Archaeological Capital As Cultural Knowledge, by Julie Hollowell and George Nicholas

ARCHAEOLOGICAL CAPITAL AS CULTURAL KNOWLEDGE1

Julie Hollowell and George Nicholas

“The development of archaeology as a decolonizing practise entails the decolonization of archaeology first.” [Haber 2005: 116]

Gateway of the Sun, Tiahuanaco (Mhwater, Wikimedia)

Various readings of “archaeologists as gatekeepers” have been presented this morning,

especially as related to issues of identity. We address another aspect of this theme, namely the

role that archaeologists have had in acting as gatekeepers through their control over the

production of knowledge about Native American pasts, turning it into economic and social

capital in support of archaeology and archaeological careers.2 This relationship, which many

archaeologists still seem hardly aware of (much like the veiled hegemony of the bourgeoisie),

has a substantial effect on descendant communities, and it is safe to say that, until recently, this

has sometimes been more harmful than beneficial (Deloria 1969; Deunert 1996; Nicholas

2005). 1 Pre-‐conference draft of paper to be presented in the session “Archaeologists as Gatekeepers of Native American Identity,” organized by Randall McGuire and Sonya Atalay. Society for American Archaeology 2 Here we draw upon Bourdieu’s (1984) concept of “cultural capital,” and its ability to be transformed into economic and/or political capital, which also helps explain the potency of “archaeological heritage” and “cultural resources” for so many stakeholders.

Hollowell and Nicholas—Archaeological Capital as Cultural Knowledge 2

It is precisely this appropriation of cultural knowledge as capital, and the unequal benefits

derived from a relationship characterized by scientific colonialism, that are central to the

critique of the discipline by Indigenous peoples. But (and here we are probably preaching to the

choir) as we all begin to see through and reckon with this veiled relationship, we acknowledge

that the idea of “archaeologists as gatekeepers” is at once a product of this veiled hegemony, a

position of power and legitimacy that reproduces privilege and authority, and one from which

much can potentially be done in beginning the work to reverse longstanding inequities.

We begin by examining the role of archaeologists as gatekeepers who turn cultural knowledge

into archaeological capital, and end by looking at the reversal of this situation, when

archaeological knowledge becomes available to Native Americans as cultural capital.

ARCHAEOLOGISTS AS DEALERS OF THE CULTURAL CAPITAL OF OTHERS

As “producers” of Native American pasts, archaeologists have long acted as gatekeepers, not

dissimilar to antiquities dealers, positioned to initiate and control the flow of information and

objects from an indigenous “Other,” distant in time and place, to the faraway worlds of

museums and scholarship—venues historically inaccessible to all but a few Native peoples—

and to producing this knowledge for public consumption.3 In this capacity, archaeologists and

anthropologists have essentially (intentionally or otherwise) acted as “dealers” in cultural

3 See Hollowell (2004) for more on the roles of dealers and the art and antiquities markets.


capital. Much like antiquities dealers, they are often the link between the public and their

perceptions of Native American identity, and the interpreters of other peoples’ past (Fig. 1).

Figure 1. The market for pre-‐Columbian antiquities, adapted from Coe (1993).

Similarly, the raw materials they extract (e.g., excavation data, settlement pattern studies,

ethnographies) increase in value and become archaeological capital. Benefits rarely go back to

the source. While the social capital that archaeologists generate comes primarily from the

informational value attributed to artifacts and other remnants of the past, the social capital

that antiquities dealers and collectors accumulate is based on aesthetic taste and the financial

ability to enclave certain classes of objects as markers of social status.

All of this represents the vestiges of a colonialist relationship (Fig. 2), and here we credit Larry

Zimmerman (2001) with bringing the concept of scientific colonialism to the attention of

archaeologists (and James Clifford [1988] and Michael Ames [2003:171] for doing the same for


the world of collecting and museums), and, earlier, Dell Hymes (1974) and Johan Galtung (1967)

for applying this idea to the production of knowledge in anthropology and the ethics of the

research relationship.

Figure 2: “Touring Egypt. The Temple of Karnak at Luxor,” by Jacob Jacobs.

