A7Towards the ‘tangible unknown’: Decolonization and the Indigenous future

Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 

Vol. 1, No. 1, 2012, pp. I-XIII 

Aman Sium

Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, University of Toronto, Canada

Chandni Desai

Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, University of Toronto, Canada

Eric Ritskes

 Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, University of Toronto, Canada

 

Abstract

To mark the first issue of Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, we delve into the many contradictions, tensions, and potential paths that decolonization may take. As we engage with the many themes raised by the articles in this volume, we acknowledge that, even though we are firm in our belief that decolonization must center Indigenous knowledge, peoples, and lands, the future remains a ‘tangible unknown,’ requiring ongoing (re)negotiations over power, place, identity, and sovereignty. Within these struggles, decolonization and Indigeneity do not simply act as reactions nor exist only in opposition to colonial structures. While decolonization is certainly set against colonial worldviews and practices, it demands an Indigenous foundation and a clear expression of what decolonization should mean for Indigenous communities globally. This editorial moves toward imagining a global Indigenous movement that empowers and uplifts local decolonizing efforts, doing so by probing some of the multiple layers and pressing questions that must necessarily be addressed.

Introduction

As we put together this first issue of Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, we were struck by the wide range of ideas and visions of decolonization we encountered, many of which are shared here and many others that this journal hopes to explore going forward. This, of course, is not unexpected; decolonization is an unpredictable, evolving, and contradictory journey. We discovered that defining “decolonization” and determining who is “Indigenous,” though central to this work, remains open-ended and, in some ways, still uncertain. Again, this should not be surprising, as Marie Battiste and James Youngblood Henderson (2000) remind us: Indigenous knowledge systems—and by extension, we suggest, decolonization—are so deeply rooted within communities and individuals that they resist codification or fixed definitions (p. 36). Both decolonization and Indigenous knowledge are diverse and, because of how closely they are woven into everyday life, are shaped by specific places and circumstances. How do we work through these distinct realities in a world that is increasingly globalized (and therefore homogenized) and interconnected, when fewer and fewer spaces remain isolated enough to preserve difference? Is the act of navigating these tensions itself decolonization? What is clear is that the aims of decolonization are varied and appear across multiple sites and forms, reflected through Indigenous control over lands and waters, and over ways of thinking and knowing.

We aim to explore several of the ideas raised in this inaugural volume, keeping in mind that even within a collection like this, tensions and contradictions emerge that are not easily settled. We hope Decolonization will extend existing conversations while adding new layers that ignite more discussion—and, even more crucially, inspire meaningful action. For the three of us writing this, we are acutely aware that this work must start with ourselves, by looking inward at our histories, experiences of oppression, privileges, inner conflicts, doubts, anger, hopes, dreams, and ambitions—all of them deeply entangled. It’s impossible to live among contradictions without becoming part of them, without being caught up in the countless tensions we adopt, that are thrust upon us, or that surround us. In writing this editorial, we speak from our own specific backgrounds and life experiences.

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Positioning decolonization

Decolonization cannot exist without rooting itself in Indigenous ways of living, communal life, and knowledge systems. In that light, even as we envision and encourage a global Indigenous movement, we must stay grounded in the particular colonial histories of the places we, the authors, are located. As we write these words, we are situated on the unceded lands of the Haudenosaunee and Mississauga peoples. We do not mention this as a performative gesture implying deep understanding of the histories, struggles, and lives tied up in this reality, nor as a declaration of a presumed alliance with the Anishinaabeg peoples. Far too often, talk of solidarity and alliance is used as ‘magic words’ to quickly name and dismiss complexity, without truly grappling with why such declarations matter or what responsibilities they carry. We say

these words instead to challenge the colonial mindset that, as Andrea Smith (2006) explains, assumes Indigenous peoples must disappear—and must always be disappearing—to justify non-Indigenous claims to the land (p. 68). Settler colonialism is fundamentally about removal and replacement, and we are all entangled in it. We make this acknowledgment to affirm the Anishinaabeg peoples' ongoing right to their land, to self-determination, and to their existence beyond the sanitized, romanticized history settlers often impose. We do not need to speak these truths to make them real; they already are.

