In the early years of learning maths and chemistry, posters fill the classroom walls. They’re plastered with motivational slogans like “Music: proof the brain enjoys counting”, “Chemistry is everything”, and “Maths: the secret language of the universe”. There is an implicit message that the tables and figures before you are everything, everywhere. Somehow they bind the world together, and for some reason you’ll be using the quadratic formula for the rest of your life.
Indigenous knowledge is sometimes framed to be at odds with these sorts of classrooms; pandered images spring to mind of noble savages charting stars without writing almanacks, managing farms without computing figures. But between indigenous knowledge and Western science is a considerable nexus: the notion that all things, everywhere, are connected.
Western science has a history of domination and exploitation, and while words like “algebra” may be direct evidence of their non-Western conception (from the Arabic “al-jabr”), Western science has a clear Western bias. But its dominance is waning. Gone are the days of unconsenting experimentation, of treating island nations like laboratories (or worse, bomb sites). Gone are the licences to pilfer native wildlife and spread disease. Barriers remain, but in recent years there has been a growing recognition of the importance of indigenous wisdom and an understanding of the fundamental similarities it has to modern science. As Dr. Nancy Longnecker of the Science Communication Department puts it: they are simply “two different ways of knowing.”
Modern Western science may revolve around the tenet of interconnectedness, but Western values have historically centred on extraction and individualism, especially when it comes to the natural world. With the welcoming of indigenous knowledge, Western science may be able to benefit from the wealth of data that indigenous communities have been gathering for generations. Take Matariki, for example: the same star cluster has cemented itself as a central node of culture for dozens of indigenous communities. Over generations, they mapped and tracked the passing of the sisters, or the hens, or the maids - whatever they called them, their significance remained. The stars coincided with important agricultural dates, and served as a sort of calendar: a repeated exercise that consistently provided similar results. A lot like the scientific method.
The same is true for indigenous botany, on our shores and beyond. Plants that may have baffled a Western explorer were intimately familiar to locals, often with descriptive names that matched the personality, purpose or prestige associated with it, and accompanied by stories passed down through generations of experimentation. Someone always had to be the first person to eat a new plant, after all. That’s experimentation at its finest. Through direct observation and experimentation, indigenous communities have developed a rich understanding of the local environment and are able to identify patterns and changes that may not be otherwise apparent. Sometimes, these patterns were scary or powerful, leading Western explorers to cite the presence of witchcraft rather than genuine chemistry. This would often lead to the rapid suppression of native experimentation or expression.
A particularly fascinating example comes from the shores of Haiti, with the botanical and zoological roots of zombies: native scientists, experimenting with the extraction of naturally-occuring biochemicals, deduced a recipe for a powerful neurotoxin. They mixed tetrodotoxin (from pufferfish) and other compounds into a fine powder, which could be blown in the face of a target. The victim would then fall into a deep but temporary coma, one so convincing that on at least one occasion a man was pronounced dead by Western scientists and buried. He was later dug up by the witchdoctor and put to work in the fields, kept in a stupor by a constant diet of a second experimentally-derived drug, this time from jimsonweed, a plant with sedative properties. These small armies of the “living dead” became known as zombies, and their presence was so frightening to Western scientists that we still live in fear of that name. There’s a whole horror movie genre in their honour. Native experimentation has absolutely led to the scientific discovery of new technologies.
Though indigenous knowledge certainly compliments Western discovery, there are prevalent challenges to incorporating it into modern science. One of the largest obstacles is the lack of communication and collaboration between indigenous communities and scientists. Oftentimes, language differences and cultural barriers make it difficult for Western scientists to understand and fully appreciate indigenous knowledge. Similarly, a history of exploitation has led to mistrust and scepticism on the part of many native communities worldwide. This issue works hand-in-hand with the lack of recognition of mātauranga Māori (ancestral knowledge) within academic institutions which is often dismissed entirely as unscientific or even anecdotal and is not given the same validation as Western scientific knowledge.
In 2021, seven academics at the University of Auckland penned a letter to The Listener in which they railed against the validation of mātauranga Māori. They claimed that it “falls far short of what can be defined as science,” and while “it may help... it is not science." The Vice Chancellor of the Uni rebuked their argument, but the impact had already been made. Internationally, the letter was circulated amongst debaters on both sides of the argument. Despite claims of racism and neo-colonialism, and despite disapproval from the Royal Society of New Zealand, the authors stalwartly defended their claims.
