Orion Blog, page 2

Five Questions for the Author: Brooke Williams, Open Midnight

Brooke Williams’s book Open Midnight (Trinity University Press) is an important meditation on ancestry and the spaces where inner and outer wilderness meet. Williams’s career in conservation spans over thirty years, and Open Midnight is a dedication to better understanding his place in the world through such advocacy, and through the lens of another: the ghost of a great-great grandfather.

I caught up with Williams to ask some questions about Open Midnight, about writing a narrative that braids memoir and fiction, and about some of the book’s prevailing themes.

NT: Open Midnight is a nonfiction book and yet you portray one of its main characters, your great-great grandfather William Williams, as a ghost who joins you along the way. Some of his experiences—meeting Charles Darwin, traveling across the Atlantic Ocean—were some of the book’s most compelling sections. Tell us about the process of rendering him in this book.

BW: I discovered William Williams while looking for my “homeland”—where my ancestors had come from. It turns out he and Charles Darwin were born within a five-minute walk of each other, and a year apart. I found no evidence that they ever met. However, since Darwin has always been a hero of mine, I wanted them to have been friends, so I began drawing two timelines on paper. One line marked the dates of Williams’s life events that I’d researched. The other line marked corresponding dates for Darwin. At the left and right ends of both lines, for example, I marked their births and deaths respectively. I noted when William left for America, when Darwin left on the Beagle, etc. Whenever these two men were in the same place at the same time, I wrote a story about them meeting. As I say in the preface, I don’t know that these meetings actually took place, but I don’t know that they didn’t.

NT: Along a similar thread, Open Midnight explores various thresholds of reality: fiction and nonfiction, inner and outer life, conscious and unconscious, dreaming and waking. What’s the main takeaway here between edge zones, liminality, and wilderness?

BW: My belief is that beneath our civilized lives there exists a wild core, and this applies to each of us as individuals, but also to the landscapes themselves. Immersing oneself in wild places is a way to tap into that wild part, and this, to me, is important because contained in that part of ourselves is an entire evolutionary history, including everything we’ve ever needed to save ourselves.

NT: Evolutionary history references a primary thread I found in Open Midnight, where you follow Charles Darwin, evolution, and human progress. Are modern humans, based on how we’re currently treating the planet, an evolved iteration of our species, or is the reverse the true?

BW: At its simplest, evolution is adaptation to changing conditions. Modern humans—especially white, male, and modern—act as if we are now responsible to guide our troubled species into the future. This is dangerous on many levels. The assumption that we have the capacity to understand, let alone replace, a biological phenomenon that’s been at work for over three billion years is the height of absurdity, arrogance, and danger, and it’s leading us quickly into extinction.

NT: Much of this book is you traveling through wild spaces alone. Actually, it’s often you, your dog, and a ghost. Tell me more about why solitary witnessing of wild places is so important.

BW: That wild core, say that it does exist. And say that it might have the evolutionary answers we need. But say those answers are antithetical to the corporate, for-profit forces now loose upon the world, a paradigm that is doing everything it can to keep us from knowing that wild core. Solitude, then, is a powerful and effective way to quiet the distracting noise that constantly tries to sell us things, to sell us a fake self. Solitude helps us listen better, to listen for how the planet can best make use of us.

NT: It appears you’ve come to the conclusion that wild spaces might actually save us in the end. Why is wilderness necessary? 

BW: Wilderness saves us because of the access it provides to our evolutionary selves living in our core. It is something worth being exposed to, immersed in, and surrounded by. It’s the life force, intact, at work in wilderness, all around all the time, whether or not we’re aware of it. I try to be aware of it, and this awareness must have evolutionary implications.

Brooke Williams has spent the last thirty years advocating for wilderness. He is the author of four books, including Open Midnight, Halflives: Reconciling Work and Wildness, and The Story of My Heart, by Richard Jeffries, as rediscovered by Brooke Williams and Terry Tempest Williams. His journalistic pieces have appeared in Outside, Huffington Post, Orion, and Saltfront. He and his wife, Terry Tempest Williams, divide their time between Utah and Wyoming.

The Carolina Parakeets of Instagram

Drew Lanham’s article, “Forever Gone,” found in the Spring 2018 issue of Orion, is illustrated with images of Carolina parakeets that Orion’s editors found on Instagram. Here is a behind-the-scenes look at those twelve images, in the words of the artists themselves.