Recognizing this specific history of colonial displacement, and the (temporary) suppression of sovereignty, matters because it shapes every one of us. There’s no escaping involvement in a settler colonial system, especially for those of us who have made a home here, even though our degrees of complicity may differ. Yet complicity can't be reduced to simple binaries without accounting for the political history of colonialism and the ways it unfolded—and still unfolds—both here and worldwide. It’s essential to reflect on colonial modernity’s structures and on how white supremacy categorized humans and non-humans, justifying the conquest of lands and the domination of peoples through slavery, indentured labor, genocide, and warfare (Wynter, 2003; Smith, 2006). It is equally important to understand the forced displacements and involuntary migrations of various diasporic groups and how they differ from the (European) settlers who intentionally colonized lands for capitalist goals, driven by the ideals and epistemology of "possessive individualism" (Mohanram, 1999).

That said, for those of us who have settled here, we must confront and repair the history of disruption we helped create. As Waziyatawin (in this issue) points out, Indigenous communities recognized from the start how Western thought and encroachment displaced and endangered their knowledge systems, their relationships with the earth, and the earth itself. We have a duty to respect Indigenous laws of the land and to rebuild just relationships. Too often, calls for ecological responsibility are voiced from a settler perspective, framed in the spirit of “this land is your land, this land is my land,” implying shared stewardship. Yet for those of us who are not Indigenous to Turtle Island, we must recognize our particular obligations to this land and its original stewards. These understandings form the foundation of this editorial and where we begin.

Thus, the starting point for decolonization is not merely rejecting colonialism. Rather than seeking to swap places—elevating the oppressed by replacing the oppressors, or as Fanon (1968) describes, making "the last first and the first last" (p. 37)—decolonization must reimagine and reconstruct concepts of power, change, and knowledge through a plurality of worldviews, ways of being, and value systems. True decolonization requires confrontation. It must actively resist the colonial power structures that threaten Indigenous ways of living. Alfred (2009b) and others argue that decolonization can only happen through a rebirth of Indigenous consciousness committed to challenging colonial systems (p. 48; emphasis added). Indigenous knowledges

must be the bedrock for this resurgence and decolonization; they are the bridge to the present and the spark of Indigenous futures. Without this source of strength, decolonization risks becoming a neutered, domesticated set of academic ideas. Decolonization does not always mean blending knowledges together or harmonizing them, which often ends up reinforcing colonial worldviews. Whiteness does not "play nicely" with others—it fractures and sidelines them—so we must ask: coexistence, but at what cost and to serve whose interests? Real decolonization is unsettling. Confronting colonialism—a ravenous beast drunk on conquest and the destruction of Indigeneity—requires more than coexistence; it demands resistance from those who will “beat the beast into submission and teach it to behave” (Alfred, 2009a, p. 37).

We are aware that we are writing from within the (relatively) privileged space of the Western academy, an institution rooted in— and sustained by— the theft of knowledge, silencing voices, and selective telling of histories. This institution played a major role in drafting the original maps of colonization, both here and elsewhere. Reyes Cruz (this issue) begins by asking: Is it even possible to decolonize the Western academy and its global offshoots? Beyond that, what is the price we pay for our participation in these systems? What are we required to relinquish, and what is taken from us without consent? Finally, can we really dismantle and rebuild the master's house using his own tools? Scholars tackling the idea of "decolonizing the academy" have explored these issues more deeply (Mihesuah & Waziyatawin, 2004; Dei, 2000).

Zooming out further: Can institutions of colonial power—like universities or governments—be decolonized? And more critically, is decolonization even possible through these structures? Looking at Africa, Thesee and Carr (this issue) discuss the possibility of Indigenous peoples gaining “mainstream visibility” — a recognized place in global socio-economic systems—through international recognition frameworks, notably during the UN’s International Year for People of African Descent (IYPAD) in 2011. They acknowledge both the achievements and the failures of IYPAD, ultimately arguing that despite its promises, the initiative largely reproduced the invisibility of African peoples on the global stage. They conclude that through persistent anti-colonial activism, institutions like the UN can be made more accountable, transparent, and respectful in their relationships of recognition. Yet critics counter this: some question whether colonial institutions can ever truly be pathways for decolonization. Glen Coulthard (2007) warns that seeking validation from colonial powers reinforces colonial authority as the one that gets to recognize or legitimize Indigenous existence (Coulthard, 2007). Similarly, in speaking about Indigenous governance resurgence on Turtle Island, T’hohahoken (2005) joins Coulthard’s skepticism about “institutional power,” noting, “colonized people are self-governed. Free people are self-determined” (p. 157). Reading Thesee and Carr together with Coulthard and T’hohahoken leads us to grapple with crucial questions: Does being present in spaces of colonial power mean having actual power? Can decolonization happen through gaining fairer recognition from colonial structures? Ultimately, these debates center on the distinction

between being recognized and achieving revolution: being seen versus transforming the very way we understand sight itself. Inside the academy and similar institutions, these are questions we must face on the path toward decolonization.

