Honouring diverse knowledge

We conducted 40 interviews, analyzed 17,600 articles across 27 different countries, and carried out a literature review to delve into how food justice is understood in various contexts, the issues associated with it in the media, and whose voices are represented. A six-month storytelling circle grounded our learning in the lived experience of eight food justice leaders from around the world.

Data science review

Alongside the food justice storytelling circles, we conducted a quantitative analysis of how the concept of food justice appears in news media around the world. Over an 11-month period, we analyzed news stories from 27 countries in which 150 food-related key words appeared, aiming to better understand how food and justice issues are represented in global media and how themes converge or diverge across different regions.

Profiles

Kamasa Dorothy Advocate for sustainable agriculture, climate change adaptation, and Indigenous climate solutions, Ghana

My name is Kamasa Dorothy, and I have nine years of experience in sustainable agriculture, climate change adaptation, and Indigenous climate solutions. I’m from Ghana, but I don’t carry my ancestral name because colonial forces displaced my family, and they had to adopt new names to fit in. I’ve served on the FAO forum of experts since 2019 and have contributed to drafting frameworks for global governance on food systems. I grew up in an extended family where food is shared, but the family is so large that you have to fight for your education, especially as a woman—nobody cares if you don’t go to school. I am proud to be the first to graduate from university in my family.

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Ysa Calderon Environmental activist and beekeeper from Chiclayo, Lambayeque, Peru

I’m from northern Peru, where I work with communities to restore ecosystems for medicinal bees. I was born in the city of Chiclayo, Lambayeque, in northern Peru, disconnected from my Indigenous roots. But every vacation, my father would take me to a farm in the mountains. This is where I was always happiest. In 2012, I had a big moment with depression, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I went to a healing ceremony, and an Indigenous woman fed me a spoonful of medicinal honey. At that moment, I found a light for my life and that I had a purpose to carry the message of nature through bees, plants, and honey, and I founded Sumak Kawsay, my environmental enterprise. Through this, I came to work on preserving ecosystems for native stingless bees that produce medicinal honey in the dry mountains of northern Peru. We generate work for local women through honey and eco-tourism, while educating local children on the links between food production, pollinators, and honey.

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Follow Ysa on Facebook | Instagram | LinkedIn 
Follow Sumak Kawsay on Facebook | Instagram

Brijlal Chaudhari Member of the Tharu nation and an Indigenous rights activist, Nepal

I’m from the foothills of the Himalayas in Nepal, where elephants and rhinos once roamed freely. I’m a proud Tharu Indigenous person, and I strongly believe our, and other, Indigenous Peoples’ way of life, worldviews, and knowledge must co-exist with others as equals, and I work on these issues through global Indigenous networks and coalitions. I hold my oral teachings from my grandfather very dear—exploring the forest, harvesting honey, trapping fish, and collecting oysters. I’m grateful he taught me how to listen because I now tell our communities’ stories to the world. At times, I have been uncomfortable in my identity, but my grandfather said something that has kept me going: “Remember, always remember, that you are like a mango tree. You will grow, flourish, and try to reach the sky. However, your roots are always on the ground. That will always sustain you. You never feel alone. Come back to your roots, physically or spiritually, and that will always guide you.”

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Follow Brijlal on Instagram | LinkedIn
Follow Global Home for Indigenous Peoples on Facebook | Instagram | LinkedIn 

Joanne Cheung Artist, designer, and food activist from China and the United States

I carry a seal carved in stone by my grandfather, which was gifted to me when I was very young, and it has my name on it. My Chinese name, 涓—, means “mountain stream.” It comes from an ancient poem, which means “the mountain stream that flows to the ocean.” And I grew up on the Yangtze River, which was dammed between 1994–2006, displacing over 1.3 million people. I’ve lived away from my family since I was in my teens. Remembering my name has become a source of strength for me. The mountain stream, so far away from home, eventually flows into the ocean and connects with all the other mountain streams that flow into the ocean. I’m an artist and designer, and I am currently making an oral history book and film about community land tenure and climate action. Through my art, I carry forward the care and creativity of my mother, grandmother, and our ancestral tradition of medicinal practitioners.

