Coping with Fragmentation. On the Role of Techno-Scientific Knowledge within the Sámi Community

Abstract

The idea that different knowledge systems should be combined is prominent within environmental governance. This is not least the case regarding sustainability, for which indigenous knowledge is seen as crucial. While the practical challenges related to bridging knowledge systems are well documented, less is known about what it means from an indigenous perspective. Drawing on an interview study, this paper explores views on techno-scientific knowledge among the Sámi (indigenous to Scandinavia and the Kola Peninsula of Russia). The analysis finds that techno-scientific knowledge is employed as coping strategies in the face of colonial stressors. Land fragmentation poses a particular threat to the Sámi way of life, and in response, a number of modern techniques have been adopted. There is a clear sense that valuable traditional knowledge is being lost in the process, with consequences for both sustainability and Sámi identity. The authors conclude that contemporary understandings of what cross-fertilization means need to be thoroughly reconsidered.

Keywords:

• coping strategies
• indigenous knowledge
• IPBES
• knowledge divide
• land fragmentation
• Sámi community

Introduction

The idea that insights from different knowledge systems can and should be combined for the advancement of sustainable practices is very prominent within contemporary environmental governance. For instance, the intergovernmental expert body IPBES (Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services) aims “to promote effective engagement with indigenous and local knowledge holders in all relevant aspects of its work” (IPBES 2017). In particular, it is traditional knowledge held by indigenous peoples around the world that IPBES and similar endeavors¹ hope to benefit from, that is, knowledge derived from the extensive historical experience of interacting with the biophysical environment (hereafter abbreviated ILK, Indigenous Local Knowledge). The benefits of combining different pieces of knowledge are intended to be mutual: the cross-fertilization of the involved knowledge systems is also expected to enable indigenous communities to benefit from techno-scientific knowledge.

However, the intersection between ILK and techno-scientific knowledge is a complex one. For one thing, there are lingering ontological and epistemological challenges that make themselves felt when different ways of knowing are confronted with each other (Löfmarck and Lidskog 2017). Even more pressing are the issues of power that must be taken into account when approaching indigenous knowledge holders; past and present experiences of colonialization make trust a critical component of cross-fertilization (Chambers and Gillespie 2000; Weiss, Hamann, and Marsh 2013).

In this study, we ask what cross-fertilization might mean from an indigenous perspective.² Beyond the issue of trust it is important to understand that the past and present uptake of techno-scientific knowledge by many indigenous communities has often been a forced option, a reactive response to rapid changes that complicate or even obstruct established social and cultural practices and traditional land uses. Overall, the opportunity structure for maintaining and developing a traditional way of life is shrinking for many indigenous groups (Gilberthorpe and Hilson 2016; O’Faircheallaigh and Ali 2017). This postcolonial legacy of forced options needs to be taken into account when judging the prospects for future knowledge-bridging endeavors.

Drawing on an interview study, this paper explores views on techno-scientific knowledge among the Sámi people (indigenous to Scandinavia and the Kola Peninsula of Russia). Guiding research questions are (i) What drives the employment of techno-scientific knowledge among the Sámi? (ii) How is the employment of techno-scientific knowledge affecting traditional Sámi knowledge? (iii) What are the possible implications for future knowledge-bridging endeavors?

The study finds that the use of techno-scientific knowledge is closely related to the challenge of coping with land fragmentation. As will be discussed in more detail below, land fragmentation occurs when traditional ways of managing natural resources in a locality are impeded by other actors’ plans and projects, which intrude and greatly affect the community’s living space. Land fragmentation means that traditional practices have to adapt to new circumstances. This adaption often involves the use of techno-scientific knowledge, and accordingly also affects the development of ILK. But techno-scientific knowledge can also be used to translate ILK into a Western legal-bureaucratic language, or politically, as resistance against further fragmentation. In the following, we use the term “modern techniques” when referring to the use of techno-scientific knowledge to guide action. As will be elaborated in the following text, four such techniques are analyzed as they stood out as particularly important in the empirical accounts: cartography, documenting, juridification and motorization.

That modern techniques function as coping strategies in the face of colonialism raises ethical concerns within current and future knowledge-bridging endeavors. Beyond issues of trust and power asymmetries, the homogenous understanding of what cross-fertilization means to the involved actors have to be thoroughly reconsidered. Arguably, the implications stretch beyond environmental governance and into politics. In regard to the Sámi people, the claim is often made by both industry and government that Sámi land-use does not require further protection (see Lawrence and Moritz 2019 for a study of Swedish mining industry’s attitudes to indigenous rights). The Sámi are doing comparatively well and they live within a “benevolent state”, the argument goes.³ Such judgments about the well-being of the Sámi people tend to overlook the vast amount of coping described in this study.

This paper is composed of four sections including this introduction, which continues by giving a brief description of the Sámi people in Sweden and their rights and by describing the method and data used. In the second section, the notion of a knowledge divide is outlined and the problem of land fragmentation and other stressors is discussed. Section three introduces the concept of coping on a group level and develops empirical and theoretical accounts of the four modern techniques. The fourth and final section concludes the paper by answering the guiding research questions posed above.