Recognizing where we are—both academically and geographically—we must once again emphasize the importance of land and material reality in the decolonization process. As Tuck and Yang (this issue) remind us, decolonization often gets reduced to just ‘decolonizing the mind’—something we in academia are especially prone to—while overlooking the very real, tangible violence colonization inflicts on bodies and communities. This is not a new critique; Amilcar Cabral (1966) warned decades ago of the danger of viewing decolonization purely as mental liberation. He urged colonized peoples to remember that most often, “people are not fighting for ideas, for things in anyone’s head. They are fighting for material benefits, to live better and in peace, to see their lives move forward, and to secure a future for their children” (quoted in Idahosa, 2002, p. 1). For many communities under settler-colonial violence, decolonization is inseparable from urgent struggles over land and the recovery of territories fragmented by state borders. Colonialism causes real devastation, and decolonization cannot be limited to philosophical debates or Western ideals of ‘Reason.’ Decolonization is a profoundly emotional journey—not in the shallow way white supremacy has portrayed non-white peoples (Fanon, 1967)—but in ways that penetrate deeper than reason alone can fathom.

The psychological, spiritual, and emotional wounds caused by colonization are real and cannot be dismissed, yet material realities must remain central, or else decolonization becomes hollow. There can be no decolonization without centering land and Indigenous authority over it. Lawrence and Dua (2005) drive this home when they write: “To speak of Indigenous nationhood is to speak of land as Indigenous, in ways that are neither rhetorical nor metaphorical” (p. 124). What often gets distorted is the failure to understand that land, spirit, and mind are inextricably linked—separating them has been a core tactic of colonial domination. Indigenous connections to the land are spiritual in nature. It is relationship with land—not a romanticized ‘noble savage’ stereotype—that generates survival knowledge and theory. Spirituality is not absent from Indigenous thinking or daily decision-making. Mind, spirit, and material world are tightly interwoven, inseparable. True decolonization demands recognizing Indigenous sovereignty across all these dimensions: physical, psychological, epistemological, and spiritual.

As we have mentioned earlier, even though we firmly insist that Indigeneity and decolonization must be rooted in local struggles, we are also interested in imagining a broader, global Indigenous movement. What does it mean to acknowledge that “Imperialism frames the Indigenous experience. It is part of our story” (Smith, 2012, p. 20)? Indigenous identity is not simply the opposite of colonial identity (as Martin Nakata reminds us in this issue), but it is shaped through a real opposition to colonial structures. How do we work through that opposition while staying true to Indigenous histories, lived realities, and visions for the future? Even though there are immense differences in how Indigeneity is lived and responds to colonization, can we also recognize important commonalities in knowledge systems, struggles, and resistance? Tuck

 and Wang (in this issue) open a conversation about how decolonization cannot be easily merged with other political movements worldwide, but still: where do differences stop and shared ground begin? This is not about searching for a pan-Indigenous identity but about building relationships and alliances that bolster local decolonization struggles.

Who is Indigenous?

As discussed earlier, much of decolonization has involved reclaiming and affirming the humanity of colonized peoples. Colonialism positioned itself as the ultimate judge of who counted as fully human. A critical part of this was denying Indigenous peoples their humanity. However, in asserting Indigenous humanity, there is a danger: the framing often slips into a Western-style humanism that claims “we are all Indigenous,” confusing Indigeneity with universal humanity. This happens similarly when non-African societies assert that “Africa is the cradle of humanity,” leading to claims that “we are all African.” We strongly reject this framing. Colonialism and white supremacy have always understood Indigeneity as distinct and dangerous, working relentlessly to erase it. Saying “we are all Indigenous” is not decolonizing—it repeats the racist logic of color-blindness. Such claims lean on old religious (and secular) ideas of universal equality—“we are all equal under God” (Gaztambide-Fernández, this issue)—and erase the deep structural power differences colonialism created and sustains. As Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2012) notes, “The focus on asserting humanity must be seen within an anti-colonial framework that recognizes the dehumanizing imperatives of imperialism” (p. 27).