Native knowledge and Western science are not diametrically opposed. Often, highlighting the similarities between the two can be a helpful way to bridge the cultural gap. Te Wharau Walker (Ngāti Tūrangitukua, Ngāti Hikairo, Ngāti Te Takinga), one of the science engagement coordinators at Tūhura Otago Museum, emphasises the importance of recognising the mana of ancestral knowledge and applying it within modern settings - a feat that encapsulates Te Wharau’s first outreach project: Āwhinatia Te Wero.
“Āwhinatia Te Wero pairs traditional methods of science with modern technology, focusing particularly on tī kouka (cabbage tree) and harakeke (flax) as the backbone of the project,” Te Wharau shares. “The project was presented as an opportunity to encourage rangatahi to pursue STEM subjects. But the way it was initially proposed was as a kaupapa Māori project, utilising pūrākau (ancient stories) and acknowledging the whakapapa of things within the taiao (environment). Essentially, further contextualising it within a Māori worldview - things that Māori kids are more likely to be familiar with.”
Botany, perhaps unsurprisingly, is one of the sciences most visibly connected to indigenous wisdom. As of writing, Robin Wall Kimmerer’s (Potawatomi) Braiding Sweetgrass is celebrating its 169th week on the New York Times bestseller list. Plants are an integral part of life for every community on the planet, and the people who know certain plants best are usually the people who have known them the longest. But generational expertise is not always reflected in professional demographics.
Less than two per cent of Aotearoa’s scientific workforce consists of Māori workers. Similarly, secondary education data is showing that both rangatahi Māori and Pasifika are more likely to be “streamed out” of science education early on in their schooling, as Te Ao Māori News reported last year. But perhaps the absence of Māori within the sciences may be due to the lack of applied learning, especially coming from different cultural backgrounds that perceive the natural world in a different way to Western belief.
Te Wharau, a former “kura kid” turned “mainstream”, brought firsthand knowledge of a Māori upbringing and the benefits of such, as well as the challenges of navigating the Western world to the project. “I’ve always had a natural curiosity for things. Had I been exposed to experiences such as ‘Tūhura Tuarangi’ and ‘Āwhinatia Te Wero’, which would have supplemented that curiosity, I’d certainly have pursued science communication as a career. I mean, just seeing a Māori science communicator as a child would have filled all the gaps for me - I’d have known ‘this is something I can do’.”
And so, those missed experiences inspired the mission to bring sciences to rangatahi Māori. “A great focus of this project, for me, was to visit kura kaupapa Māori who otherwise miss out on these experiences,” says Te Wharau. “Coming from a kura background and a small town, I know first-hand how science wasn’t presented to us in a way we could interact with.” Te Wharau maintains that the presentation of science and its content must cater to more than one viewpoint. “When kids have that sense of belonging, they are often more inclined to interact with what's around them. In this case, with kura kids, we need to be exposing them to STEM subjects - the world of kura kaupapa Māori prepares you for a different life, not necessarily for university.” In places like Canada and Australia, where indigenous communities have also been subject to the dark history of colonial violence, education has even been used as a tool of oppression, an instrument in the vicious process of assimilating natives into ‘civilisation’. According to researcher Lateisha Ugwuegbula, “The Western education system values only one kind of knowledge” and not only offers a curriculum that is culturally irrelevant and Euro-centric, but also a lack of support and a lack of positive representation.
While life on the road and juggling other projects can get hectic, Te Wharau finds balance in “taking things slowly and prioritising time at home.” But home has a different feel to it this year. With the rising and passing of Matariki, and its allocated theme ‘Matariki Kāinga Hokia’, Matariki calls you home: people across the motu are encouraged to return to their roots and reconnect with whānau “wherever and whoever that might be.” For Te Wharau, the lead-up to Matariki, while a busy one, has been momentous. Te Wharau recently returned from presenting the ‘Tūhura Tuarangi - Aotearoa in Space’ science exhibition, visiting cities such as Auckland and Hamilton and smaller, more remote areas such as Niue or Tūrangi - Te Wharau’s hometown. “Growing up in Tūrangi, science wasn’t something we engaged with, and when we did, there wasn’t much to hold on to - there’s an underlying importance in reaching these smaller towns, and that’s to maintain a presence. For example, we left a telescope for the kids in Niue when we were there.”
