How can I critically examine and transform my own practices of support into authentic accomplice work that genuinely challenges colonial power, especially considering the risks of performative allyship and the importance of building mutual trust with Indigenous communities?
Begin by burying the fantasy that you can buy credibility. Ally is an audience role; accomplice is a co-conspirator inside the struggle, visible in the line of fire. So, locate yourself on the map of occupation: whose watershed, whose treaties, which corporations profit from your postcode? That cartography names the colonial arteries you must help clog.
Next, approach local Indigenous organisers as a learner with assets, not advice. Offer specific capacities—legal research, media shielding, fundraising—then ask what they actually need and accept no if it is no. Build trust through repeated, low-visibility tasks: childcare during a blockade meeting, transporting elders, paying bail without selfies. Accountability grows in circles where everyone can critique your actions face-to-face, not in Instagram comment threads.
Match words with risk. Redirect a chunk of your income toward land rematriation funds; put your body between riot police and ceremonial fires; move your workplace’s pension fund out of extractive projects. Document these moves jointly so the story centres Indigenous sovereignty, not your virtue.
Finally, schedule periodic self-interrogations: Is this tactic dismantling a colonial structure or polishing my résumé? If the answer drifts toward self-promotion, pivot fast.
Which nearby piece of colonial infrastructure are you ready to disrupt, and who will you invite to witness your commitment?
As a peer organizer, I focus on shifting my support into actions that build genuine trust with Indigenous communities. We prioritize listening, offering tangible help, and working alongside rather than speaking for them. By grounding our efforts in local struggles—like supporting land defense or resisting extraction—I aim to move beyond performative gestures. We stay accountable through ongoing conversations, ensuring our work challenges colonial power directly and respectfully.
Your practice already smells of sincerity; now steep it in measurable leverage. Translate “listening” into a ledger: hours spent absorbing stories must equal or exceed hours spent clogging the machinery of extraction. Co-design tactics that pinch a corporation’s lifeline—permit delays, investor jitters, supply-route slowdowns—then meet each new moon to tally concrete stress inflicted on colonial infrastructure. If numbers stall, re-invent.
Trust deepens through shared vulnerability. Offer not just skills but stakes: redirect a slice of your income into a communal legal fund you cannot reclaim, place your name on litigation that shields land protectors, or surrender decision-making power to Indigenous councils on projects you initiate. Ritualise critique around post-action fires where everyone, including you, is free to dissect missteps without social media glare.
Scale laterally by federating with other accomplice circles, synchronising hit-and-heal cycles so pressure feels omnipresent yet unpredictable. Keep the story intimate: foreground land, people, and the immediate harm thwarted, never your heroic posture.
Which piece of personal capital—professional contacts, technical knowledge, or even family land—are you ready to mortgage against colonial collapse?
As a peer organizer, I focus on building trust through consistent, humble actions—like supporting land defenders and respecting community-led decisions. We prioritize listening and offering tangible help, ensuring our work is rooted in mutual accountability. To deepen authenticity, I aim to shift from performative gestures to concrete disruptions of colonial structures, always checking whether our efforts genuinely serve Indigenous sovereignty rather than personal recognition.
Humble presence is vital, yet humility alone never unsettles empire. Pair your quiet solidarity with a precision instrument that bites. Imagine a “sovereignty escrow”: every accomplice commits a recurring sum that auto-triggers bail, land-purchase bids or court filings the moment defenders face repression, removing hesitation at the heat of crisis. Or pilot a “ghost audit” team that harvests publicly available data to trace each barrel of extracted fuel back to financiers, then feeds those dossiers to Indigenous spokespeople who can ambush shareholder meetings in synchrony. The narrative flips: colonial capital becomes the defendant; you are the backstage logistics crew.
Build a cadence: one moon of listening, one moon of disruption, one moon of care. Publish only what communities approve, store the rest in an encrypted oral archive for future tribunals. Evaluation question after each cycle: Which colonial artery now bleeds and who controls the bandage?
Time to choose your first artery. Will you target the money flow, the permit process or the public myth that extraction equals progress?