We also resist colonial attempts to decide who qualifies as Indigenous based on arbitrary standards of blood quantum, genealogy, or community belonging. Colonial powers have long used such tools to measure and contain Indigenous identity, often imposing binary divisions of Indigenous and non-Indigenous, aiming to divide, conquer, displace, and dispossess Indigenous communities. Although the exact forms these divisions take vary by place, the underlying colonial logic remains the same. In Africa, for example, pre-colonial Indigenous governance existed long before European rule, but colonial authorities formalized it through legal categories distinguishing “natives” from “non-natives.” Indigeneity became racialized and ethnicized. As Mamdani (2001) explains, the distinction between race and ethnicity was not identical to the line between colonizer and colonized: within the colonial hierarchy, both colonizers and colonized peoples were divided by race. Mamdani emphasizes the importance of understanding the distinction between subject races and subject ethnicities: although both groups were colonized,

subject ethnicities were marked as Indigenous, while subject races were classified as non-Indigenous immigrants (for example, the Tutsi in Rwanda and Burundi). Even after Rwanda's revolution and independence, colonial categories of race and ethnicity persisted, fueling the tensions that exploded in the 1990 genocide. As Mamdani (2001) concludes, “we turned the colonial world upside down, but we did not change it” (p. 9). 

This way of understanding ethnicity is also deeply flawed. The way ethnicity is used continues to fragment, disrupt, and rename Indigenous identities. In Rwanda and Burundi, for instance, the labels of Hutu and Tutsi did not exist before the eighteenth century, when colonial anthropologists divided communities by physical features and occupations, with some even measuring skulls and noses to ‘prove’ biological differences that supposedly marked inferiority (Mamdani, 2002, p. 44). Not much has changed since then. "Ethnicity" is often colonialism’s leftover; it persists as a measuring device the state uses to manage, classify, and control Indigenous peoples, serving as a dehistoricized substitute for Indigeneity. Alfred (2009a) points out the similarities between Third World "ethnicity" and "Aboriginalism," noting that both represent “assimilation’s final move, the terminological and psychic displacement of genuine Indigenous identities, beliefs and traditions...Aboriginalism hides everything that is historically true and meaningful about Onkwehonwe” (p. 126-127). In questioning colonial categories of identity, we must ask: How does Indigeneity get captured and tamed by colonial governments both at home and abroad? How do official frameworks of recognition make some people legally Indigenous—and visible—while excluding others?

In Canada, as elsewhere in settler-colonial societies, multiculturalism discourses have tried to reframe Indigenous peoples as just another ethnic group among many. Rubén Gaztambide-Fernández (this issue) critiques multiculturalism’s project of ethnicity and culture, describing it as containment—hollowing out culture to fit within a colonial logic. Even more troubling, Indigenous peoples—whose ties to the land go back to time immemorial—are expelled from the settler state and then invited back under the name “Aboriginal.” This move loosens the historical bonds to land, weakens Indigenous land claims, and recasts Indigenous peoples as just another multicultural group, hovering around the edges of the nation but never fully part of it. Instruments like Canada’s Indian Act have worked to strip Indigeneity away, through gendered and racist laws aimed at eliminating Indigenous people, thereby clearing the land for settler occupation (Tuck & Yang, this issue; Smith, 2010; Razack, 2002).

The project of defining Indigeneity has too often turned to colonial tools to police borders. Who decided that around 67.7 million people in India should be considered Indigenous? Why are the Maasai of Kenya acknowledged as Indigenous while other neighboring communities are not? Should Indigeneity be something one claims (through ties to a specific community) to resist

 colonial boundaries—or are the risks of self-proclamation too high? Also, why are some places seen as repositories of Indigenous knowledge, but not recognized as homes to Indigenous people? Few scholars, including ourselves, have noticed that conversations about global Indigeneity often include only scholars from Turtle Island and the South Pacific. What perspectives are missing when it comes to Indigeneity and decolonization? Where do Indigenous realities in South America, Asia, and Africa fit into these conversations?

This brings up major questions to be explored—or perhaps left unanswered: Is it possible to think about a diasporic Indigeneity? How do processes like (in)voluntary migration, displacement, and the global spread of knowledge affect local Indigenous identities, especially if, as Dei, Hall & Rosenberg (2000) argue, Indigeneity is fundamentally tied to specific lands and places? Dei (in this issue) begins to explore what happens when Indigenous knowledge (in his case, from Africa) enters new Indigenous contexts (such as Turtle Island/North America). In a more globalized world, how do different expressions of Indigeneity and struggle meet and interact across diasporic spaces? How does this align—or clash—with what Leanne Simpson (2001) argues: that once Indigenous knowledges are assimilated, they lose value for Indigenous peoples trying to defend their interests? How can we strike a balance between assimilation, integration, and collaboration in ways that serve decolonization? How can Indigenous communities form alliances that fight colonialism at every level, while still honoring differences and local realities? Indigeneity is full of tensions and contradictions, both internally and in its engagements with the outside world—which should surprise no one. Yet, as Linda Smith (2012) points out, only Western cultures are allowed to be complex and contradictory, while Indigeneity is expected to be “pure,” unified, and easy to define. As Nakata (this issue) emphasizes, there are many intricate issues still underexplored; we hope this journal becomes a space where such complexities are respected and taken seriously.