Matariki, in today’s day and age, is representative of embracing change, remembering the past, and looking forward to the future - which is essentially what constitutes mātauranga Māori. Te Wharau says that his recent project largely discussed the innovations of tūpuna Māori, many of which are observed through their migration from warmer to cooler climates. “It is evident to us now that they were, in fact, extremely knowledgeable. They studied various types of harakeke and allocated them for several purposes: some for whāriki (woven mats), others for ropes. They were so observant that most things were pursued with intention. We trace our genealogy to the land, so it makes sense that they knew exactly what they were adapting to. They weren’t just having a tutu.”
Precolonial Māori society relied heavily on context and intentional action; upon reaching a certain age, children were taken by tohunga to visit different parts of the environment in order to see which they best connected with. The overarching objective of this process was adhered to through the belief that every child has an intrinsic connection to the natural world that required nurturing. Tasks included diving into bodies of icy water or gathering worms from the māra. Children who willingly jumped were called to the water, and taught the knowledge relevant to caring for aquatic ecosystems and sustainable fishing practices; others who gravitated to the earth were trained to become agriculturalists and cultivators, managing seasonal crops and memorising complex calendars. This process, often referred to as ‘taupuhi’, was instrumental in ensuring that children’s natural gifts were recognised and that they were guaranteed a place within their communities. Today, however, Māori drop-out rates are soaring. After all, how is taupuhi meant to fit the mould of an NCEA-achiever?
In postcolonial New Zealand, where much ancestral knowledge has been lost (if not outlawed altogether), the first goal of acknowledging mātauranga Māori is to preserve it. The second would be to normalise it - bring it to the same level of recognition as any other science. However, this has been severely contested by some academics in recent years, like The Listener Seven. But even this goal preserves a duality: elevating mātauranga Māori to the level of Western science still implies that the two are opposing systems, not capable of mixing together. To achieve full symbiosis, the tenets of interconnectedness in modern science and mātauranga Māori must be recognised as one and the same. And this starts with bringing up more Māori scientists into a world where they can really see themselves belonging.
For many Māori, this is crucial. According to Te Wharau, the content of Āwhinatia Te Wero builds upon young Māori kids’ preexisting understanding of the world, introducing them to science on a level they can understand. “Instead of a typical science outreach programme, with a white man in a lab coat presenting an unfamiliar topic to unsuspecting kids, we’re meeting them halfway,” he says. This method of applicable learning is especially relevant, as it touches upon a traditional way of assigning roles to young Māori, and meeting them where their strengths lie. Te Wharau says that “the idea of university qualifications is starting to change, especially after Covid,” citing the success of figures like Sonny Ngatai and Te Aorere Pēwhairangi, who weren’t equipped with a tertiary qualification but were backed by a wealth of ancestral knowledge. “You don’t necessarily need [university] if you know who you are - many people pursue higher education for validation or to impress others. But organisations aren’t only looking for qualifications, they’re looking for real people and real experiences.”
But the synthesis of science and indigenous knowledge is not a gentle collision. While mātauranga Māori has been disregarded by academics over recent years, Te Wharau shared his own wavering concerns within his role. “[Collaborators for the project] probably thought, ‘Uh oh, that sounds like a Te Arawa name!’” But despite such worries, collaborators fervently agreed to join the development of Āwhinatia Te Wero. “We met collaborators, not to discuss our project, but to absorb their expertise. Carl Russell, a mahinga kai specialist, taught us how to harvest the different food sources of this region, things like extracting the sugars and starch from plants and how to work an umu tī.” The bridges are being built.
“We’re already seeing new changes with the upcoming curriculum - but already, we’re seeing backlash to it,” says Te Wharau. “Arguments such as ‘mātauranga Māori isn’t science’ come from a place of misunderstanding - they are two different philosophies, two different worlds, and are therefore incomparable.” And parts of this feel undeniably true, with one championing the process of collecting, naming, sorting and filing, and the other centred on holisticism and stewardship. But they are undeniably similar in their most basic assumption: that the natural world is interconnected, and that through observation and experimentation, we can achieve our most admirable goal: to live in harmony within it.