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Social Joanne on Instagram

Mai Thin Yu Mon Chin Indigenous woman and human rights and climate activist, Myanmar

I am a Chin Indigenous woman from the northwestern part of Myanmar, and a human rights and climate activist. I have lived through and been displaced from my homeland because of the long-standing civil war in my country. I wear a lot of different hats; I’ve spent the last ten years working on climate action and with Indigenous communities, and now I’m a humble student. I’m also a mother, daughter, and wife, and I carry my grandparents’ name as the oldest daughter. But at my heart, I’m a food lover. Ever since I was a child, I have loved growing vegetables—the only source of income for my family. Every weekend, I would water and harvest the vegetables and pick the local chilis. I love to cook, which is complicated because there’s an expectation that educated women don’t cook. But my pride lies in knowing and preserving the recipes from my grandmother, mother, and aunts. When I am stressed, whether that’s from work or abuse of human rights in my community, I cook.

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Dawn Morrison Indigenous rights campaigner, organizer, and Indigenous food and freedom fighter from Secwépemc territory, in what is now known as Canada

I am a member of the Secwépemc Nation, which settlers call British Columbia. We are part of the Salish language group, whose territory stretches from the Rocky Mountains in the east, to Vancouver Island in the west, and south of the U.S. border into Montana. In my role as Founder and Curator of the Working Group on Indigenous Food Sovereignty, I have been working on Indigenous food sovereignty, knowledge, and networks across so-called Canada. I’m the eldest survivor of the intergenerational impacts of Indian Residential Schools, where my mother was forced to assimilate from the age of five years old. Both my mother and my grandmother were punished for speaking their language, forcefully removed from their families, communities, and their culture, and were highly exploited for labour. I came to my work through my own healing. When I lived in the city for many years and went home to my people, the elders took me to the mountains and reconnected me to our land and medicines, which activated the ancestral memories of our foodways and a sense of belonging and purpose. It’s changed my life.

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Follow Dawn on Instagram | Website

I'm very thankful and humbled by this experience. I don't feel alone anymore. 

In each of your experiences, I felt that there was an effect of colonization that's common between us. Our colonizers are still active. A foreign element is replacing us as Palestinians as an Indigenous community.

I come from a small village in coastal Palestine that was ethnically cleansed in 1948 during the Nakba. So we carry the pain of my ancestors who were killed and ethnically forced to leave our ancestral home.

In agriculture, our dependency started when our land was taken in 1948, the Nakba. The land theft was extreme. Some 70% of Palestine was confiscated. Land is a big challenge, and access to water is an ongoing thing.

Every year at the time of the Nakba, we go back to our village to sit under this tree, an enormous tree. We have a big bus that brings people, we cook, and we take our food with us. And we sit under that tree. And we eat. And we talk about them. We talk about the fighting.

Food is woven into our identity, our culture and into our homes. 

Food is resistance in Palestine. It’s all about volunteering, collaborating and resisting. We don't have another way to exist.

Food is not just a meal. It’s a form of identity–it connects us to our roots. 

The food system has changed so much since I was a child. There was a fish called the Baraari in my language. It was a fish that we ate in ceremonies and celebrations. It brought immense joy when somebody caught that fish. But today, this fish no longer exists due to agrochemical runoff in the rivers.

There is somebody else who controls those aspects of our food system that were a very integral part of our livelihoods. Today, what really bothers me is the agrochemicals and corporate control of our seeds—my grandfather used to grow fourteen varieties of rice, and now it’s just two.

Our food system is very connected to our identity, social institutions, and governance system. When you weaken an Indigenous Peoples’ food system, you're weakening their identity, their language, their bio-cultural heritage, everything that governs them.

My people have faced the erosion of our knowledge system that, in the past, guided us to be self-sufficient. It’s epistemic violence.

All the injustices make you numb. I want my fish back to celebrate our New Year’s. I want our community back, I want our traditional governance back, I want our knowledge back. I don’t want agrochemicals.

But still, there's so much violence.

What I need is for people to listen to us. Listen to Indigenous Peoples and their stories, and partner with us. Make reciprocal relationships globally and understand us.

I want other people who have power and resources to be part of our journey with reciprocal relationships and help us break barriers together. We need solidarity.

I truly feel connected to each one of us through the determination that we have, despite all the disruptions we have. I see that we still connect ourselves to these traumas, as well as the healing that each one of us is looking for.

For me, home is mountainous. My hometown is about 5,000 feet above sea level. Wherever you look, you see endless ranges of mountains. It’s in the northwestern part of Myanmar, bordering India. At home, I never go hungry.