As we see it, scientific colonialism places the archaeologist in a gatekeeper role (Fig. 3)—one

that:

• places them in control of certain flows of information and resources about Native

American identity and history;

• extracts (appropriates) the cultural capital of others as raw data;

• takes this elsewhere (to the archaeologist’s own territory and realms of value) for

processing into profitable economic goods (such as careers, livelihoods, jobs) and social

capital (academic status, publications, expertise, reputation);

• claims the right of access to these data as their own and property rights over the

knowledge produced;

• excludes people at the source from participating in the creative or rewarding aspects of

the research (Galtung 1967:297);

• maintains a geographic and social distance between the source community and the data

produced, which limits access to data, setting up a situation where a people must turn


to outside sources to learn about their own cultural pasts; and

• accrues benefits from the production of data and knowledge that stay in the world of

professional and academic archaeology and museums and rarely go back to the source

community, even though such information may have a significant role in claims

concerning tribal identify, land, and rights to resources.4

Figure 3. The market for pre-‐Columbian antiquities, adapted from Coe (1993).

THE POWER IMBALANCE ACROSS THE GATE

Perhaps this relationship of exploitation has been so hegemonic and veiled that archaeologists

are only now beginning to see the imbalances inherent in it. Yet archaeologists are ultimately

accountable for the harm or good—however unintentional—that their work does in the world,

which often has other lives and implications far beyond the realm of archaeology (some of

4 In some instances, the persistence of cultural traditions or tribal identity have been questioned and debated on the basis of the ethnological or archaeological record (see Haley and Wilcoxon [1997] for debates on the Chumash Tradition of California). Numerous cases exist where ethnographic, ethnohistoric, and other sources of information have been considered insufficient in achieving federal tribal recognition, as in the case of the Mashpee Tribe (Campisi 1992; Clifford 1988).


which contribute to other hegemonies) (Meskell 2005; Zimmerman 1995).

Of course, the privileged position of archaeological practice and knowledge has long been

questioned and contended by various descendent groups, and especially by Native Americans.

The issue first gained serious attention in debates concerning reburial and repatriation, but has

since broadened to include the rights of descendant communities to have access and control

over their own cultural heritage.

The importance of this to Indigenous communities cannot be underestimated. As Ros Langford

stated, “if we Aborigines cannot control our own heritage, what the hell can we control?”

(1983: 4, emphasis in original). Such feelings also carry over to concerns about the

appropriation and commodification of cultural and intellectual property; in other words, every

facet of cultural identity, past and present.

To their credit, archaeologists have made great strides in recognizing the interests of Native

Americans, and indeed have strongly promoted the goals of “working together” in the past two

decades. In many cases, however, they still do not recognize that Native Americans may have a

special relationship of cultural primacy to the “archaeological record,” 5 and the majority does

not seem willing to give them the same amount of power or authority over the material or

intellectual aspects of the past as they themselves have as scientists.6 In this sense, they retain

control over what goes through the gate. Alejandro Haber (2005: 111) raises the question, Is

archaeology “the continuation of war through other means?” The point is that it has been, it

can be, but it certainly does not have to be.

5 This relationship is acknowledged in the ethics codes of the World Archaeological Congress, the Canadian Archaeological Association, the Australian Archaeological Association, and the New Zealand Archaeological Association, but remains conspicuously absent from the Society for American Archaeology. 6 Even at the 2006 Chacmool conference on “Decolonizing Archaeology,” very few of the presentations or related discussions explicitly addressed the need for archaeologists to give up at least some degree of control.


This scenario is fortunately changing, but, for these relationships to truly be transformed, we

must be aware of the “tradition of dead generations [that] weighs like a nightmare on the

minds of the living” (Marx 1913 [1852]), which continues to affect relationships with Native

peoples today, and the implications it has for the role of archaeologists as gatekeepers. The

change is necessarily gradual, akin to throwing off the weight of centuries. At times it may be

angry and reactionary, and at others, fraught with hesitancy and uncertainty. Last November at

the National Museum of the American Indian, a Caddo man explained to one of us (Hollowell)

that his people were just beginning to feel comfortable even walking through the doors of a

museum, and now they faced new and complex decisions among themselves about how to

approach this new relationship and what to do about their cultural objects that lay behind that

gate—the museum doors, at once protected and estranged.