 

Jenny Pope (Ithaca, New York)

I am a woodcut artist and I often portray extinct or invasive species (the two extremes). To make art about animals that once lived alongside us is a way to pay homage to our past and a warning for the future. This piece is titled “Carolina Parakeet 1918,” because the last bird died in the Cincinnati Zoo that year. Jenny’s Instagram

 

Emily Dahl (Bowie, Maryland)

My drawing was part of an art book project I did focused around extinct parrots. Whenever I create art to indulge myself, my interest tends towards a celebration of birds combined with a hint of the educational. As a lifelong bird lover with an interest in history, I’ve always felt an affinity for the Carolina Parakeet, always been captivated by the tragedy of its extinction. Over the years, selling prints of my work, I’ve met a number of others who share this with me. We want to keep the memory of this bird alive even though none of us were alive in its time—as a reminder of what we’ve lost, and of what more we could lose. Emily’s Instagram

 

Jada Fitch (Addison, Maine)

I’m a Maine native naturalist and avid birdwatcher. In 2014, I painted a series of portraits of all the recently extinct bird species in North America for an exhibit at Maine Audubon. This painting is the watercolor sketch I did for the Carolina parakeet portrait. Jada’s Instagram

 

 

Erin Partridge (Lafayette, California)

As someone who shares her life and home with two parrots (an African gray and a yellow-sided conure), I am constantly amazed by the things they do and the way they interact with my family and clients. Though I love reading about and seeing the naturalized flocks in California and Brooklyn, I am heartbroken to know that we used to have a native parrot in this country, and that humans are responsible for its extinction. I think the Carolina parakeet has a message for us—both for the necessity to protect other species as well as a message for us to look at our priorities. Who else might we be forcing out to protect our short-sighted goals? How can we make space for each other to thrive and flourish? As an art therapist, I often use drawing, painting, or other art responses to process the world around me. This image is a message to remind people that we had a parrot here, we did not protect it, and we no longer get to see it in our world today. Erin’s Instagram

 

Cy Gavin (New York, New York)

I was imagining the context of Nat Turner’s life in Virginia and thinking about the credibility of his “confession,” which was allegedly given to an attorney by the name of Thomas Ruffin Gray. After falling into gambling debt, Gray went on to publish The Confessions of Nat Turner (Gray was not Nat Turner’s attorney) and there is much reasonable speculation that the book is largely a fabrication. When I made this painting, I had just read that book and was thinking about the business of making myths and the power those myths end up wielding in our lives. What is gained or lost in the process of making a human emblematic? Turner spent his entire life in Southampton County, Virginia, which was a plantation region (with corn crops that likely would have been harried by the Carolina parakeet). Opposing popular views of Nat Turner as either a delusional zealot or as a barbarous agent of resistance, I fabricated a more ambiguous and quotidian scene, so he’s there in a private moment with a Carolina parakeet he may well have kept as a pet. Cy’s Instagram

Cy Gavin’s work is currently on view at the Whitney Museum of American Art in “Between The Waters” and at MASSMoCA in its exhibition, “Lure of The Dark.”

 

Susan Humphrey (Baltimore, Maryland)

Every piece of Rockcrest Glass Studio stained glass is an original; inspired by wildlife and natural phenomena, then designed and handmade by me. I work in the copper foil method pioneered by Louis Comfort Tiffany in the late 19th century, with each piece of glass being carefully selected for its specific color and textural qualities. The glass is hand cut and then ground to shape and remove sharp edges; then copper foil is wrapped and burnished by hand around each piece. All pieces are assembled and soldered together to create the final panel or sun catcher.

My work can be found, commissioned, and purchased on the Rockcrest Glass Studio website. Susan’s Instagram

The Deadly Sins of the Carolina Parakeet is a two-panel stained glass piece specifically created for and exhibited at the Peale Center’s (Baltimore, MD) “Birdland and the Anthropocene” gallery show, curated and presented by Lynne Parks in October 2017. Both panels are available for purchase.