Because of the war in Myanmar, the idea of home has become connected to purpose. It’s about being able to contribute meaningfully to that purpose. On a personal level, cooking brings a sense of healing. It was the only way I could contribute during the conflict.

During the war, the village I was living in was raided by the military. We were able to escape a few minutes before they arrived. We knew that they were searching for us everywhere, but we found a camp belonging to the People’s Defense Groups.

I was not directly involved in armed resistance, but I had been supporting civil servants who had left their work to join the resistance. So our work was connected, but it was a very, very different feeling to be among all the men holding guns. I never thought I would fall in love with that place to that level.

I became involved in the kitchen, helping to prepare food and manage food stocks. Food became a celebration. We all forgot that we were in a battle zone. They poured out their stresses, joys, and war stories while we cooked the barbecue over the wood fire. It became a routine, a healing space, and we repeated it twice while I was there. A year later, they told me how special those moments were.

It was a deeply meaningful experience, and I felt that food 
was healing for me as well.

Reflections from the storytelling circles

Although the food justice leaders who were part of this project spanned diverse cultures, languages, and histories, their stories reflected common themes.

As Samar Awaad, a chef, storyteller, culinary artist, and researcher from Palestine, emphasized after speaking with Dawn Morrison, an Indigenous rights campaigner, organizer, and Indigenous food and freedom fighter from Secwépemc territory, in what is now known as Canada: “Despite being miles apart, our conversations often highlight how much Indigenous communities like hers and Palestinians share, especially when it comes to colonization, land sovereignty, and how these affect food systems.”

The time together in intimate storytelling circles brought five clear themes of injustice to the fore.

Reflections on war and genocide

In the circles, we heard about the direct impacts of war and genocide from two food justice leaders. Samar shared how food and land have been weaponized during the Israel–Palestine conflict, and how increasing disruptions to humanitarian food aid has led to unfathomable famine in Gaza. Mai Thin Yu Mon, a Chin Indigenous woman, human rights and climate activist from Myanmar, shared how the civil war conflict in Myanmar has prevented Indigenous communities from being able to grow their own food, forcing dependency on imports controlled by the military government and leaving communities on the brink of famine. Ongoing and targeted dispossession of land and water during protracted crises cut off farmers and fishers from access to their ancestral lands and waters, exacerbating hunger crises.

From Samar and Yu Mon, we heard how the lands and waters that sustain people hold long histories, multiple narratives, and the inherent complexities of conflict and war. They shared how food has been a source of resistance and strength in their communities: preserving and cooking ancestral recipes keeps the memory of land and water alive despite dispossession. Yu Mon’s tale of fish head soup in the People’s Defence Camp brought to life how cooking traditional food brings resilience and joy in conflict, as well as a source of healing. The tradition Samar shared of her community preparing jureisha — cracked wheat and meat cooked for hours in a clay pot — is emblematic of how food can be a conduit for preserving identity and telling stories of resistance, culture, and home.

But Samar and Yu Mon also shared how food has been a source of resistance and strength in their communities: Preserving and cooking ancestral recipes keeps the memory of land alive despite dispossession. Yu Mon’s tale of fish head soup in the People’s Defence Camp brought to life how cooking traditional food brings resilience and joy in conflict, as well as a source of healing. 

But Samar and Yu Mon also shared how food has been a source of resistance and strength in their communities: Preserving and cooking ancestral recipes keeps the memory of land alive despite dispossession. Yu Mon’s tale of fish head soup in the People’s Defence Camp brought to life how cooking traditional food brings resilience and joy in conflict, as well as a source of healing. 

“When we cooked and ate fish head soup, we all forgot that we were in a battle zone. It became a healing space.”

—Mai Thin Yu Mon, Chin Indigenous woman and human rights and climate activist from Myanmar

“For us, food is not just a meal. It’s a form of identity–it connects us to our roots.”

—Samar Awaad, chef, storyteller, culinary artist, and researcher from Palestine

Reflections on gender

The storytelling circles lifted up what we have long known: how women are at the sharp end of extractive economies and often have few, if any, rights related to the governance of land and sea. Yet, we also heard time and again how women around the world are reclaiming traditional knowledge as a feminist response.

Valiana Aguilar, a Mayan farmer, activist, and cook from Sinanché, a territory in the Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico, shared how her struggle to resist the theft of her community’s land in Mexico led to sexual violence and death threats. Ysa Calderon, an artist, designer, and food activist from China and the United States, told us how the pressures for early motherhood and a lack of access to nearby schools disempowered women in her rural Peruvian community. We heard many stories of how women and historically marginalized groups are systematically denied decision-making authority, education, and power in their communities. 