AUTHORITY, LEGITIMACY, AND POWER

This gatekeeper role has often gone unremarked on by archaeologists. In fact, many may be

unaware of it entirely. How have they come to assume this position?

The position of authority as gatekeepers has been constantly strengthened and legitimated in

various ways, including:

• by archaeologists themselves, through their expertise and training in method and theory;

• by professional organizations and codes of ethics, which promote the notion of


archaeologists as stewards who “save the past” and a myopic sense of accountability to

the supposedly raw (terra nullius “scientific”) data of “the archaeological record,” per se,

and to a universalizing amorphous concept such as “all of humanity,” more generally;

• by the public, who expects archaeologists to mediate, interpret and facilitate their access

to the past;

• by universities, which serve as repositories for knowledge, and which reproduce relations

of privilege and domination through the means by which new generations are educated

an official version of histories are selected (see Haber 2005);

• by what Laurajane Smith (2006) calls “authorizing institutions of heritage,” such as

UNESCO and ICOMOS;

• by the state, which privileges the expertise and scientific basis that archaeology has in

identifying, evaluating, and managing cultural heritage; and

• by the courts (“justice” system), who make decisions about land claims, federal

recognition, and resource rights giving greater weight to certain voices and forms of

evidence.

Despite this legitimacy, archaeologists are not as powerful as we might like to think, especially

in relation to other interests. In one sense, for archaeologists to consider themselves as

gatekeepers is patronizing and presumptuous—a disciplinary fallacy7 generated by the illusion

of authority that comes from an archaeocentric standpoint . Much of the actual gatekeeping

power when it comes to Native American identity lies not with archaeologists, but with entities

like the Bureau of Indian Affairs, funding agencies, developers, state mandates, the media,

antiquities markets, advertising firms, and other interests, including the public’s unceasingly

demand for consuming the past. In the changing sociopolitical context of archaeology, there is

also an erosion of academic authority that archaeologists and others face with the

democratization of knowledge as a plethora of voices and perspectives demand equal

attention/status as scholars and scientists in the media.

7 Possibly a corollary to Marx’s notion of “false consciousness” by which the proletariat are unaware of the ideology that controls their actions).


Most importantly, Native American identity, in its deepest sense, is not something that

archaeologists can claim to be privy to. Native peoples have often silently held fast to their

knowledge and identity, not willing to share with archaeologists or with academic disciplines in

general because of a lack of trust and the continued exploitation and oppression they face.8 Nor

do they need their identity legitimized by “others,” or archaeology to tell them what they

already know of their history through other means. On the other hand, some Aboriginal

communities increasingly today draw on archaeological knowledge as a source of cultural

enrichment that further deepens and builds local histories, and which can be used for own

agendas—as a form of capital that can both be reclaimed as cultural capital and also used as

political and economic capital. In other words, Native peoples are now utilizing archaeological

knowledge to revitalize identity and reclaim cultural integrity on their own terms, versus simply

“working together.”

Nonetheless, the power and authority of archaeologists over many forms of archaeological

heritage is still far greater than that held by Native Americans. In fact, we think there is some

usefulness in noting the parallels in the relationship between archaeologists and Native

Americans and that of the bourgeoisie and proletariat. In the classic sense, the bourgeoisie is

defined by their monopolization of the means of production, control over what is produced,

and their status as the primary beneficiaries of accumulated capital; the proletariat, in turn, is

defined by the lack of these. At the very least this analogy should yield either an acknowledgment of the nature of the power relations or a challenge to that notion.

REVERSING THE RELATIONSHIP

Archaeologists have not only produced and controlled the past, but have used the materials

and information derived as social and economic capital, and as intellectual and cultural

property. For the past generation, this is strenuously challenged as more Indigenous peoples

worldwide (re)gain and (re)claim greater access to, and control over, the archaeological

8 And this may be true even in situations where individual archaeologists have worked for many years with Native communities and may find, to their surprise, that they are less a part in the community than they may have thought (see Nicholas et al. 2007).


products of their past, to use them for their own purposes, whether to revitalize identity or

make political or cultural claims based on identity. Native American and other descendant

communities are claiming not only rights to cultural objects but to cultural knowledge as well as

the right to participate fully in the benefits that flow from the production and ownership of

knowledge about the past. This taking back of control over the processes of the production and

consumption of cultural knowledge is the work of decolonization

For archaeologists, this entails new challenges as the power relationship is turned on its head.