 

Maude White (Hudson, New York)

I am a paper-cutting artist living in New York’s Hudson Valley. I cut the Carolina parakeet for my book Brave Birds (Abrams, 2018). The parakeet was one of three extinct birds that I included in the book, alongside the ivory-billed woodpecker and the laughing owl. While cutting the Carolina parakeet, I read that one of the reasons for the bird’s extinction was the use of the colorful feathers in decoration and clothing. This made me think about our urge to possess things that are beautiful, and how difficult it can be for us to understand that beauty sometimes can’t be possessed. It’s such a hard lesson to learn—and we have to relearn it again and again. Maude’s Instagram

 

Iker Paz (Bilbao, Spain)

Chickasaw kid running alongside a flock of Carolina parakeets” is a depiction of a long-gone world. The extinct birds shown in this painting, which is currently in progress, are used as a metaphor for a Golden Age that once was, a time when life was simpler and mankind lived in balance with nature. Iker’s Instagram

Joven Chickasaw corriendo junto a bandada de cotorras de Carolina“, actualmente en proceso, busca representar un mundo perdido en el tiempo. La hoy extinta cotorra de Carolina, la única especie de loro autóctono de América de Norte al este del Misisipi, es utilizada a modo de metáfora de una Edad de Oro ya desaparecida, un tiempo en el que la vida era más sencilla y el Ser Humano aún vivía en equilibrio con la Naturaleza.

Note: Iker’s image found in the print edition of Orion is a detail of a larger painting that was in progress at time he posted it on Instagram; the full-size (and nearly complete) painting is shown here. 

 

Sara Golish (Windsor, Ontario)

My painting representing the Carolina parakeet is part of a body of work entitled “Birds of Paradise.” The work questions the symbolism of conventional oil portraiture through a lens of eco-feminism by depicting traditionally oppressed figures of women with dignity and grace. Each painting features a bird as a symbolic element, representing the individual uniqueness of how women experience oppression in varying configurations and degrees of intensity while sharing a common struggle. Using the Carolina parakeet in this work was a means to bring them back to life, in a place where miraculously they returned from extinction to survive and thrive once again. Sarah’s Instagram

 

Dan Bythewood (Brooklyn, New York)

John James Audubon’s famous painting of Carolina parakeets has been a labor of love for me, as Audubon is one of my favorite naturalist illustrators. Although clearly modified to be tattooed as a sleeve with some changes to the branches and leaves, I have tried to keep the vibrant colors as close to the painting as possible.

My good friend Kate Hockstein is the wearer of this tattoo. As a native of Virginia, she decided on the parakeets as a dedication to her home state, and to the fleeting beauty of nature that we often overlook until it is gone. I cannot imagine a more perfect tribute, and I have worked my best to honor it as a tattoo artist. Dan’s Instagram

 

Katrine Claassens (Cape Town, South Africa)

On a polished glass shelf in the Redpath Museum in Montreal: a small green bird. I noticed the Carolina parakeet at first because it seemed so visually similar to an image I had painted from a rescue-bird twitter account. The label tells us: “DISPARU/EXTINCT,” that the animal was donated before the species’ extinction in 1914, and that this specimen is over one hundred years old. For Remembrance of Lost Species Day we opened its cabinet. And I held the small stuffed body in my hand. It was heavy as the world, the lines of fading feathers tracing a map of partings without end. The painting, I suppose, is a rickety memorial lost in the thicket and din of the sixth extinction. But it provided me a moment to take breath as we step deeper into the Anthropocene. Katrine’s Instagram

 

J. Drew Lanham (Clemson, South Carolina)

There’s a certain presence that goes along with the parrot-kind. In their eyes and being there’s a knowing we can’t ever fully know. Even in stretched-out, taxidermied death, this Carolina parakeet on display at the Georgia Museum of Natural History a few years ago seemed poised to reanimate itself and give me a lecture on forever gone. And I was enraptured—fully prepared to listen. Drew’s Instagram

 

The 2018 Orion Environmental Writers’ Workshop

“When we are able to integrate into our writing a concern for place, for the natural environment and our relationship to it, our work becomes more urgent. The Orion Writing Workshop teaches us to do this, and surrounds us with other writers invested in sharing and amplifying our passions.” Francisco Cantú, author of The Line Becomes a River

Interested in improving your writing craft while working alongside other creative people in a wild and peaceful setting? Introducing Orion’s 2018 Environmental Writers’ Workshop, a weeklong event taking place at the Omega Institute, located in New York’s Hudson Valley.

