PRESENTATIONS
Open Data, Indigenous Knowledge, and Archaeology: The need for community-driven open data projects
Dr. Kisha Supernant
Department of Anthropology, University of Alberta
DRAFT: Do not cite in any context without the permission of the author
Introduction:
With the rise of the digital age, new possibilities for expanding the accessibility and long-term sustainability of archaeological data have emerged. A body of literature over the past ten years has contributed to important debates about the role of digitization of, open access to, and community engagement with both digitized and born-digital archaeological data (Beale 2012; Beck and Neylon 2012; Bevan 2012; Costa, et al. 2012; Huggett 2015; Kansa 2012; Kansa, et al. 2018; Lake 2012; Wells, et al. 2014). Some scholars have noted ethical challenges to open digital archaeology (Colley 2015; Richardson 2018), including the tension between a need to protect finite archaeological heritage and the commitment to make archaeological information available to broader publics (Beale 2012; Colley 2015; Costa, et al. 2012). In a time where archaeological data, when made public, can travel through social media and similar networks beyond the realm of control of archaeologists, new concerns about who decide which data become open have emerged. In this paper, I explore the ethical consequences of making data on the pasts of Indigenous peoples open without their consent. Much of the archaeology that has and continues to be done on Indigenous pasts is done by non-Indigenous archaeologists. When archaeological data is made public, therefore, who decides? And who should? Below, I trace the arguments for why data should be open, then contextualize them in light of Indigenous pasts and cultural heritage control in the digital world. Drawing on both my experience and some projects in related fields such as museums and archives, I highlight areas where archaeologists need to be attentive to the sensitives of Indigenous open data and develop community-driven digital approaches to archaeological curation, presentation, and data generation.
The Push for Open Data
Archaeological data has not traditionally been open to the public, although archaeologists have been thinking about public engagement and community outreach for decades. Concerns about looting, black market dealings, and other sensitivities around the archaeological record has led to a tendency to keep information protected as part of good stewardship. However, there has long been a tension between engaging the public, writ broad, and protecting cultural heritage from destruction. The rise of the internet and explosion of digital methods for capturing and presenting archaeological data has opened up new avenues for data sharing, community-based data generation, engaging with archaeological interpretations, and making archaeology more accessible (Bevan 2012; Costa, et al. 2012; Huggett 2015).
Digital archaeology is expansive in its scope, ranging from making archival site reports available (Kansa, et al. 2018) to generating archaeological data in collaboration with broader publics (Beale 2012) to engaging in social media. Typically framed as an overall benefit to the field, the move toward more open forms of archaeology has been argued to be a way to subvert traditional power hierarchies (Bevan 2012), increase transparency and accountability (Costa, et al. 2012), and enhance collaborate on between archaeologists and the public (Beck and Neylon 2012). Open digital data has been seen as one way to address the curation crisis, where significant amounts of archaeological material languish in boxes in inaccessible warehouses (Bawaya 2007; Kersel 2015). Bringing data into the open has also been argued to increase replicability of previous work and provide new data sources for interesting and important research questions (Molloy 2011).
The emphasis placed on the significance of open digital archaeological data for the field has meant the ethical challenges of this field have yet to be fully considered. Richardson (2018) notes that while there is a significant and growing literature on open digital archaeology, the ethics of the field have not been clearly articulated (see also Colley 2015).
Our existing ethical codes are based on a universal assumption that everyone working in the field of archaeology possesses the same cultural experiences and values, and all support the desire to protect archaeological material and sites with the ethical stance of the professional archaeologist primarily dedicated to the preservation of archaeological knowledge above anything else. (Richardson 2018:64).
Some of the unique challenges to bringing data into open, digital contexts include privacy, access, and control over what happens to archaeological data when it moves out into broader online engagements (Richardson 2018). Richardson emphasizes that not only should ethical standards be considered for those using online platforms and technologies as source materials, but also “public participation in digital archaeological projects” (2018:65, emphasis in original). How information gets used, disseminated, and circulated is significantly different among digital and online platforms, requiring specific consideration to how narratives, data, and even personal information can get taken up for unintended and sometimes nefarious purposes (Richardson 2018).