Decolonization: Theory vs. action

A major challenge in thinking about decolonization is bridging the gap between theory and action. Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang (this issue) remind us that “settler colonialism and its decolonization implicates and unsettles everyone” (p. 7). They go on to show that settlers cannot claim innocence when it comes to the ongoing violence and land theft affecting Indigenous peoples. However, they also emphasize that each of us has agency—we can either participate in colonial violence or resist it through the choices we make, the positions we hold, and the consequences we accept. That’s why the knowledge we create is deeply connected to who we are and how we act in the world. Real transformation can be measured by our willingness to act courageously and imaginatively, taking our ideas beyond the bookshelf into the world. Decolonization doesn’t just advise against becoming passive observers of knowledge

—it demands we refuse to be. As Fanon (1967) put it clearly: “It’s no longer a matter of understanding the world, but of changing it” (p. 1).

It’s this commitment to action that Waziyatawin (in this issue) articulates when she imagines the “endgame of empire,” asking: what kind of future will Indigenous resurgence create once colonialism collapses? She urges readers to look behind the colonial façade and recognize that its power rests on an illusion of permanence and inevitability (p. 76). Crucially, she also insists that life exists beyond colonialism—and that hope, both theoretical and practical, is essential to defeating it. While colonialism works tirelessly to shape and dominate the world, it can be challenged, cracked, and ultimately forced to retreat through determined resistance. As we watch global capitalism—fueled by a voracious hunger for Indigenous land and resources—reach a crisis point, we must also recognize that a dying colonial system will resist violently to preserve itself. Waziyatawin describes the paradox facing Indigenous resurgence today: “while we have an opportunity to realize its emancipatory potential, if we do not succeed soon, the chances for the survival of all life will severely diminish” (p. 82). Thus, both decolonization theory and action are urgent.

The artificial separation between theory and action became especially visible in the debates over the Occupy movement—a recent, highly publicized effort where ‘decolonization’ was brought into the mainstream. As Tuck and Yang (this issue) recount, Oakland became a key site where Indigenous activists demanded that Occupy recognize something obvious to Indigenous communities: the land being occupied had already been occupied by settlers for centuries. As Waziyatawin (2011) reminded the Oakland occupiers, Indigenous peoples were the original victims of the twin forces of colonial expansion and capitalist exploitation, both of which involved taking Indigenous lands. Yet when Indigenous peoples demanded a true decolonization of the movement, they met resistance. Some Occupy leaders dismissed decolonization as too academic, too removed from the “real” work of activism. This refusal to acknowledge that colonization—and thus decolonization—touches every aspect of life revealed major flaws in the movement. It also showed that we, too, have failed to make the connections between theory and activism clear enough. There is much work ahead.

Too often this split between theory and action gets framed as a conflict between organizers and academics—but this overlooks how colonialism has shaped Indigenous knowledges through Enlightenment thinking. Indigenous ways of knowing were cast as primitive and physical: arts and crafts, agriculture, “hands-on” skills lacking the intellectual depth of European knowledge. Today, in countries like Canada, Indigenous peoples are expected to protest and organize, but it

still surprises many when they step into academia—the supposed home of "real" theory. Scholars like Ali Abdi have worked hard to dispel the myth that Indigenous cultures lack philosophy or theoretical depth, but Indigenous knowledge is still too often treated as myth, fiction, or mere opinion. Even today, gaining legitimacy in the academy often means first acknowledging European theorists before Indigenous theories are taken seriously. There is urgent work to be done.

We also must see how the theory/action split has been shaped by patriarchy, with theory associated with masculinity and action with femininity. As Grande (2004) and Smith (2006) remind us, colonialism and patriarchy are inseparable—they sustain each other. Andrea Smith (2008) points out that activism often comes wrapped in masculine bravado, framed as political (and thus male), while grassroots community work is feminized—viewed as organic, less political, and less confrontational. Similarly, Alfred (2009a) notes that the figure of the male "guerrilla warrior" assumes that men should lead the struggle. This creates a revolution shaped by masculine ideals, where men are celebrated as leaders, and women’s roles are minimized or erased. Leonard Peltier (2012), often held up as one of these revolutionary figures, challenged this dynamic on his 69th birthday: “All too often people talk about the exploits of men and what they said and what they did, and all too often give no thought to the women who gave them life... The real heroes are the women who quietly, every day, do what needs to be done and pass on the values that make standing up for justice possible.”