Many of the food justice leaders in the storytelling circles shared how they are resisting this oppression through land, farming, and food—reclaiming ancestral knowledge, reconnecting with nature, and engaging in activism against the impacts of extractive food systems in their communities. 

For Valiana, this has meant reclaiming work normally done by men—including traditional Mayan construction—by building safe accommodation for women on her agroforestry farm.

“I really love to do [Mayan construction] because it was in the past work for men. But now I do this as a woman. It was strange for some, but then other women wanted to do the same thing. So we are a lot of women now that we are trying to make our own houses, and to reclaim the way that we live with dignity.”

—Valiana Aguilar, Mayan farmer, activist, and cook from Sinanché, a territory in the Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico

In Ghana, Kamasa Dorothy, an advocate for sustainable agriculture, climate change adaptation, and Indigenous climate solutions, is trying to change the narrative around Indigenous women by advocating for their critical role in sustainable farming and climate action. Meanwhile, Ysa is pioneering a women-led ecotourism business that employs local Indigenous women to preserve stingless bee species and restore native trees, using tourism as a means to fund this nature recovery work.

Reflections on colonization

In many of the stories shared, we heard how colonization, land dispossession, and the erosion of culture and food systems are at the heart of many injustices and sources of trauma. At the same time, the practice of reconnecting with ancestral and native foods and farming practices emerged as a powerful act of resistance and healing. 

Joanne Cheung, an artist, designer, and food activist from China and the United States, shared one example of how colonization is a common thread in food system injustice when she spoke about how British demand for tea in the 1800s—and its efforts to address trade imbalances—led to the opium crisis in China, war, and ultimately the loss of Hong Kong to the British. Dawn shared how her community, the Secwépemc people, continues to be haunted by the legacy of British settlers who stole their ancestral lands and took their children in an effort to sever them from their traditional culture, forcing them into labour on farms. Between the 1880s and 1996, more than 150,000 Indigenous children in Canada were forcibly taken from their families and placed in government-funded residential schools designed to assimilate Indigenous peoples into settler colonies. These schools systematically suppressed Indigenous languages and cultures. Dawn explained how the effects of this cultural genocide are still deeply felt today, with her community facing higher levels of drug abuse and severe mental health challenges rooted in this intergenerational trauma. 

We heard how reconnecting with food, farming, and Indigenous culture is a powerful source of healing from these injustices and trauma. For Dawn, returning to her community’s land, growing food, and reviving ancestral rituals has been a profound source of strength and healing. It has also inspired Dawn’s many initiatives focused on Indigenous food growing and gathering, land-based healing, and advocacy for Indigenous rights.

“We see a beautiful movement around the world. This storytelling circle and the collective power is what keeps me going.”

—Dawn Morrison, Indigenous rights campaigner, organizer, and Indigenous food and freedom fighter from Secwépemc territory, in what is now known as Canada

Reflections on the extraction of nature and livelihoods

We heard stories about the enduring legacies of colonization, including ongoing extractive practices such as mining, the privatization of land and resources, and widespread corruption. These legacies undermine people’s ability to resist, often forcing local communities into complicity with extractive economic systems. 

Kamasa shared how gold mining in Ghana has uprooted her community, disrupted their Indigenous values, and damaged their food system by polluting the land, water, and even, as she described, their mindsets. She explained how the wealth generated from mining has corrupted the attitudes of both leaders and community members toward nature, fostering a pervasive individualism that starkly contrasts with her community’s core values of reciprocity, care, and collective responsibility. She also described how difficult it has been to advocate for meaningful change in this environment, especially amid military and police crackdowns on activism. 

"Sincerely speaking, Ghana right now is a very hostile place to fight for food justice.”

—Kamasa Dorothy, Advocate for sustainable agriculture, climate change adaptation, and Indigenous climate solutions from Ghana

We learned from Brijlal Chaudhari, a member of the Tharu nation and Indigenous rights activist, that U.S.-funded spraying of agrochemicals in Nepal, carried out under the guise of malaria prevention, led to the dispossession of Indigenous Tharu land and helped spark the country’s civil war. This injustice galvanized communities to fight for their land and assert their right to food sovereignty.