This intensive week of craft and conversation “gives writers the unique opportunity to connect with Orion writers and editors in order to understand more deeply Orion‘s approach to the relationship between literature and the natural world.”

This year’s faculty: Megan Mayhew Bergman, Major Jackson, Amy Irvine, Anne Haven McDonnell, Lisa Couturier, and Christopher Merrill.

Additional details:

WHO: The Orion Writers’ Workshop is designed for the following participants:

  • Writers seeking to become better advocates for the environment through their writing,
  • Poets drawn to writing about nature and culture,
  • Teachers and scholars who wish to write for a more broad audience, and
  • Environmental professionals who want to bring better writing skills to bear on their work.

WHEN: June 10 – June 15, 2018

WHERE: The Omega Institute, Rhinebeck, New York (Two hours north of New York City) 

WHAT:

  • Format: Small writing workshops for fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.
  • Readings: There will be daily faculty readings and lectures on publishing.
  • One-on-One: Participants meet regularly with his or her workshop leader.
  • Special Guests: Literary agents, publishers, writers, and editors.

 HOW:

  • Apply here for the 2018 Orion Environmental Writer’s Workshop.
  • Writing samples: prose submissions, 1500 words. Poetry submissions, up to 6 pages.
  • Applications are accepted on a rolling basis, until workshops are filled. Apply early to ensure the best housing options.
  • You will be notified within 2 weeks after you apply.

“As a young writer immersed in environmental and social justice movements, the Orion Writers’ Workshop was a rare opportunity for me to slow down, to reflect, to be with craft and to contemplate purpose, all alongside other writers envisioning a more just and sustainable world. The workshop clarified the intersection in which I now work, as a storyteller of movements, and it gave me the chance to connect directly with those who have walked this path before me.”
Morgan Curtis, activist and storyteller

What We Lose Giving Away Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante

In the late 1970’s, Cindy and Donny drove their canoe to Lake Powell—the highway south to Hite was newly paved, sliding across the landscape that would someday become Bears Ears National Monument—and set out for a nook called Hall’s Creek. The reservoir was still filling in and they’d heard about a unique jut of land where you could land your boat and climb out. The high water made new spaces accessible, opening up routes impossible to reach just a few years earlier, standing on the shoulder of the submerged spaces underneath.

They found the spit of land someone told them about, stashed their canoes, and hiked into the backcountry without a map. It was late summer and the potholes were dry. They had enough supplies to last a few days, but it was too hot, and they worried about running out of water. After three days they turned around and followed their tracks—the only tracks, breaking the fragile bio crust—back to the lake. They were thinking about the long drive home and a hot meal back in Salt Lake. They were thinking about the weight of their packs, but they weren’t thinking about their canoe until they realized it was gone.

When we followed Cindy and Donny’s route last spring, paddling our own canoes across Lake Powell towards the southern edge of Grand-Staircase Escalante National Monument, we had the canyon-turned-lake, mostly, to ourselves. There were houseboats—Serenities and Nauti Bouys—anchored near shore. A beach with overturned tires roasting in the sun. Another beach with a pontoon canopy frame sticking out of the sand like spider legs. These human structures sat listlessly waiting for somebody to move them, fix them, take them somewhere else.

We didn’t stay on the water long. Within a few hours we reached a sandy peninsula, pulled our boats onto the beach and left a message taped to one upturned bow: These boats are not abandoned. Please do not steal. Our lives depend on them. We will return on March 26. Our trajectory was a climb into the Waterpocket fold, a 100-mile-long buckle of sedimentary rock stretching from Thousand Lake Mountain to Lake Powell. It’s a buckle filled with sandstone arches, gypsum walls, and potholes filled with snails crawling along the rim. This is not a landscape I had immediate language for: the slick rock we gripped without falling. The slot canyons we disappeared down not knowing what might be on the other side. The wide, flat areas filled with sand, the wash, where the water wants to run when it rains.

The drizzle started on the third night as we cooked dinner, a relief after two days of sun. We pulled on rain jackets and watched the direction of the clouds. We could see real rain in the distance, miles and miles away, and we watched it pass as we finished eating. At midnight the wind picked up and the tent poles started to bend. I put my hand out. Whether or not our tent would really cave in, it was a gesture. I pushed and the wind, tunneling down the canyon, pushed back. Then I heard it—water running past the tent.

