Archaeology conference aims to centre Indigenous perspectives in work on ancestral sites
Beneath the rolling hills around Lethbridge, now tinged with green after the past week's rain, under‐ standing of the past is lodged in the landscape it‐ self.
It's here, at the city's uni‐ versity, that archaeologists have gathered to listen and learn from the voices of the people who have always been here, and whose ances‐ tral belongings are objects of desire to museums across the country.
Just over a decade since its inaugural event, the sec‐ ond Blackfoot Archaeology Conference, called Ksaahkommitapii, meaning "spirit of the ground" in the Blackfoot language, wrapped up on Saturday, after two days of collaboration and consultation between confer‐ ence-goers and member tribes of the Blackfoot Con‐ federacy.
And while agenda items included technical presenta‐ tions with titles such as, "us‐ ing photogrammetry to record a rock art glyph at Writing-On-Stone, Alta.," the event's main goal was to re‐ inforce the inclusion of Black‐ foot philosophy into the analysis of archaeological sites.
"Archaeology can look at a rock and date it, but why it's there and what it means … we're the only ones that can interpret that," said Jerry Pot‐ ts.
Potts is a member of the Piikani Nation and chair of the Iron Shirt Culture and Heritage Society, the nonprofit that hosted the confer‐ ence.
He says Indigenous in‐ volvement with local archae‐ ological practices is crucial, not only to give nations agency over the artifacts of their ancestors, but to re-ex‐ amine Canada's past from another perspective.
"History only starts in Canada after the railway came through," said Potts.
"Archaeologists are really important in terms of recording history. But that history has to start being recorded within Blackfoot territory, with Blackfoot his‐ tory and what it means to us. We're not a subject, we're real people."
Across the U.S. border in Montana, Potts says the Blackfeet tribe has made great strides by tying archae‐ ological findings to tradition‐ al stories and customs, ef‐ forts that have given local First Nation consultants more authority when carry‐ ing out their work.
His society is attempting to do something similar in Al‐ berta, says Potts, but it's not without its challenges. A big piece of the puzzle is collabo‐ ration with professional ar‐ chaeologists, who have ac‐ cess to the great majority of potential historical sites that
exist on private land.
One of those archaeolo‐ gists, who Potts says has be‐ come a close friend, is Gabriel Yanicki, curator of western archaeology at the Canadian Museum of History, in Gatineau, Que.
"Growing up in southern Alberta and having an in‐ terest in archaeology, the question of whose heritage I wanted to study wasn't front of mind at the time, the gen‐ eration when I started in my career," said Yanicki.
But as a graduate student, Yanicki's interests narrowed, and he began focusing on ar‐ chaeological sites that con‐ nected him to the Blackfoot people. Since then, Yanicki said there has been a shift in his field.
"At some point there has been an awakening in ar‐ chaeology - a moment of reckoning even - where ar‐ chaeologists, especially white settler archaeologists, are recognizing that it's a privi‐ lege to study the history of First Peoples, but it's not our heritage."
"So the question is, whose heritage is it? Why do we want to study it? Who bene‐ fits from that research?"
WATCH | Students learn to conduct archaeology in respectful way on Siksika reserve:
Archaeologist Lindsay Amundsen-Meyer, an assis‐ tant professor in the depart‐ ment of anthropology and ar‐ chaeology at the University of Calgary, has been thinking about these questions for years. She presented at the first iteration of the Blackfoot Archaeology Conference, and said this year's event looks a lot different.
"Back then, there was a lot less collaboration, right? So there were archaeologists talking, there were Blackfoot elders and knowledge hold‐ ers and such talking, but there wasn't a lot of integra‐ tion."
"But I would say, what I've seen today for sure, is that the talk now and and all the work that's happening is real‐ ly collaborative work."
Amundsen-Meyer led a team of young archaeologists on a landmark excavation at Siksika Nation two years ago, which sought to teach nonIndigenous students how to conduct work in a respectful way.
"I've really come to be‐ lieve that good research is service," she said.
"I'm not Indigenous, I'm never going to be … And I think for me, the best thing to do [is to ask] how can I help?"
"I have this technical ex‐ pertise … And if I frame my research in that way, then I feel like there's the opportu‐ nity to do something really great."
Training Indigenous ar‐ chaeologists is part of that ethos that Amundsen-Meyer carries with her. This sum‐ mer, she'll be undertaking another excavation project at Nose Hill Park where several Indigenous students will be involved.
"I joke I want to train my‐ self out of a job, but I do. Like the reality for us as archaeol‐ ogists is that 98 per cent of archaeological sites are In‐ digenous and probably 99 per cent of archaeologists are not Indigenous. And that's a problem."
In Pott's mind, the changes that Yanicki and Amundsen-Meyer speak of are incremental, but notice‐ able. He said the second con‐ ference's attendance has been nearly double that of the first.
"I think the archaeological field, with a lot of the younger archaeologists, it's just so cool to see that they want to learn, they want to tell the truth, they want to make a history, make a his‐ toric difference in how ar‐ chaeology is presented," said Potts.
"I think the conference is about trying to bridge or get some understanding to build relationships that, you know, our stories of creation mean something, you know, it means something to us."