The Sámi and Sweden

Sápmi (Sámiland) covers ∼388,000 km² of land⁴ stretching from the Kola Peninsula in Russia, across northernmost Finland and parts of northern Norway, to parts of northern Sweden. It was once even larger, but has increasingly been pushed back by nation-state colonialism. It was not until 1977 that the Swedish parliament recognized the Sámi as an indigenous people. The total population of Sápmi is ∼80,000–100,000, and about 20,000–35,000 Sámi live in Sweden (Sametinget 2016a). Reindeer husbandry is a core Sámi livelihood, often central to popular notions of the Sámi way of life. Fishing, hunting, and handicrafts also remain very important. About 4,600 of the Sámi in Sweden are involved in reindeer husbandry, many others in tourism or other occupations. The right of the Sámi to engage in reindeer grazing is protected by Swedish law and allows for ∼50% of the land area in Sweden to be used (independent of ownership status, cf. Sandström et al. 2003). Traditional reindeer herding utilizes different pastures over the year, and the reindeer freely graze on those pastures. There are 51 Sámi reindeer herding communities (Sw: “samebyar”) in Sweden, that is, economic and legal entities composed by reindeer herding Sámi that uses the same grazing grounds.

Gaining political representation in a representative democracy is notoriously difficult for small minorities, and therefore the Sámi Parliament (Sametinget) was inaugurated in 1993.⁵ Swedish law states that to qualify for the electoral register for the Sámi Parliament, individuals must be Swedish citizens, consider themselves to be Sámi, and they or their parents or grandparents should have spoken Sámi at home (Sametingslag 1992). Earlier legislation only recognized reindeer owners as Sámi, but now the legal definition is language-based, which is more inclusive. However, the legal rights associated with traditional Sámi land-use are still tied to membership of a Sámi reindeer herding community, in effect excluding the vast majority of the Sámi people from them. Historically, racism, discrimination, and colonial practices have made the question of Sámi identity a complex matter for the Sámi themselves, generating shame and sometimes even social rifts (both within Sápmi and in relation to the majority society). This still goes on, but the situation has improved, with younger generations in particular now taking great pride in their Sámi heritage (cf. Omma, Holmgren, and Jacobsson 2011).

Method, Material, and Ethical Considerations

The empirical data was gathered using purposeful criterion sampling and consists of an interview study with 12 individuals who identify themselves as Sámi (criterion 1) and could be expected in their occupational role to encounter the knowledge divide in various ways (criterion 2). We hence looked for “boundary spanners” (Tushman and Scanlan 1981), i.e. individuals who move between different knowledge systems and also between Sámi and non-Sámi organizations in their everyday life. We ended up interviewing Sámi with such professions as reindeer herders, civil servants, politicians, artists, lawyers, researchers, and teachers. In locating interviewees, we were aided by key persons with broad connections who suggested potential informants. We also used chain-referral sampling (“snowballing”) where respondents recommended other possible informants to us. Gender was not a criterion, and while we aimed for a balanced representation, we ended up interviewing four men and eight women, evenly distributed in the age range 30–61. The interviews were conducted between September and November 2016. Nine interviews were conducted face-to-face in a place selected by the respondent (their home, their workplace or a cafe), and three were conducted over the Internet (due to geographical distances). They lasted between 60 and 130 min. A semi-structured interview guide was used to allow for follow-up questions and expand on emerging themes.

Obviously, knowledge is never equally distributed, and therefore even with purposeful sampling, it is important to consider the representative limitations of a study of this kind. The issue of land fragmentation most directly affects the active herders in our sample, and they were more engaged with the topic than the other informants, though the others were also very familiar with it. On a more general level, it is impossible to include or do justice to all the different voices and perspectives residing in Sápmi. But given that the voices and perspectives relayed here mirror each other, and also mirror other scholarly work and Sámi discourse more generally, we feel confident that our interpretations are firmly grounded.

The interviews were transcribed verbatim, and when needed the transcripts were sent back to the informants, who checked that the Sámi concepts were correctly understood and place names correctly spelled. The material was then contextually analyzed (Bryman 2012) using NVivo software. We read the transcripts line-by-line, coding everything related to knowledge, modern techniques and their application in relation to land fragmentation and other challenges. This process resulted in the main themes presented here: the four modern techniques as coping strategies.

The ethical considerations pertaining to a study like this are arguably complex. For good reason, there is a sort of fatigue among the Sámi when it comes to researchers taking an interest in their lives. This sometimes even takes the form of suspicion or hostility, as researchers were very much involved in the colonial practices. We encountered little of the latter, but we were often thoroughly questioned about the purpose of the study and about our general knowledge about and view on Sápmi. The argument often used by researchers that they are furthering knowledge for the greater good is not adequate here, and we had to carefully ponder and explain how the Sámi people could benefit from our work. Our ambition is that this study will contribute to the discussion about land fragmentation and knowledge in Sápmi. As it highlights the buffering role of modern techniques for coping with fragmentation and other stressors, it will hopefully inform both future judgments about the well-being of the Sámi and the ethical considerations made in relation to various knowledge-bridging endeavors.