I stepped outside and found the flood—a stream I could step across—winnowing past in the darkness. It was impossible to know how much water was gathering in the plateau above, so we started pulling up tents. Sandals and stakes float away. The thunder is already in the distance by the time we’ve moved camp safe above the wash. I imagine the whole desert shifting itself under the miles and miles of rain. The streams are carrying sandstone into Lake Powell, and the canyon at the bottom is filling back up. I spent a million years moving this shit out of here, the canyon under the lake might say, and when this dam is gone, I’ll do it all over again.

Cindy and Donny never found out what happened to their canoe. It’s at the bottom of the lake or in someone’s Salt Lake City backyard. Donny followed the shoreline for a day until he found help, and another boat, to retrieve Cindy from where he left her by the edge of the water. Our boats were waiting for us when we climbed down from our campsite and paddled back to the landing.

There’s a game I’ve played since childhood, a habit that flickers every time I visit a familiar city: first I try to see past the telephone poles, then I readjust the slope of hills cut flat by roads. I’m curious about landscapes before they were occupied by my ancestors, before short-term profits superseded ecosystems, before trash was left along a shoreline that used to be a canyon. The closest word I’ve found for this game of uncivilizing is anamnesis, a Platonic belief that we can possess knowledge from past incarnations. Its root contains a forgetting, amnesia, but the word believes in the act of remembering.

President Trump’s recent decision to shrink Bear’s Ears and Grand-Staircase Escalante National Monuments and expose those public lands to extraction is a form of state sanctioned amnesia. It denies future generations the opportunity to experience and know a landscape bigger than ourselves. Glen Canyon will not return in our lifetime, and neither will the public lands our President is currently turning over for profit and consumption.

The day after the storm, high into one drainage, we wandered towards a willow tree and found two balloons caught in the bushes nearby. One said Congratulations. The other was shaped like a shamrock. We tried to retrieve them but the sun-bleached latex disintegrated in our hands.

Five Questions for the Author: Gleb Raygorodetsky, The Archipelago of Hope

To celebrate the recent launch of an important and relevant new book, The Archipelago of Hope, I reached out to its author, Gleb Raygorodetsky, to learn more.

Born and raised in a small village on the Bering Sea coast of Kamchatka Peninsula, USSR, Gleb immigrated to the United States in 1988. He made his way from New York City to Fairbanks, Alaska, where he continued his studies in wildlife biology. Since then, Gleb has traversed the Americas, from Canada’s Beaufort Sea to the Brazilian Amazon, from the Andes to the shores of Lake Superior, living with Indigenous peoples as diverse as Aleut fur seal hunters, Amazonian Caboclos pirarucu fishermen, and the Gwich’in caribou hunters.

After earning his PhD in ecology, evolution and environmental biology, he continued working with Indigenous groups around the world. Gleb has written and contributed to books and scientific articles on Indigenous issues, traditional knowledge, and conservation in both English and Russian. He wrote Gwich’in Words about the Landa book on the Indigenous ecological knowledge of Gwich’in people in the Northwest Territories. He has also written popular articles on Indigenous and environmental issues for various magazines. Gleb is a co-founder of Conversations with the Earth (CWE)—an Indigenous-led multimedia initiative that amplifies Indigenous voices in the discourse on climate change.

1) Your recent book is called The Archipelago of Hope. Can you give us a synopsis on what the book is about and how the word “archipelago” made it into the title? 

The Indigenous communities and their traditional territories are the islands of biocultural diversity in the ever-rising sea of development and urbanization. The Archipelago of Hope takes readers on a journey to explore the inextricable links between Indigenous cultures and their lands, and how they form the foundation for climate change resilience around the world.

Indigenous peoples have a millennia-long track record of maintaining intimate relationships with the natural world, which has nourished their communities and sustained their cultures. This is the track record that they have maintained despite formidable odds, including multiple “izations”—colonization, Christianization, sedentarization, and globalization.

What makes Indigenous communities indispensible in the search for climate change solutions is that their ancestral territories are the “living laboratories,” where the traditional practices and understanding of nature meet modern technology and scientific insights, generating new knowledge critical for developing relevant climate change responses.

2) You are an expert in the field of “biocultural diversity” conservation. Can you define this field and tell us how you entered into this sort of work? 