There is work to be done. We cannot ignore these intersections because colonialism operates precisely through such layered oppressions. If we are truly committed to decolonization, we must be willing to untangle these layers and confront colonialism wherever it appears. We cannot pick and choose which struggles to support. A strong, intersectional analysis of patriarchy is essential to any decolonizing effort. As scholars, activists, Indigenous peoples, and allies, we cannot afford blind spots or selective politics. The urgency of the moment demands more.

Continuance

Theory and action are inseparable—one cannot exist without the other. Theory must drive action, and action must in turn shape theory. Those quick to act must be open to theory drawn from their own communities; this makes action sustainable, provides crucial support, and acknowledges that actions have impacts beyond the immediate moment. Those inclined to

theorize must also be willing to put their beliefs into action; this deepens theory, brings humility and collaboration, and ties theoretical work to real-world urgency and materiality. Mariolga Reyes Cruz (this issue) talks about living inside these tensions, describing her role as a ‘reluctant academic’ living “neither with god nor the devil,” in a constant space of contradiction and challenge.

We must remember that theory is created every day in our communities, at kitchen tables, in forests, and in the fields. Jeff Corntassel (this issue) speaks about the ‘everyday acts of Indigenous resurgence,’ and this is the ‘our way’ that Taiaiake Alfred refers to when he says, “We must do it [decolonize] our way, or risk becoming the very thing we fight against” (2009a, p. 131). Indigenous knowledges have kept communities alive since time immemorial, serving as an anchor against the chaos of colonialism, and have regenerated power, spirit, and humility in individuals. There is deep wisdom here. Mariolga Reyes Cruz (this issue) writes about blending knowledge and life through her work with the land, learning new kinds of labor and knowledge, and resisting colonialism in fresh ways. It’s in these small, intimate acts that decolonization breathes, confronting the messy realities of oppression, privilege, complicity, and resistance. There is theory, nourishment, and strength in these daily acts of survival.

We must also recognize that alliances and solidarity are never automatic; they require hard, intentional work to sustain fragile ties between Indigenous peoples, and between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities (Gaztambide-Fernández, this issue; Smith, 2008). Community must be built—it cannot be taken for granted. This is even more urgent against a neoliberal colonial force that promotes individualism, personal rights, and competition as paths to destruction. True community is difficult, always vulnerable, and demands an embrace of contradiction and complexity (Gaztambide-Fernández, this issue). Gaztambide-Fernández suggests that imagination can help us construct new forms of relationship, though imagination alone will not be enough. At its core, he proposes a pedagogy of solidarity that can redefine human relationships and humanity itself. Since the idea of the “better human” came from European Enlightenment thinking (Wynter, 2003), the project of decolonization must include rebuilding what it means to be human, using diverse epistemologies, ontologies, and axiologies. This rebuilding may open up new paths for decolonization.

What lingers for us are questions; it takes humility to ask the kinds of questions that have no easy answers. There is strength in questioning, and in accepting that not all things are—or should be—known. Nakata (this issue) stresses the importance of ongoing questioning, even within critical Indigenous spaces, encouraging us to keep probing theory and practice for blind spots. This kind of questioning is essential, because, as we have said, decolonization isn’t about simply flipping colonialism upside down—it demands courage and imagination to create something entirely new.

Indigeneity responds creatively to the demands of resisting colonialism, crafting new answers for new challenges. This calls for humility, because, as Mariolga Reyes Cruz reminds us, decolonization is about “moving toward a different and tangible place, somewhere no one has ever really been” (this issue, p. 153). There are many traveling this road, each struggling toward that shared but uncertain vision of decolonization. Seeing decolonization as a tangible unknown allows room for disagreement, dialogue, and collaboration, where different people contribute to one another’s dreams and struggles. We are not writing a conclusion, because the story of decolonization is unfinished—and perhaps never linear. Indigenous storytelling moves in circles, is performed again and again, and with each retelling, new layers and new truths emerge (Little Bear, 2005). We hope Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society becomes part of that living cycle, supporting those who are weaving and reweaving stories of Indigenous knowledge, resilience, community, and renewal.