Knowledge Systems and Land Fragmentation

A Knowledge Divide?

A knowledge system connotes the institutional and action-oriented dimension of knowledge. It consists of agents, practices, and institutions that organize the production, transfer and use of knowledge (Cornell et al. 2013). The simplified view of science is that it produces general and abstract knowledge, validated using open and objective criteria that make it extendable beyond any local context. ILK, on the other hand, is seen as tied to the context (e.g. daily practices) in which it evolves, i.e. ILK is seen as a form of common sense that is closed and lacks rigorous analysis; it is chiefly validated by experience (Agrawal 1995a). Many have argued that these differences are overstated, as ILK often stretches beyond the local and is open in the sense that new (sometimes scientific) ideas are incorporated into it (Bebbington 1993; Briggs 2005). As for context dependency, this holds true for science as well, as it too always evolves in a social and material context (Irwin and Michael 2003).

As Agrawal (1995a) emphasizes, many scholars contrast indigenous knowledge with scientific knowledge through semantic oppositions: contextual vs. universal, local vs. global, place-based vs. mobile, holistic vs. atomistic/reductionist, concrete vs. abstract, and spiritual vs. material/mechanistic. This divisive purification of different knowledge systems often obscures the fact that these pieces of knowledge are more complex and hybrid than they initially appear (Irwin and Michael 2003; Latour 1993). Many scholars have argued that the notion of distinguishable knowledge systems is inherently problematic, as all knowledge is hybridized and “derived from the interaction of multiple social actors, that are differentially empowered and move in a terrain characterized by contradictory, competitive and complementary relations” (Nygren 1999, 282).

At the same time, it is too far reaching to deny that there are any differences between knowledge systems; there are both substantial and contextual differences, even if they are not that clearly delimited. Apart from differences in epistemology, a central difference concerns their spread and power. Science has been very effective in disseminating the knowledge it produces. Throughout the history of colonialism, scientific inscriptions have been important tools for dominating places near and far. Cartography has been particularly effective in this sense, also in Sápmi. In the early seventeenth century, cartographers were first sent out by the Swedish Crown to map the northernmost regions and take inventory of the resources they contained. This process also included naming and renaming places, and finding “empty” spaces, signifying that Sámi areas were brought under state control (Pettersen 2011; Naum, 2016). In a sense, cartographers paved the way for tax collectors (Kvernmo and Heyerdahl 1996), missionaries, teachers (Lindmark 2006), foresters, miners and hydropower engineers (Össbo and Lantto 2011), etc. They all brought “civilization” to Sápmi, often under the banner of scientific and technological advancement.

In this sense, the knowledge divide is not easily separable from colonial practices. Indeed, the notion of “indigenous” knowledge presumes a colonial history; otherwise, it would merely have been labeled local or traditional knowledge. Thus, when a benevolent initiative like the IPBES aims to bridge this divide and “recognize and respect the contribution of indigenous and local knowledge” (IPBES.net) the attempt takes place against an ongoing historical backdrop of colonialism that may significantly affect the willingness of ILK holders to share their knowledge (Doolittle 2010). In particular, as this study demonstrates, the notion of cross-fertilization may have very different meanings to the involved parties.

Land Fragmentation and Other Stressors

Land fragmentation is a geographical manifestation of colonialism. In the Sápmi context, it typically means that different parts of the reindeer habitat are separated from each other, or that one area becomes difficult to use for some reason. There are several fragmenting forces, and here we briefly discuss some of the major ones.

Industrial forestry fragments the land by directly affecting grazing opportunities. Reindeer prefer forests rich with lichen as it helps them survive the winter, and they generally prefer to take shelter in old-growth forests. None of this is easy to combine with modern forestry practices, such as clear-cutting and soil scarification (Kivinen et al. 2010; Pape and Löffler 2012). Power projects, most notably hydropower and wind turbines, also fragment the land (Skarin et al 2015). In addition to its effects on fish and other wildlife, hydropower can make the migration over land more difficult, as large reservoirs of water (that seldom freeze over and create dangerous ice conditions when they do) block the route (Furberg, Evengård, and Nilsson 2011). Wind turbines occupy large areas that become difficult to use for grazing (Skarin, Sandström, and Alam 2018). All power projects involve construction periods and often require permanent infrastructure that fragments the land with clearly demonstrated effects on reindeer movement (Skarin et al 2015). The environmental effects of mining projects are particularly severe. Immediate effects on reindeer include disturbances caused by the transportation of ore, such as dust and noise (Herrmann et al 2014). Open-cut mining is also becoming more frequent as excavation techniques develop, turning the affected landscape into a virtual desert. Chemical products used in mining, as well as by-products, put nearby lakes and rivers at risk of contamination (cf. Rees et al. 2008; Spangen et al. 2015).

