclamation?
Within Terralingua’s own deep-rooted and extensive repository of stories lie the answers to these and many other questions.
Let’s explore just how deeply the roots of Indigenous place names grow, and why this matters to us all. We invite you to take a peek at the following essential stories.
W̱SÁNEĆ (Saanich) Elder STOLȻEȽ (John Elliott) with the younger generation on the Tsawout First Nation Reserve on Salt Spring Island. Photo: Terralingua, 2011
Reclaiming Original Place Names: An Act of Self-Determination
In “A Blossoming Time at ÁLEṈENEȻ (Homeland): Reclaiming W̱SÁNEĆ (Saanich) Place Names on the West Coast of Canada,” Alice Meyers, guided by Earl Claxton Jr., introduces us to the renaming of home. Here, “home” is the traditional territory of the W̱SÁNEĆ Coast Salish people of southern Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands.
Lived experience and ancestral knowledge are inscribed on the land.
At first, W̱SÁNEĆ names may look unfamiliar and even challenging to the uninitiated reader. But as the story unfolds, a funny thing happens. Our brains begin adjusting to the ancestral music, rhythm and textures of these names. And we start to feel — directly, in our mouth and vocal chords — the power of these Indigenous names.
Meyer’s story teaches us the central importance for First Nations of revitalizing their languages. This a complex and organic process which often starts with renaming culturally important places.
Reclaiming a place’s previous, Indigenous name, Meyers discovers, is an essential act of self-determination. She points to the power of reclaiming these names to reconnect the W̱SÁNEĆ people with their land and with the lived experience and ancestral knowledge that these very names inscribe on the land.
ȽÁU,WELṈEW̱ (Place of Refuge) Tribal School, Saanich, British Columbia, Canada. Photo: US Mission Canada / Wikimedia Commons
Is it possible to heal the trauma and loss of colonial name erasure?
Who Has the Power to Name? Whose Knowledge is Privileged?
By re-inscribing these names in their own minds and those of non-Indigenous people, the W̱SÁNEĆ reawaken collective memory and meaning. In this way, they also lay the foundation for intergenerational transmission of their languages and knowledge through place-based learning. And it is precisely this transmission of knowledge that was interrupted when colonial Canadian governments — both federal and provincial — changed (often quite consciously and deliberately) most of the place names in the Gulf Islands.
Is it possible to heal the trauma and loss of colonial name erasure? In “The Power of Place Names: Embedding Bama Local Languages into the Australian Landscape,” Michaela Jeannaisse Carter answers with a resounding Yes. But first, she confronts us again with that central question: Who has the power to name? Whose knowledge is privileged?
Edgar Harris on Wungu beach sharing his stories. Photo: Michaela Carter, 2017
The Bama had to accept ‘official place names coined by Captain Cook.’
Nothing Less than a Question of Sovereignty
Along the way, Jeannaisse Carter tells of her efforts to assist the Bama First Nation living in what is now “Queensland” to re-embed their place names on the maps of (and in the consciousness of) non-Indigenous Australians. For them, she sees, it is nothing less than a question of sovereignty.
The Bama had to accept “official place names coined by Captain Cook or the colonial regimes that followed his invasion.” Often, these names honour colonial figures who “distinguished” themselves by oppressing Indigenous Peoples. In stark contrast, most Bama place names “are deeply linked to a living knowledge system.” Their depth shows in the rich Bama lore, where “names tell the story of a place” and teach how to live in that place.
But practically, how can Indigenous Peoples best re-inscribe their place names and gain official recognition for them? Some of the methods they are using present both clear advantages and potential pitfalls, not only logistical, but also cultural and spiritual.
Jackie Williams and Mark Connor review the Lingit Kusteeyì layer on the online map in the Taku River Tlingit administrative offices in Atlin. Photo: Jon Corbett, 2014
Web-Based Technologies for Language Learning: Opportunity or Danger?
With opportunity comes risk.
In “Place Names and Storytelling: Balancing the Opportunities and Challenges of Sharing Biocultural Knowledge Through the Geoweb,” Jon Corbett, Christine Schreyer, and Nicole Gordon explore the power of community mapping to foster language learning and cultural revitalization among the Taku River Tlingit in northwestern British Columbia, Canada. First, they record traditional place names and the biocultural knowledge and stories embedded within them. Then, they visualize them on a community-controlled web-based map.