Considering the ethics of the field as a whole is important, but there is even less consideration of ethical issues around decision-making and the sharing of online materials from Indigenous contexts by non-Indigenous researchers. The UK has tended to lead the way in digital public archaeology, having developed strong community-based archaeological programs for decades. However, in Britain, most of the archaeologists are from the same cultural context as the communities of practice, although there are some existing vectors of inequality, especially in terms of class. In colonial contexts, most of the archaeology is done by people who are not Indigenous to these places, even through the majority of archaeological cultural heritage in these places is from Indigenous contexts. Whether generating new data using digital technologies, developing digital curation methods for legacy collections, or improving database accessibility and usage, the decisions that are being made about what happens with digital open archaeology data is being primarily made by non-Indigenous archaeologists.
Open Data and Indigenous Heritage
At the heart of open data lies the question of who decides what, in which ways, and with whom data are shared, generated, analyzed, and distributed. Archaeologists remain positioned in most ethical codes and guidelines as the stewards of the past for the good of all, meaning archaeologists are ultimately responsible for the conservation of cultural heritage (Archaeology 1996; Association 1997). However, in places such as North America, Central America, South America, Australia, and New Zealand, most archaeology takes place on Indigenous histories. The ethical entanglements about open data in these contexts are complex, both in terms of data generated from new projects, as well as bringing archival data online. There are also concerns that differ across local Indigenous contexts, often in tension with national and international laws or standards. Separations between tangible and intangible cultural heritage is often much less distinct in Indigenous contexts than it is in non-Indigenous contexts (Brown and Nicholas 2012). Therefore, the types of digital materials being generated and distributed might have unique ethical concerns. The duplication of an artifact through a photograph might have different concerns than a 3D model that is open access and available for printing.
Bringing archaeological data to a broader, more public audience can be of significant benefit in some cases. For example, tribal offices being able to access site records associated with their territory can help them manage their own cultural heritage resources (Kansa, et al. 2018). However, there is a tension between open access and control of sensitive information. The argument that open data makes for better archaeology and is a positive step for archaeologists may not hold in all Indigenous contexts. First, there can be concerns about how representations of archaeological materials circulate through digital platforms. Earlier this year, an article was published in the International Journal of Paleopathology on an analysis of evidence of syphilis from an ancestor who was looted from an archaeological site in Tennessee and ended up in a museum collection (Betsinger and Smith 2019). The article included an image of the ancestor and, when a Forbes piece was published by a popular #scicomm writer, the image of the ancestor was attached as it circulated through various social media platforms. I first encountered this on Twitter and my immediate question was about who made the decision to publish these photos (or to even do the analysis). After some additional digging, I discovered that very little consultation was done about the analysis or the publication of the article, since the remains were considered “unaffiliated” under NAGPRA (even though they were only between 1500-2000 years old). The decision to publish these images was therefore made by the authors, the peer reviewers, and the editors of the journal. Photos of Indigenous ancestors have, in some cultural contexts, the potential to do harm to living descendants. Even if this was not the case for this ancestor, no one asked whether it was appropriate to circulate images or to do the analysis that was then made public and moved through digital circles. This case is just one example of the types of ethical challenges archaeologists need to be discussing regarding open data and the impacts of digital technologies.
There are projects which have attempted to address sensitivities around archival and museum collections (Brown and Nicholas 2012; Christen 2015; Hennessy, et al. 2013; Lyons, et al. 2016; Muntean, et al. 2015; Rowley 2013). In engaging with communities for digital repatriation and reciprocal curation of archival materials, Christen notes the inherent tensions in doing this work in digital spaces:
The digital terrain poses both possibilities and problems for indigenous peoples as they seek to manage, revive, circulate, and create new cultural heritage within overlapping colonial/postcolonial histories and oftentimes-binary public debates about access in a digital age. While digital technologies allow for items to be repatriated quickly, circulated widely, and annotated endlessly, these same technologies pose challenges to some indigenous communities who wish to add their expert voices to public collections and also maintain some traditional cultural protocols for the viewing, circulation, and reproduction of some materials. (Christen 2011:185)
Although Christen is working in an archival context, very similar concerns rest at the heart of archaeological collections when they are digitized, whether documentary or artifact-based.