There are other factors fragmenting the land in Sápmi (e.g. roads, railroads, power lines, towns, and tourism), but the ones mentioned above are especially conspicuous in the interviews. Apart from protesting the concrete impacts of these forces, the Sámi voice more general objections to the exploitation of their traditional land and to the fact that it still often takes place without their prior consent (as required by international law, see Ward 2011). Also, they seldom get any compensation or shares of the profit. When they do, as in some wind turbine projects, this can leave the Sámi reindeer herding community in a Catch-22 situation: to maintain their livelihood, they have to depend on compensation from a project that in itself limits the prospects for this livelihood (Lawrence 2014). Also, on a general level, it is, of course, questionable if it is even possible to compensate for the effects that exploitative projects have on the Sámi way of life.

Even if some disturbances are relatively small and perhaps could be temporarily managed by relocating to another area or by using supplementary feeding, there is a substantial cumulative effect of all these disturbances (Danell 2005; Kløcker Larsen et al. 2016) that puts stress on both the reindeer and the Sámi people. Based on an interview study with reindeer herders in Sápmi, Furberg, Evengård, and Nilsson (2011) conclude that the Sámi are facing the limits of their resilience; that is, they are approaching a point where they can no longer absorb the disturbances and adapt while still upholding their way of life. Apart from land fragmentation, climate change was found to be a major stressor (also mentioned in our interviews). The seasons become unpredictable and the weather more extreme, and the predictions of a changing climate are themselves emotionally stressful. Motorization as a response to land fragmentation (see below) is in itself unsustainable, something the reindeer herders in Furberg’s study (and in ours) lamented. The Swedish predator policy was also a source of stress, as the compensation is far too low to cover the losses incurred from attacks by lynx, wolverines, wolves, bears and golden eagles. According to some estimates, more reindeer are killed by predators than are taken to slaughter. This is a downward spiral: as the attacks change the age-structure of the herds, fewer calves are born (see www.samer.se/1173). The general problem of combining a reindeer-herding lifestyle with the demands of modern society was also emphasized, especially as “value” is often measured financially in modern society (Furberg, Evengård, and Nilsson 2011).

Within environmental governance, there has been an increased focus on “green infrastructure,”⁶ particularly in relation to biodiversity, conservation and urban development (Benedict and McMahon 2006). Sweden is no exception; the county governments have been charged with developing action plans for safeguarding and strengthening green infrastructures, a process coordinated by the Swedish Environmental Protection Agency. While it remains to be seen to what extent the work with green infrastructure can have a “de-fragmenting” effect in Sápmi, it is interesting to compare how the Swedish Environmental Protection Agency and the Sámi Parliament describe it. The former states that “green infrastructure poses questions that we haven’t asked before, by emphasizing ecosystem functionality, focusing on quality, coherence, and distances in the landscape,”⁷ the latter that “green infrastructure poses questions that the Sámi have always asked, by emphasizing ecosystem functionality, focusing on quality, coherence, and distances in the landscape, as well as the opportunities for species to spread and move in the landscape.”⁸ The implied rhetorical point (“…as we said all along, but you wouldn’t listen”) is often echoed in the empirical accounts, along with a clear opinion that as societies strive for sustainability, there are valuable lessons to be learned from the Sámi way of life.

Modern Techniques as Coping Strategies

By modern techniques we understand ways of carrying out particular tasks that have evolved during the course of modernity, often depending on the application of techno-scientific knowledge. The prefix “modern” is intended to denote their deep entanglement with western modernity, and “techniques” to denote that it concerns applied knowledge – not only a specific knowledge form (such as “applied science”) but the knowledge that guides action. Techniques are always socially embedded; they are part of a broader socio-technical system constituted by artifacts, actors, organizations, and practices (cf. Bijker, Hughes, and Pinch 2012). At the same time, they are mobile, able to be transferred from one context to another. When used in a new context, the meaning and use of a technique may change at the same time as it influences the new context it becomes part of (Latour 1987).

It is evident from the empirical accounts that modern techniques have inherent value for the Sámi. For instance, equipping reindeer with GPS collars is described as making life easier for the herders; and documenting traditional knowledge is described as partly driven by curiosity. But mostly they are described as different but related coping strategies. Their application is clearly structured by external stress, and they are seen as having consequences for the development of ILK. By stress, we understand external pressure that is experienced as taxing or exceeding the available resources of the community or forcing the community to change in a way that it deems undesirable. In order to handle such pressure, communities develop coping strategies (See Sarker and Hossain 2012 on community coping). These strategies can, of course, be more or less effective, but it is beyond the scope of this paper to judge this aspect. In the following, we will discuss four modern techniques used to cope with different forms of stress.