"I am protecting the vital ecosystem service that is pollination. No more pollinators would mean no more food.
In my community, many women depend on forest resources for subsistence and income. Through my work, I focus on building economic autonomy for women by protecting pollinators."

— Ysa Calderon, Environmental activist and beekeeper from Chiclayo, Lambayeque, Peru

Reflections on wealth

In story after story, we heard how wealth is framed as more than money and resources. Practices like gift-giving, subsistence hunting and gathering, self-sufficiency, Indigenous knowledge, and living in harmony with the land—outside of market economies—were lifted up as sources of wealth and as resistance strategies and expressions of an alternative vision to the harms caused by the dominant economic system. 

In Brijlal’s community in Nepal, food is a gift—something that you share, not sell. The shift to a cash-based economy has fundamentally undermined the culture, food systems, and governance of his community’s relationship to food and nature. Brijlal describes this as “epistemic violence”: the erosion of Indigenous culture, knowledge, and values. For Brijlal and his Tharu people, the extinction of the Baraari fish in Nepal’s Parsa District—caused by agrochemical runoff—is not just an environmental loss but a profound cultural tragedy, an incalculable loss that cannot be measured in monetary terms.

Brijlal stressed how the inability to see food as a gift—and the growing separation of people and nature—underpins extractive and destructive relationships with land, people, and food systems. He believes that returning to a worldview in which food is seen as a gift, as it is with the special Baraari fish in Tharu culture, and embracing a gift-based economy, could transform our relationships with food, nature, and one another. 

“Food has always been a gift to us. It’s something that you share with somebody, and you eat with somebody. Selling was not part of our culture and our knowledge system. It was all about exchange.”

—Brijlal Chaudhari, Member of the Tharu nation and Indigenous rights activist

Facilitating justice-oriented processes

“You can’t learn about justice without practising justice. Process is justice. We made intentional design choices based on respect, reciprocity, and collaboration. It centred on relationships rather than an output.”

— JOANNE CHEUNG AND BRIJLAL CHAUDHARI, FACILITATORS

The principles guiding the process:

Honor diverse sources and forms of knowledge.

• Consider mixed research methods. We combined quantitative data science research with qualitative storytelling circles based on Indigenous research methodology.

Nurture equal and reciprocal relationships

• Show up as our whole and authentic selves. For example, when we invited people to an interview, we introduced ourselves and the lands that we come from and shared our stories. The invitations weren’t an initiation to extract information but rather to share reciprocally.
• Insist on reciprocal value beyond transactional value. For example, we hosted virtual global gatherings to connect everyone we engaged with one another, and we shared materials that we generated in the project, such as the publication collection from the literature review.
• Ensure that no one is a passive listener, spectator, or consumer. In all our sessions, we made sure that everyone shared equally, rather than having some speak while others merely observed or attended simply “to learn.”

Honor diverse sources and forms of knowledge.

• Dedicate time for collective reflection. For example, we planned moments for pause and reflection throughout the project.
• Invite the personal and the poetic. We opened each session by welcoming personal and family histories.
• Demonstrate care and intentionality by making everything visually beautiful—inviting reciprocal care and intentionality. We considered how visual and experiential design—from colour palette, to typography, to sound—could create a warm and intimate atmosphere for virtual conversations.

“As Indigenous People, we are living in a state that doesn’t listen to our feelings, knowledge, or way of life. By designing and creating a safe space to share stories, listen, and be vulnerable, we were able to be there for each other. As both project leads and participants, this process was healing. It was incredibly empowering and moving to connect with other grassroots and Indigenous leaders to see that we are fighting the same demons. We felt a huge power when we came together. This gave us all a huge amount of energy, a sustaining one in our collective struggle. We need more of these spaces.”

— Brijlal Chaudhari, Member of the Tharu nation and Indigenous rights activist

What we learned about process:

• Let go of power, resources, rigid expectations, assumed worldviews and knowledge. How can philanthropy and organizations become more open and agile, and shift power to those on the frontline?
• Start with people, not issues. Breaking problems into discrete issues fails to honour the wholeness of people’s lived experiences. How can we deepen human-centred approaches throughout our work?
• Learn from those closest to the struggle, with a 360-degree vision of the issues rather than only data and existing knowledge. How can organizations support and stay accountable to grassroots communities? How can we strengthen movements and connect with leaders in other regions to develop a critical mass?
• Start with grassroots theories of change. How can funders place greater trust in communities to create their own solutions and support them with funding—without imposing their own strategic vision of change?