For example, the specter of intellectual property issues9 looms ever larger to both

archaeologists and Indigenous peoples as both are confronted with questions about access to

or control over archaeological information, as well as issues relating to culture-‐based rights,

definitions of cultural affiliation, and the question of who gets to define history (Brown 2000).

Questions now arise over the ownership of archaeological data: are field notes, photographs,

ancient DNA sequences, and the like the personal intellectual property of the discoverers, the

property of the descendants of the ancient inhabitants of the site or do they belong to the

client or a funding organization (Nicholas and Bannister 2004; also Barkan and Bush 2002;

Battiste and Henderson 2000; Hollowell 2006); Rowan and Bram 2004).

Increasingly, archaeological knowledge is going back to the source—a result of the opening up

of museums and the research process to collaborative relationships and decolonizing

methodologies, of Native peoples demanding their rights, and with more Native peoples

entering the academy—where it is used by Native peoples in their own ways, whether for

revitalizing and strengthening identity or as economic and political capital. Just a few examples

of this include:

9 Interestingly, at least when it comes to artistic appropriation, many Indigenous peoples simply want acknowledgement of their interests and also fair use. As Wandjuk Marika (1975) noted, “It is not that we object to people reproducing our work, but it is essential that we be consulted first, for only we know if a particular painting is of special sacred significance, to be seen only by certain members of a tribe, and only we can give permission for our own work of art to be reproduced. … We are only asking that we be granted the same recognition, that our works be respected and that we be acknowledged as the rightful owners of our own works of art.”


• Repatriation, not only of objects, but of archival information, data, and other forms of

knowledge;

• Respect for indigenous concerns and wishes regarding display, curation, and sharing of

cultural objects and information;

• The advent of digital access to museum collections where these considerations have

reached critical mass; and

• Indigenous historians using archaeology as a way to deepen local histories and thus

strengthen identity, in some cases where the previous baseline for indigenous histories

came only from missionary accounts (Lelevai 2002).

It is safe to say that we all know of examples today where this relationship is reversed, where

the hinges of the gate have been reversed, so to speak, with Native Americans becoming their

own gatekeepers through the development of:

• Protocols and guidelines for research (e.g., NATHPO guidelines for use of Native

archival materials);

• Community Review Boards and Advisory boards that issue permissions for all kinds

of research, including archaeology;

• Demands for certain forms of accountability and reciprocity in research relationships

(e.g., Hopi research policies);

• Research that is initiated by tribes who invite archaeologists to answer their questions

(e.g., Warner and Baldwin [2004] in which the Miami Nation asks University of Miami

archaeologists for assistance);

• The use of genetic information to establish tribal identity or affiliations over time;

• Community-‐based repositories for archaeological data and reports; and

• Hosting other collaborative ventures between archaeologists and Native peoples that

allow Native authorities to make the agenda and to benefit from the relationship

in ways that enhance their identity in wider society (e.g., the UBC/Musqueam


field school10).

In each of these cases, Native Americans are turning to information derived from archaeological

research as sources of cultural knowledge. This is capital that they lay claim to as part of their

cultural patrimony, with ownership invested by their ancestors, the producers of the

archaeological record.

DISCOMFORTING ARCHAEOLOGY

In the supposed “Golden Age” of the late 19th–early 20th century, archaeologists and

anthropologists extracted cultural goods and knowledge and even justified grave robbing for

what they perceived as a “good” cause. A century later, that perception persists in the notion of

“stewardship,” and the self-‐appointed role that archaeologists have as the guardians of the

past. The irony is that now that Native people actually have some access to what was taken, to

museums, to the research process, and to the profession itself—and relationships are becoming

more reciprocal, archaeological knowledge and other forms of intellectual property serve as a

major resource for Native Americans to construct their own identities, and not always in ways

archaeologists may like or find “appropriate.”