Cartography

Cartography has always been important for claiming rights. The map gathers geographical knowledge (e.g. spatial information), stabilizes it and makes it mobile; it is a prime example of what Latour (1987, 223–228) refers to as an “immutable mobile.” Throughout the history of colonization, cartography has made it possible for the central system of power to influence and dominate distant places. One respondent contemplates how herding practices are still dictated by lines drawn on a map by outsiders:

It is something where the outside world just drew a line, “here’s your reindeer husbandry area.” It’s clearly visible in our reindeer husbandry rights, which are protected by the constitution, that they’re stronger above the cultivation line than below the cultivation line. And that’s a boundary that the State has drawn.⁹ [Respondent 7]

Modern cartography also includes the use of technical innovations such as the laser rangefinder, GPS, and various GIS applications. Today, the Sámi and other indigenous peoples around the world use cartography to resist colonial practices, for example by charting historical and contemporary land use (Sandström et al. 2003; Wainwright and Bryan 2009). Such “counter-mapping” can be defined as “efforts to contest or undermine power relations and asymmetries in relation to cartographic products or processes” (Hazen and Harris 2006, 115). In our materials, cartography is primarily described as a way of proving to outsiders what is already known by the Sámi. One respondent describes a project that uses GPS to measure the predatory rate of bears:

It was scientifically shown that bears kill even more [reindeer] than what the herders themselves say. One of the people involved in the project said, “it’s the first time in my 20 years in the reindeer forest that I’ve felt any sense of hope.” That is, not being seen as a liar [Respondent 6]

As Sámi reindeer herding communities are compensated for the number of documented predator family groups that occupy the herding community (Sametinget 2016b), the GPS here provides a way to counter the mistrust often exhibited by outsiders regarding the fairness of such compensation. Also, the GPS provides a convincing way of displaying the geography of current herding practices to outsiders. This is needed, for instance, when asking for a temporary restriction on recreational use of snowmobiles in a particular area:

If you show them the GPS coordinates and say “look at this, it’s from today, this is the entire stock of the herding community, there are 8000 reindeer here right now. We’re not just saying so; they’re really there.” It makes a difference. [Respondent 7]

In our interviews, there is obvious frustration with the need to use such techniques to prove what the Sámi already know. This is partly understood as an expression of a general mistrust of the Sámi, but also as a consequence of the obsession with numbers in mainstream society:

All the technology that’s used to confirm what we already know. I’m rather skeptical about whether it’s needed, but Swedish society requires concrete numbers that prove what you say. You won’t be believed if you say “my experience tells me, I’m completely sure about this, I’ve seen this, this is my understanding.” That won’t get you anywhere. Not with the predator management administration, not in forestry, nowhere. [Respondent 9]

Counter-mapping is closely bound up with juridification (see below): Fighting legal battles over land use typically requires that traditional geographical knowledge be mobilized, translated and stabilized to make it transferrable to the judicial domain and admissible as part of legal arguments. Counter-mapping can thus also be seen as a forced option and, as Wainwright and Bryan (2009, 153) point out, it is a practice that remains “oriented by the spatial configuration of modern politics: territory and property rights.” One concrete example of this is that borders on a map underscore the importance of particular areas, implicitly marking other areas as less important in the process, which is also a form of land fragmentation. Such considerations can be particularly challenging in a Sámi context, as the landscape is viewed by the Sámi as a totality and that all remaining pastures are crucial given their reduction. As an interviewed Sámi cartographer told us:

There are always two sides to this coin. There are herding communities that say, “sure, but we have to mark everything as a high-priority area.” In a sense they’re right, but on the other hand, that’s not how planning works today. [Respondent 6]

Documenting

Documenting refers to the act of compiling knowledge in written form (documents), in order to substantiate something. Even if it is possible to trace this technique a long way back in history, it was a systematic part of the origin and development of the nation-state with its bureaucratic organization (not least its development of rational-legal authority). Keeping detailed records and archiving them is essential for the functioning of the modern state. Like maps, written documents are immutable mobiles that stabilize knowledge and make it transportable. Bureaucratic routines in the form of documenting do not only imply producing and collecting written material. The routines also influence the actions and identities of external actors as they are required to adapt to them (Barnett and Finnemore, 2004).

The knowledge-synthesizing efforts within contemporary environmental governance (see introduction) raise at least two important questions related to documenting ILK. First, because attempts by outsiders to document indigenous knowledge have a long colonialist history (as has cartography), they raise concerns regarding the intended use of the gathered knowledge and the benefits for the indigenous community itself. Secondly, can local and context-specific knowledge really be represented without its context? These questions have been discussed elsewhere (cf. Agrawal 1995a, 1995b; Nakata 2002; Porsanger and Guttorm 2011) and there is no space to deal more closely with them here. We will, however, point to two internal factors that force indigenous peoples to document their own traditional knowledge. The first is a general fear that this knowledge is being lost as practices change. This fear is evident when the Sámi parliament describes its own documenting efforts:

For the Sámi community, it is important that the efforts to pass on and document árbediehtu [traditional Sámi knowledge, our remark] continue because that is where the basis of our unique culture, language, and way of life is to be found. […] Among the Sámi living today are the first generations who are losing more traditional Sámi knowledge than they are producing, a trend that we believe must be slowed down and changed. (Sametinget 2010, 28)

Second, the juridification described below demands that claims can be substantiated, as oral substantiation is seldom enough. Most of our respondents take a rather pragmatic view of documenting knowledge; they see it as a tool for effective communication:

In some way it’s that, those who are in that world and who maybe are working on an environmental consequences analysis, if they read three different documents that all say the same thing, then I believe they’ll have to relate to it in some way regardless. [Respondent 7]

The above quotation illustrates a central notion of Western epistemology: multiple sources are better than one. So, apart from making knowledge “immutable” by documenting it, there is also a need for multiplication of knowledge sources.

