Text by Liza Zogib, Divya Venkatesh, & Sandra Spissinger Photographs by Stamos Abatis (Greece), Gema Arugaetta (Spain), Wassim Ghozlani (Tunisia), Bariş Koca (Turkey), Asaad Saleh (Lebanon), Younes Tazi (Morocco) . Mobile and nomadic pastoralists the world over share a common language—the language of the landscape, of the changing seasons, of the plants, of their animals.

by Dario Ciccarelli Since January 1, 1995, when the World Trade Organization came into existence, the winds of globalization have picked up the world over, blowing local roofs off. As in the biblical story of the merchants selling in the temple, companies don’t self-regulate—they don’t see any limits to business. As a consequence, a vast

by Thor Edmundo Morales At the onset of this decade, members of three ethnic groups gathered in the state of Sonora, northwestern Mexico. Seri (Comcaac), Rarámuri, and Yaqui participants went to the Yaqui village of Vicam to get their first exposure to participatory video (PV), with training provided by the UK-based organization InsightShare. Three facilitators,

by Graham Richard On August 11, 2015 a Haida-language team set forth from G̱aaw on a three-day journey to survey the north and west coasts of Haida Gwaii (the archipelago off the north coast of British Columbia, Canada that is the Haida people’s homeland). Guided by elders’ teachings, the Haida language, historical records, and century-old maps,

by Alice Meyers in conversation with Earl Claxton Jr. (Thuh-thay-tun Kapilano) This is the story of my friendship with Earl Claxton Jr., a SȾÁ,UTW̱ (Tsawout) Elder and respected botanical knowledge holder from the W̱SÁNEĆ (Saanich) Coast Salish First Nation on the territory known as Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada. Anglicized from his SENĆOŦEN language, his

by Cristina Zárraga “I was born in Róbalo, on the 24th of May. And they say, so tells me my aunt, that when I was born during the night, there was a storm from the south. And I was born in an akali. My dad built an akali, and my aunt attended my mom so

by Anna Maffi . . Olives, grapes, barley, alfalfa, and a few fruit trees are the main crops grown in the valley of San Giacomo, a tiny rural hamlet of perhaps fifty souls in Umbria, the green heart of Italy. Its dwellers consider the valley “golden” for its fertility. South-facing exposure, sandy loams, and relative

by Lee Beavington I watch coyote cross the freeway trickster weaves amid wheeled gods her belly droops with gaunt lactation survivor of west coast wild abides two-legged rules of concrete     haste ceaseless in her search The bald eagle roosts in the Hydro tower her nest threaded by power line feathers that once soared rot

by Geneen Marie Haugen . The second cougar-kill I’ve encountered in three days smells fresh: a sweetish, iron-tinged musk. The ribcage is red-stained and bare of meat; the neck has a tremendous bite mark. The deer is only partially covered with leaf litter and brush. I had not been expecting a carcass when I set off

by Dawn Wink and Susan J. Tweit Of all the arts and sciences made by man, none equals a language, for only a language in its living entirety can describe a unique and irreplaceable world. I saw this once, in the forest in southern Mexico, when a butterfly settled beside me. The color of it