Anyone who’s recently visited a college campus has probably encountered some acknowledgment of Native American land. At Arizona State University, for example, it’s a constant refrain as attendees wait for graduation to start. My university also requires faculty to perform a similar acknowledgment before meetings.
However, as you might guess, no university plans to return any land. Professors reciting these acknowledgments often do so with a seriousness that feels almost ritualistic. Yet, they continue to enjoy their lives on the very “tribal lands” they claim were unjustly taken.
Celebrities like Billie Eilish also thrive on this land while stating, “no one is an illegal alien on stolen land.” Universities have mastered the art of emerging as virtuous, often repeating trendy phrases without altering their lifestyles.
In the past, such land acknowledgments were mostly dismissed or laughed at. But now, the ideology driving them is pushing beyond mere symbolism, transforming our perceptions of museums, archaeology, and American history.
A recent report from the Goldwater Institute, authored by anthropologist Elizabeth Weiss, suggests that a movement intended to honor Native American remains has morphed significantly. Museums and academic institutions are beginning to adopt interpretations that sideline scientific research in favor of tribal interests, often leading to increased restrictions around archaeological findings.
The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), established in 1990 to counteract genuine disrespect towards tribal beliefs, now faces backlash for allegedly hampering legitimate research. While sacred items and identifiable remains may return to tribes, materials outside these categories remain usable for research purposes.
However, Weiss claims that this balance is disappearing.
Today, institutions tend to regard materials never meant for repatriation as sacred tribal property. Weiss gives examples where even common scientific samples, like animal bones or pollen, are taken from research collections under broader interpretations of regulations.
Once these items are returned and buried, they become largely inaccessible for future scientific study. This should raise concerns for anyone who appreciates historical research.
Every generation improves its methods for exploring the past—advancements like DNA sequencing and isotope analysis have revolutionized archaeology. But if these materials are sealed away, any potential discoveries disappear along with them.
Now, imagine if we applied this principle to other fields. What if studying a medieval manuscript ceased simply because the author’s descendants objected? Or if Civil War artifacts were hidden away due to modern groups’ spiritual claims on them? Historians would rightly contend that our history should belong to everyone, not just those with the most emotional ties.
Weiss also points out that some archaeological finds predate modern identifiable tribes, making the issues around cultural affiliation even more contentious. Here, the concern isn’t merely about the treatment of the findings, but their ownership.
The irony is quite palpable. Universities often encourage the public to “follow the science,” yet in this scenario, political motivations and ideologies are dominating research.
Historically, museums were intended to safeguard evidence rather than remove it from public awareness. Archaeologists have been trained to seek what the evidence shows instead of conforming to what activists argue is acceptable.
Weiss mentions Arizona’s unique archaeological legacy as crucial. For years, its museums and universities have meticulously reconstructed the history of the Southwest. However, this becomes increasingly difficult as collections become off-limits and materials are withdrawn from research.
This dilemma doesn’t just affect archaeology. Universities often interpret history predominantly through lenses of oppression and colonization. Land acknowledgments exemplify this worldview, suggesting that modern Americans are undeserving inheritors of historical injustices and that current institutions possess diminished ethical standing due to their past.
For example, the White House criticized Smithsonian leadership for imparting a politicized version of American history. It can feel as if America’s adversaries have infiltrated academic circles, using taxpayer funds to perpetuate anti-American narratives.
Adopting this perspective alters the way universities approach their teachings. Instead of asking, “What happened?” they now lean toward deciding “Whose story should be told?” They seem more focused on moral symbolic gestures than the pursuit of deeper knowledge.
That just feels wrong.
The fair response to historical injustices shouldn’t involve destroying historical evidence. Instead, we ought to study it responsibly and allow coming generations to learn from it.
Science and history can actually coexist with respect; they offer invaluable tools to understand our predecessors.
Ironically, institutions championing “decolonizing knowledge” often become less steeped in knowledge itself. When symbolic politics eclipse evidence, museums lose their authentic purpose and transform into sites of ideological education.
Back in 2020, faculty at my university were prompted to “decolonize” their curricula, yet the same institution remains sensitive to any overt Christian bias in class discussions.
We shouldn’t remove NAGPRA or neglect the legitimate needs of tribes. Congress aimed for an equilibrium that honors Native communities while allowing for scientific inquiry.
We need to find that equilibrium again.
Weiss contends that the current interpretations of regulations extend far beyond the original intentions of the statute, risking crucial archaeological areas.
Universities should serve as venues for preserving evidence, engaging in discussions about competing ideas, and tracing history wherever the facts lead.
Instead, many have adopted a politics of symbolism that prioritizes moral performance over scholarly exploration.
Land acknowledgment is straightforward. Preserving the archaeological record for the future is considerably more challenging. One represents a superficial act to satisfy competing ideologies, while the other involves meaningful, serious work.