Juridification

On a global level, indigenous protection has been incorporated into the human rights discourse, and the indigenous human rights movement has been quite successful in gaining legal recognition during the last decades. The 2007 UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples is but one example. It is striking that one respondent, when asked if she identifies as Sámi, referred directly to this declaration rather than to national law:

I am, if you go by the UN declaration, then I can definitely identify [as Sámi] because we’ve had the language in our family, and [our own] ear-mark [for reindeer] and so on. [Respondent 3]

The Swedish state has received substantial international criticism for its Sámi policies.¹⁰ In its seventh periodic report on Sweden, the Human Rights Committee of the United Nations (2016) criticized Sweden for its slow adoption of the Nordic Sámi Convention,¹¹ limited resource allocation to the Sámi Parliament, not always seeking free, prior, and informed consent by the Sámi people in connection with extractive and development projects, and for the enduring difficulties faced by the Sámi in securing land and grazing rights.

International law and conventions have become important tools for indigenous people all over the world when trying to resist colonial practices and legacies, typically by pursuing legal battles with states (Carpenter and Riley 2014). This development is an important prerequisite for what we here label juridification, that is, an increase in resolving conflicts with reference to national and international legislation (Blichner and Molander 2005).

The first lawsuit against the Swedish state by a Sámi reindeer herding community was launched in 1966 and concerned land and water rights (NJA 1981, p. 1). While the state did win, the final verdict confirmed the existence of Sámi land-use rights based on prescription from time immemorial. This formed the basis for the first legal victory by the Sámi in 2006 (concerning grazing rights, see NJA 2011, p. 109) and it has been followed by other victories. This has generated increased faith among the Sámi regarding what can be achieved by legal means. As one interviewed Sámi lawyer describes it, maybe there has been too much faith:

They believe you have to use lawyers, many herding communities have attorneys and put enormous amounts into it. There are many lawyers these days making a living off this belief, so I’m a bit skeptical of it. [Respondent 9]

Apart from cost, another challenge when entering the juridical arena is how to present evidence and determine what sort of evidence that is admissible. One respondent told us that there has been debate among the Sámi about whether or not to admit traditional Sámi songs (“jojk”) as testimony about the historical meaning of a certain place. It was decided not to allow it, as it was not expected to sit well with the court. This respondent summarized the overall predicament as follows:

Now we package ourselves in accordance with the legalities, both in terms of how we ascribe value to things and the trade-offs we make. Everything has to be squeezed into a rigid system that doesn’t fit us. [Respondent 10]

It should also be noted that juridification is by no means something that only works in favor of indigenous communities. International law also helps transnational enterprises looking for extraction possibilities in indigenous territories, because barriers to foreign trade have been lowered and international investors are protected by a growing number of treaties (Kleinfeld 2016; Lawrence and Larsen 2017). Also, as with both cartography and documenting, juridification risks draining the resources of a community. Lea, Howey, and O’Brien (2018) use the term “paperfare” to capture the bureaucratic struggles that many indigenous peoples are drawn into while battling colonialism. While sometimes successful, paperfare must be considered a stressor in itself.

Motorization

Mechanization through motorization – the increased use of motor vehicles – is a process at the heart of modern rationalization. For reindeer herding, motorization became important with the introduction of the snowmobile in the 1960s. This made it possible to manage larger herds and reduce personnel, which was necessary as reindeer herding became more and more sensitive to external market forces. The Swedish Sámi policy in this period pushed hard for such rationalization, positioning reindeer herding as an underdeveloped “industry” (not a way of life) in need of catching up with the times (Mörkenstam 1999). A range of off-road vehicles are in use today, along with motorboats, helicopters, airplanes, and trucks (Helander-Renvall 2008). The ongoing motorization is clearly related to land fragmentation. Because of the scattered pasturage and lack of green infrastructure, it is necessary to move the herds over long distances. This makes it more or less impossible to rely on traditional methods (such as hiking and skiing).