As we saw with the Bama people in Australia, and in Canada too, ancestral languages anchor themselves to the land through sophisticated ways of naming places, and the histories, stories, and knowledge related to those places. This process, Corbett and his colleagues tell us, is crucial not only to reaffirm Tlingit identity and preserve their connection to the land, but also increasingly to support their legal claims on that land.
Children use the Tlingit language board game called Haa shagóon ítx yaa ntoo.aat (Traveling Our Ancestors’ Paths) at the Tlingit Culture Camp. Christine Schreyer and Louise Gordon developed the game as a tool for learning Tlingit words for resources and the places where they are located. Photo: Jon Corbett, 2013
Enter web mapping — or the geoweb, short for “geographic web” or “geospatial web” — all terms that describe the merging of location-based data with other online information. (Your smartphone is equipped with this technology, and you know it by the more familiar term “GPS.”) Intriguingly, the geoweb could expand the Tlingit community’s ability to re-engage with their language through real-time, place-based language learning.
A community must be cautious about using the Internet to document its biocultural knowledge.
Balancing the Pros of a Powerful Technology with Its Potential Pitfalls
However, Corbett and his co-authors are also keen to point out the potential pitfalls of such technologies. As with any advanced technology, prior discussion and agreement are crucial to the proper use of the geoweb. In other words, a community must be purposeful and cautious about using the Internet as a medium to document and communicate its biocultural knowledge.
Mindful that various colonial technologies have historically served as tools of repression and conquest – a process which included “colonial cartography by erasure” – today’s Indigenous Peoples like the Tlingit have learned to retain control and ownership of their information.
Petroglyphs in Petroglyph Provincial Park, British Columbia, Canada. Photo: Ymblanter / Wikimedia Commons
Elders’ Stories vs. Hard Data
Some people ask which is more dependable — verifiable data on a map, or the actual experience and memory of the Elders? Both, it turns out.
“Rough Waves and Remembered Names in Haida Gwaii” is Graham Richard’s account of an eventful three-day sea voyage that a Haida-language team undertakes around the northwestern edge of Haida Gwaii, the magnificent archipelago off the north coast of British Columbia that is the Haida people’s homeland. Armed with the traditional knowledge stored in the minds of expert Elders, they set out on an epic journey. Their goal is ambitious and two-fold.
Canoe from Haida Gwaii, British Columbia, Canada. Photo: Susan Hubbard / Wikimedia Commons
The Land and the Language: Teachers of Meaning
‘Sea and land each render a more complete version of the other, and both are teachers.’
First, there is exploration — and high adventure. The crew braves the turbulent waters their ancestors once plied with large sea-faring canoes to match the Elders’ mental maps with the actual lay of the land and sea. What will they find? Will they meet with disappointment or reward? If you have ever wondered what a once-in-a-generation, multi-generational seafaring canoe voyage feels like, Graham Richard’s story is not to be missed.
Then, the crew translates the “Elder-to-land” matches into the contemporary high-tech language of geo-referencing. Unsurprisingly, colonially imposed names have no such match. Land and sea teach the Haida about their ancestral place names. In turn, place names teach them about land and sea — it’s a two-way inscription. Thus, concludes Graham, “Each renders a more complete version of the other, and both are teachers.”
Survival and True Reconciliation Depend on Reconnecting to Natural Systems
Sculpture: The Salish Sun, Heart of the Salish Sea. British Columbia, Canada. On the summer solstice, the “eye” aligns with the rising sun. Photo: BSmith821 / Wikimedia Commons
‘The songs and stories spoken in the language of that place reveal the beauty and strength of our culture.’
In “Heal the Land, Heal the People: Strengthening Relationships at Hwaaqw’um in the Salish Sea,” Joe Akerman comes home — literally and metaphorically — to Salt Spring Island in the Salish Sea, better named Hwaaqw’um, a village site of his Quw’utsun (Coast Salish) ancestors. Hwaaqw’um is a place of healing, as much for the land itself as for relationships with one another and with non-Indigenous people and communities.