Cries of political correctness are heard from various corners. In our estimation these voices are

ultimately related to the fear of loss of control, and they belie the histories of dispossession

that this process overturns—in the face of uncertainty, archaeologists seek to maintain the

status quo and fear the loss of their capital. Things once thought to be the domain of

archaeologists have other lives and other uses that defy gatekeeping. Archaeologists are finding

themselves in the uncomfortable and unaccustomed position of no longer being fully in control

of the uses or interpretations of things deemed archaeological, sometimes including even the

data itself. But we must remember that what to some archaeologists is a “crisis of

representation” wrought by postprocessualism and multivocality “is the inheritance of

10 The Musqueam Indian Band sees this archaeology project helping them reach out to residents of Vancouver. B.C., to let them know of their existence and whose traditional lands they are living on.


centuries of genocide for others” (Mithlo 2004:241-‐242). There are very different stakes here

when comparing heritage as the “playground” of academics to heritage as the basis of identity

and survival for some Indigenous peoples (Langford 1983). Ironically, again, the very discomfort

these thoughts (and other strident Indigenous critiques) create is the first step toward opening

the gate, as well as the impetus for making archaeology more relevant.

Archaeologists are well posed to use their position as a gatekeeper and their legitimacy in other

realms to act to reverse scientific colonialism. This includes contributing to emancipatory

indigenous approaches whenever it can. Many people in this room are involved in such

activities, whether it means opening gates for Native American archaeologists, using the craft of

archaeology to help communities answer their own questions and address their own research

agendas, obtaining funding for community-‐based projects, developing educational resources

with and for schools in a community, or negotiating more equitable approaches to Native

cultural and intellectual property rights. One cogent example is illustrated in the case study of

the Waanyi Women’s History Project in Australia (Smith et al. 2003), in which Aboriginal

women asked archaeologists to work with them to document relationships to country as a way

to increase their own legitimacy with heritage management officials.

To be truly equitable, we suggest (inspired by Smith 1999) that archaeologists must recognize

the rights of descendant communities to:

a) be involved – or to choose not to be involved—in the processes of archaeological

knowledge production;

b) benefit from knowledge or the process of knowledge production; and

c) produce alternative versions that augment or disagree with archaeological accounts.

The archaeologist is no longer the gatekeeper in these situations, but more often in the role of

a facilitator, someone who may well be in a position to open certain gates for Native people.

Finally, does the use of archaeological knowledge and expertise as capital in support of Native

American concerns compromise archaeology? We don’t think so. Archaeologists find that what


they give up in these situations in terms of their own agendas is regained many times over

through shared knowledge and respect, and the reward of working with others. Nor is it fair to

assume that relinquishing (or at least sharing) control of the archaeological record

compromises the integrity of the discipline. Multivocality does not mean that all interpretations

of the past are equal; “alternative or indigenous methodologies, like all standpoints and

methodologies, need critical evaluation and scrutiny. Not only can they be restrictive or

exclusive (e.g., Smith’s [1999] argument that the only valid knowledge of a people is produced

by themselves), they may also be produced by those in a position of relative privilege or power”

(Nicholas and Hollowell 2007). \

ZEN AND MARX….THE GATELESS GATE

Our discussion of the differential access to archaeological capital leads us to see that the gate

(as a position of authority, privilege, and control)—or rather the illusion of the gate, to invoke

both Buddhist and Marxist metaphors—exists in the social consciousness, and also in the

structures that naturalize and reproduce relations of domination and privilege, whether we like

it or not (in fact, often with our tacit approval11). Our point is thus that archaeologists cannot

simply abdicate their role as gatekeepers, but instead must use this role in ways that both tear

down categories of privilege and colonialist practices and promote equitable access and benefit

sharing.

It is only when we expose the process of knowledge production for what it is that we begin to

see through the veil. For both Buddhism and Marx, the realization of this veil is the path to

enlightenment—the gateless gate. For Marx, this enlightenment leads to revolution in the outer

world; in Zen, to revolution within—we need both to work toward overcoming scientific

colonialism. To quote Native American artist Gabriel Shaw (gwils boha), “We have all been

colonized. Our strength is in our diverse approach to addressing our colonization” (Shaw

2001:8).

11 As reinforced through the categories, interpretations, and “metaphysical gaps” supported by their work (see Haber 2005: 113-‐116).


Marx, in blissful repose (photo composition, G. Nicholas)

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Archaeological Capital As Cultural Knowledge, by Julie Hollowell and George Nicholas

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