Motorization is further fueled by the need for supplementary feeding, which is caused by habitat loss and land fragmentation in combination with a changing climate that complicates winter grazing. Supplementary feeding is more than just a “supplement”, rather it is a practice different from traditional reindeer herding (for supplementary feeding as a coping strategy, see Furberg, Evengård, and Nilsson 2011). One respondent describes how the combination of scattered pasturage, motorization and supplementary feeding creates a distance to both herd and place – with implication for the development of traditional Sámi knowledge:

In the past, we did not have to close in the reindeer while on the move. We stayed with them in the area, and possessed the knowledge required there and then. Now it’s different, you drive to the enclosure, close in the reindeer, feed them, drive back for sleep, come back in the morning and move on. And some knowledge is probably lost… But it is a form of adaption. [Respondent 9]

Motorization does have inherent downsides: accidents are quite common, long-term use is detrimental to physical health, vehicles are costly to buy and maintain, and vehicles impact the environment in various ways (Furberg, Evengård, and Nilsson 2011; Sjölander 2011). One respondent describes how climate change and fragmentation has locked him into a motorized practice that is both environmentally and economically unsustainable:

[T]hey’re extremely expensive, the mechanical equipment is so extremely expensive. Not to speak of the fuel bills in winter. And that means I have to sell more reindeer, but because of climate change and fragmentation of the pasturage the herds aren’t growing […] the only source of income I have is selling reindeer. [Respondent 7]

The upside would, of course, be that motorization saves time, but there is a downside consisting of increased stress, as the quotation shows. The use of snowmobiles is also a source of conflict. For herding purposes, Sámi are allowed to use them in otherwise protected areas. They can also get temporary restrictions imposed on recreational use in certain areas. One respondent mentions this as one of several sources of the general population’s irritation with the Sámi:

…that you have advantages because you can drive off-road vehicles in national parks, or that herding communities can get certain areas designated off-limits for snowmobiles for example, so people on Easter break can’t drive snowmobiles where ever they want in the mountains and so on. There are a lot of things like that. [Respondent 2]

Concluding Discussion

The overall aim of this study has been to explore views on techno-scientific knowledge among the Sámi people. In particular, we wanted to know what drives the employment of modern techniques, how this affects traditional knowledge, and what this could mean for future knowledge-bridging endeavors. We will answer these guiding research question below.

What Drives the Employment of Techno-Scientific Knowledge among the Sámi?

While it is clear that modern techniques have inherent value for the Sámi, they predominantly function as coping strategies in the face of stress stemming from land fragmentation. Other problems are mentioned as well (e.g. climate change, racism, and predators), but land fragmentation stands out as an overarching stressor. Let us very briefly summarize how the four modern techniques figure as coping strategies in the empirical accounts. Cartography and documenting are closely related strategies in the sense that they stabilize knowledge so that it can be compellingly communicated to outsiders through the use of maps or documents. These techniques serve in turn as the basis for juridification, a strategy that employs national and international legislation to make and bolster claims to rights. Motorization, finally, serves to bridge gaps in the green infrastructure.

Each technique can provide different forms of coping, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes there is a little possibility to address the stressor (in the form of structural change and political decisions), and coping becomes a matter of adaptation. The most obvious example of this is the use of motorization as a way to adapt to gaps in the green infrastructure, but cartography, documenting and juridification can also be adaptive coping strategies – typically in relation to the bureaucracy of the nation-state. Other times, there is some room for addressing the stressor, or at least for questioning the current circumstances. Cartography can be used to question dominant geographical representations (counter-mapping). Documenting can add weight to an argument (or to traditional knowledge) by presenting it in written form and through multiple sources. Juridification can question national policies with reference to international law. This form of coping typically requires that Sámi knowledge be translated and presented in a way that can be understood and trusted by others. Modern cartography measures predatory rates via GPS in a way that is compelling to outsiders, and juridification has Sámi lawyers pondering how traditional representations of knowledge can be made admissible in court.

According to Furberg and colleagues, the Sámi are facing the limits of resilience, which they define as “the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and reorganize while undergoing change, so as to retain essentially the same function, structure, identity, and feedback” (Furberg, Evengård, and Nilsson 2011, 9). This is one way to express the purpose of coping, but resilience is a contested concept which often conceals power asymmetries (see Brown 2014 for an overview). For our purposes, it is enough to say that the Sámi are experiencing stress, mainly caused by land fragmentation, and that they have to cope with it. Based on our empirical analysis we contend that modern techniques (i.e. applications of techno-scientific knowledge) are employed because they facilitate coping, either in the form of adaptation to current circumstances or as a way of questioning them.

How Is the Employment of Techno-Scientific Knowledge Affecting Traditional Sámi Knowledge?

Techniques are a part of wider sociotechnical systems; they consist of more than just the technical artifacts (e.g. GPS collars or snowmobiles) that support them. Hence, when techniques are transferred to a new context they often bring about new practices, dependencies and ways of organizing everyday life. Adopting new techniques may, therefore, be a way for a community to survive, but it may also tacitly and gradually affect the community. We saw the clearest examples of this in relation to motorization, as it strongly influences how the Sámi interact with the biophysical environment, and such interaction forms the very basis for the development of Sámi knowledge. While our respondents recognized that knowledge is always developing, we also encountered a strong fear that valuable knowledge is being lost as practices change or disappear. Another example is how cartography alters perceptions of the landscape. Cartography is excellent for differentiating components of the landscape, but as a practice, it can be at odds with viewing the landscape as a totality. To the extent that there are sustainability lessons to be learned from the Sámi way of life, the effects of the forced option to rely on modern techniques should be of concern well beyond Sápmi. But it also ties into the complex matter of Sámi identity; at a time when younger generations of Sámi are reclaiming their heritage and taking pride in it, (re)discovering traditional knowledge is at the heart of the process.