Indigenous Archaeology and Best Practices for Open Data
Over the past 20 years, significant literature has been devoted to Indigenous archaeology (e.g., Atalay 2006a; Atalay 2006b; Atalay 2008; Atalay 2010; Atalay 2012; Colwell-Chanthaphonh, et al. 2010; Gonzalez, et al. 2006; Martinez 2014; Nicholas 2008; Nicholas 2010; Nicholas and Andrews 1997; Silliman 2010a; Silliman 2008; Silliman 2010b; Watkins 2005; Zimmerman 2005; Zimmerman 1992; Zimmerman 1996). Much of this discussion has centered around power, community engagement, and shifting from doing archaeology on Indigenous pasts to archaeology by, with and for Indigenous communities. Scholarship on Indigenous archaeology has included discussions about diverse ways to disseminate information, but only a few have touched on the ethics of taking archaeological data produced in these collaborative contexts online. One excellent example of a community-based project around digital cultural heritage is Lyons et al.’s (2016) discussion of the co-creation of a virtual museum for the Sq’ewelts First Nation in British Columbia, where deep history, including archaeology, was integrated into a long-term perspective on what it meant to be Sq’ewelts {Lyons et al. 2016:360). The decisions of what to put in the virtual museum, what names to use, and how to organize the concepts were all decided in collaboration with the Sq’ewelts First Nation, where instead of artifacts, the materials were called “belongings” and specific Halkomelem names were used to refer to them (Lyons et al. 2016:368). Instead of an online, open access repository of archaeological data, the museum represents an culturally appropriate, community-curated portal for both Sq’ewelts and non-Sq’ewelts people to learn about their history from their belongings, landscapes, and perspectives.
In my own work with Indigenous communities in Canada, including the Tsimshian, the Papaschase Cree Nation, and my own community, the Métis Nation, I have been and continue to be attentive to the needs of the communities to have say in how the analog and digital data we collect on archaeological sites is used and circulate. When on site, I do not post materials from the site on social media without clear consent from the community to do so, and when I bring students out to site, I remind them that they need to follow the same practices. I also work with current students to use archaeological materials and digital mapping techniques to develop community-based materials that can assist contemporary communities in the present. Last semester, I worked with my graduate student, Liam Wadsworth, and Chief Calvin Bruneau of the Papaschase First Nation to develop an ESRI Storymap that tells the story of the dispossession of the Papaschase from their reserve in the 19^th^ century. This Storymap (https://arcg.is/CrzvK), which includes historical and archaeological data, has become a touchstone of sorts, a way for Papaschase to share their story with diverse audiences.
I am currently in the process of developing a Métis-centered archaeological data management system and discussing the challenges with long-term curation of Métis archaeological materials in an environment where the law requires that I send them to the provincial museum as a repository where most of them will be placed in boxes in a warehouse rather than doing the work they need to do in our community. There is significant interest from the Métis Nation in using the materials of our past to help youth and those disconnected through processes of colonization to reconnect with their cultural heritage; however, it must center Métis ways of knowing and being in the world.
Conclusion: Community-Driven Open Data
Ultimately, the decisions about how to take Indigenous archaeological data online need to be made by Indigenous communities, in collaboration with archaeologists, data scientists, and digital humanists. There is a significant opportunity to address long-standing inequities as we move to greater and greater use of digital tools in archaeology. However, we need to be attentive that our “new” uses of digital technologies do not merely reproduce the “old” colonial structures of power, access, and control of the cultural heritage Indigenous peoples.
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