Akerman’s gentle story is an invitation to find ways to reconnect to the natural systems that give our lives deeper meaning. Importantly, Hwaaqw’um is now also a sacred space for Akerman’s Quw’utsun relatives to gather again and to engage with members of the Salt Spring community in a caring dialogue on what he cleverly calls “reconcili-action.”
As you read Akerman’s story, notice how the mouth-feel of this place name — Hwaaqw’um — slowly becomes familiar with its layers of natural textures and sounds, though you may not understand its original meaning. “When you spend time on the land,” explains Akerman, “with the songs and stories spoken in the language of that place, the beauty and strength of our culture is revealed.”
A Vision of Grannies and Grandpas Speaking their Language on the Land with Younger Generations
There is brutal honesty, a fierce resilience and a capacity for vision and renewal in Akerman’s ancestor, T’awahwiye (Philomena Williams, c. 1854–1951). Though she lived in a different time, her words could have been spoken by one of Joe’s living kin:
The environment was the classroom. We need to get our survivors to places like this.
“I am envisioning how it used to be when our great-grandmother was here,” said T’awahwiye. “The environment was the classroom. We need to get our survivors to places like this. Their spirits are fragmented and lost and they need medicine to build their spirits up again to become healthy people.”
When one reads her words, one feels the living thread between Joe Akerman and his ancestors. And one realizes that his people’s quest for healing and wholeness is a long one, that it is not over, and that sheer will and confidence keep it alive. In Joe’s own words:
“My vision for Hwaaqw’um is to continue, and strengthen, Hul’q’umi’num relationships to the land, to one another as human beings, and to all our relations. To have grannies and grandpas speaking the language and sharing stories on the land with younger generations.”
Colonization often Begins with Mapping the Land
A portion of a south-oriented Map of the World’s Watersheds, labeled in their predominant indigenous language. Map by Jordan Engel, 2015
Erasing a sense of place is very much a part of the colonialist project.
In “Decolonial Mapmaking: Reclaiming Indigenous Places and Knowledge,” Jordan Engel tells us that erasing a sense of place is very much a part of the colonialist project. Beginning in the so-called “Age of Exploration,” colonialism continues to this day, disguised as globalization.
Ripping off the mask of colonialism, Engel shows the ways in which mapmaking has long been an instrument of empire, particularly through the overlaying of place names. The new colonialist names that filled our maps and our minds failed to reflect in any way the ecological and cultural history of a place and the relationship of the original people with the land.
So, should we banish maps altogether? Not, says Engel, if we adopt Indigenous cartography, where people produce maps based on their own particular cultural perspective.
A portion of a map titled “Heeneisih’iinou’u biito’owuu (How the Lands are Named)” — The Central Rocky Mountains, USA, labeled in the Hinono’eitiit (Arapaho) Language. Research from the Arapaho Project. Map by Jordan Engel, 2015
Decolonizing Map-Making to Change our Relationship to Nature and to One Another
Although, says Engel, “Europeans were the first people to map the world, non-European peoples do not have to forfeit their right to map their lands in their own way.” Instead of accepting that maps and mapmaking can only be tools of empire, Engel turns the tables on colonialism.
In his “Decolonial Atlas”, gone are the political borders with “North” always on top. In his new atlas, every part of every land bears a name in its original Indigenous language.
Suddenly, the land appears in a new — yet ancient — light, as it was long before Europeans came to steal and disguise it.
Human figure in “The Spirit of Haida Gwaii,” a sculpture by Haida artist Bill Reid. Photo: Dennis G. Jarvis /Wikimedia Commons
An Invitation to Trust and Exchange
Indeed, seen through Indigenous eyes and names, the land is once again alive and pulsing with meaning. Although a “newly renamed” land may seem strange and disorienting to urbanized people, it also invites us to ground ourselves in local textures, stories, and meanings so utterly lacking in our modern maps. What Indigenous cartography does not do is impose colonial administrators’ names on lakes and mountains, divorcing every place from its layered biocultural diversity.
What’s in an Indigenous place name, then? Perhaps it is that same invitation to trust and exchange born in the meeting between two strangers who first introduce themselves, seeking to understand one another’s links to where they now find themselves.
For a Deeper Read
Want to dig deeper into the connection between language and place?
You might enjoy the following article: “Mother Tongues: Two Writers Explore the Words and Cultures that Shape Their Connection to Place,” by Dawn Wink and Susan Tweit.