What Are the Possible Implications for Future Knowledge-Bridging Endeavors?

The above findings constitute a challenge for future cross-fertilization between knowledge systems within any field, but especially perhaps when it comes to biodiversity conservation. There are two main reasons for this. First, a key rationale for including ILK in biodiversity management is that indigenous and local communities’ long experience of managing natural resources sustainably has given them extensive knowledge of complex ecological systems in their own localities (Gadgil, Berkes, and Folke 1993). As demonstrated above, land fragmentation and other stressors may strongly influence the preconditions for this kind of knowledge production. Not only the direct effects of stressors need to be in focus, but also the indirect ones that follow from various coping strategies. It is therefore of great interest to develop further knowledge about how ILK-holders cope with land fragmentation and the consequences this coping has for their ways of life and for their knowledge production.

Second, cross-fertilization is almost universally regarded as a positive thing, and gains can undoubtedly be made by integrating techno-scientific knowledge into traditional knowledge and vice versa. But to the extent that the lived experience of such integration among ILK-holders around the world is also a forced option – like the coping described above – the homogeneous view of what cross-fertilization might mean to different actors in IPBES and similar projects needs to be thoroughly reconsidered. This is an ethical concern that also extends into politics. The coping described in this study serves to buffer against the effects of land fragmentation and other stressors, and any judgments about the well-being of the Sámi or other indigenous peoples need to account for it.

Acknowledgements

This article was written as a part of the project “Making knowledge usable. Interdisciplinary and transdisciplinary challenges for international environmental expertise” supported by the Swedish research council Formas. Lacking previous experience of collaborating with Sámi communities, and from the outset possessing little more than rudimentary knowledge about Sámi issues, we are deeply indebted to all interviewees and other informants for their kind assistance and patience. We also thank two anonymous reviewers of earlier versions for their insightful and constructive comments.

Notes

Additional information

Funding

The present work was financially supported by Svenska Forskningsrådet Formas.

Notes

1 Examples include The Arctic Resilience Report and the Plan of Action on Customary Sustainable Use of Biological Diversity (under the Convention on Biological Diversity)

2 For additional clarity: we (the authors) are not ourselves Sámi, but Swedish researchers drawing on interviews to rely an indigenous perspective on cross-fertilization. See section 1.2 on ethical considerations that follows from this position as outsiders.

3 Nyström (2018, 43) calls this a Swedish "masterplot" in political discourse, where the Swedish state sees itself as “the giver of rights, the careful balancer of conflicting interests, rather than the enabler of continued colonialism”.

4 There are different geographical measurements of Sápmi in circulation, and in essence it is without fixed borders.

5 Sametinget constitutes an odd mixture of a parliament and a government agency, reflecting a tension between the Sami’s striving for greater independence and the Swedish government’s restrictive regulations. As an agency, the primary objective of the Sami Parliament is to monitor issues concerning Sami culture in Sweden, and it cannot decide over its own budget. As a body of representatives, it should represent the Sami population, but it also must implement decisions taken by the Swedish national Parliament, where there is no formal Sami representation (cf. Lawrence and Mörkenstam 2012).

6 Green infrastructure can be defined as “…the network of natural and semi-natural areas, features and green spaces in rural and urban, and terrestrial, freshwater, coastal and marine areas, which together enhance ecosystem health and resilience, contribute to biodiversity conservation and benefit human populations through the maintenance and enhancement of ecosystem services” (Naumann et al. 2011, 1).

7 http://www.naturvardsverket.se/gron-infrastruktur#gron (our translation)

8 https://www.sametinget.se/109393 (our translation)

9 The cultivation line is an administrative border that separates the mountain regions from the rest of Sweden. The reindeer husbandry act stipulates during which time periods the reindeer may grace below this line.

10 In 1998, the Swedish minister of agriculture (and Sami-related issues) apologized on behalf of the Swedish government for the historical mistreatment of the Sami people. According to many Sami organizations, such apologies have little effect and are not enough (see the article “Samerna och staten” published on www.samer.se, accessed 2017-04-12). Demands for a Truth and Reconciliation Commission have been put forward by, among others, the Sami Parliament and the Swedish Equality Ombudsman. At the time of writing, no government decision has been taken on the issue.

11 The Nordic Sami Convention aims to uphold and strengthen the rights of the Sami people to their language, culture, livelihood and way of life, with national borders interfering as little as possible; this is to be done by harmonizing legislation in Sweden, Norway and Finland.