In recent years, a number of integrative disciplines—systems science, resilience science, ecosystem health, ethnoecology, deep ecology, Gaia Theory, and others—have sought ways to advance our understanding of the relationships between people and nature, incorporating insights from both the biological and social sciences as well as Indigenous knowledge.

Various organizations working on biodiversity conservation, cultural preservation, and sustainable development are increasingly relying on such holistic approaches in their work. Out of all these approaches, biocultural diversity has particularly resonated with me. Biocultural diversity is a product of millennia of coevolutionary relationships between humans and their surroundings, when people rely on their environment for survival while adapting to and modifying it.

(Photo: On sacred Ukok Plateau, Maria Amanchina, a traditional Altai shaman and healer, lights a pipe to send her prayers with the smoke to the Sky, the Land, and the Spirit of Altai.) 

3) Can you explain Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK), and how it’s being used (or not) when making important climate and environmental policy today? 

TEK is the cumulative body of knowledge, practices, and beliefs about the relationships between people, other living beings, and their environment, handed down through generations through oral and hands-on transmission. It provides valid and practical information about various ecological processes including, for example, daily movements of animals, their seasonal distribution, and multi-year changes in abundance. TEK-based monitoring allows for timely detection of environmental changes, and development of appropriate community responses that help maintain the integrity of local social-ecological systems.

Until recently, TEK has been largely ignored, but increasingly it has been recognized for its important contributions to such fields as wildlife conservation, land use planning, environmental monitoring, and human wellbeing. New emerging frameworks, such as Multiple Evidence Based approach, creates a platform for an equitable knowledge co-production. By focusing on the complementarity of diverse knowledge systems based on both Indigenous and scientific knowledge systems, this leads to better decision-making on multiple scales. 

(Photo: Inside a Nenets herders’ traditional chum, Gosha Khudi is taking a break from his daily chores and checks text messages on his cell phone. A young reindeer doe, a survivor of the 2013–2014 “rain-on-snow” extreme weather event, hides from mosquitos inside the tent.)

4) What are some takeaway lessons you learned while immersed in Indigenous communities to discuss such global challenges as climate change?

All of the Indigenous peoples featured in the book are intimately aware of the web of relationships that sustains them and their traditional territories. The interdependence of animate and inanimate, spiritual and physical, past and future, rights and responsibilities, traditional knowledge and science, are fundamentally important for sustaining our planet’s biocultural diversity.

Despite everything the modern world has thrown at them, the Indigenous peoples I profiled have found ways to persevere and even thrive, by keeping their links to the land and other living beings. What makes these Indigenous communities resilient is that their stewardship of the land is based on Respect, Reciprocity, and Reverence (3Rs) to each other, their neighbors, and the Earth.

Traditional territories of Indigenous peoples continue to support the majority of the earth’s remaining biological and cultural diversity, intact forests, undammed rivers, and ecosystem services, which are fundamental for regulating the climate. Recognizing Indigenous peoples’ inherent rights to fulfill the responsibilities of looking after their traditional territories—the obligations they inherited from their ancestors—is a prerequisite for sustaining the resilience of these places.

(Photo: The Islands of Clayoquot Sound (British Columbia, Canada) are reluctant to get out from under the cover of morning fog. But later in the day, the summer sun often burns through the mist, and the light throws land- and seascape into sharp, vibrant relief.)

5) What’s next?

My hope is that The Archipelago of Hope becomes more than just words on paper, that it turns into flagstones on a road to healing, reconciliation, and positive transformation. I am working with my long-term partners to create “The Archipelago of Hope” outreach program and a community-focused traveling exhibition program that would enable Indigenous community members to share their own stories with one another, their neighbors, decision-makers, and the broader global community.

We are also establishing “The Archipelago of Hope Indigenous Resilience Fund,” so that any profits earned from the book sales, as well as any donations to the projects profiled in the book, can go directly to the relevant communities, their representative organizations, or their partners. So that eventually, in the words of my friend and teacher Tero Mustonen, the “complete rebirth on the land” becomes a real option for all communities facing climate change. 

Find more information on The Archipelago of Hope:
Visit the Official Website.
Explore Facebook, and Twitter.
Listen to WNYC Studios feature.
Read an excerpt from the book at Cultural Survival.