Even as indigenous communities can use digital technology more and more usefully, many worry that outside interests could take over and profit from their data, just as colonial powers plundered their physical homeland. But now some Indigenous groups are reclaiming control by developing their own data protection technologies – work that demonstrates how ordinary people have the power to bypass the technology companies and data brokers that hold and sell the most intimate details of their identity, life and culture.
When governments, academic institutions or other outside organizations collect information from indigenous communities, they may deny access to it or use it for other purposes without the consent of those communities.
“The threats of data colonialism are real,” said Tahu Kukutai, a professor at New Zealand’s University of Waikato and one of the founders of Te Mana Raraunga, the Māori Data Sovereignty Network. “They are a continuation of old processes of mining and exploitation of our land – the same is done with our information.”
To bolster their defenses, some Indigenous groups are developing new privacy-centric storage systems that give users control and authority over all aspects of this information: what is collected and by whom, where is it stored, how is it used and, crucially, who has access to it.
Storing data on a user’s device, rather than in the cloud or on centralized servers controlled by a technology company, is an essential privacy feature of these technologies. Rudo Kemper is founder of terraces, a free and open-source app developed in collaboration with Indigenous communities to map and share stories about their land. He recalls a community in Guyana that strongly advocated an offline, on-premise installation of the Terrastories app. For members of this group, the problem was more than just the lack of internet access in the remote region where they live. “For them, the idea of data in the cloud is almost like the knowledge is leaving the territory because it’s not physically there,” says Kemper.
Similarly, creators of Our data native, a digital survey app designed by academic researchers in collaboration with First Nations communities across Canada, chose to store their database on local servers in the country rather than in the cloud. (Canada has strict rules about releasing personal information without prior consent.) To access this information on the go, the app’s developers have also created a portable backpack kit that acts as a local network without connections to the wider internet. The kit includes a laptop, battery pack and router, with data stored on the laptop. This allows users to complete surveys in remote locations and back up the data instantly without relying on cloud storage.
Ahah, a free and open-source app developed by and for Māori to record ancestry data, maintain tribal records and share cultural stories, takes a similar approach. A tribe can create his own Pātaka (de Māori word for warehouse), or community server, which is simply a computer running a database connected to the internet. From the Āhau app, tribesmen can connect to this Pātaka via an invite code, or they can set up their database and send invite codes to specific tribe or relatives. Once connected, they can share ancestry data and records with each other. All data is encrypted and stored directly on the Pātaka.
Another privacy feature of native-led apps is a more customized and granular level of access and permissions. For example, with Terrastories, most cards and stories are only visible to members who have signed in to the app with their community’s credentials, but certain cards and stories can also be made publicly visible to those who don’t have a login. Adding or editing stories requires editor access, while creating new users and changing map settings requires admin access.
For Our Data Indigenous, the access levels correspond to the ways communities can use the app. They can conduct surveys using an offline backpack pack or generate a unique link to the survey that invites community members to complete it online. For mobile use, they can download the app from Google Play or Apple’s App Store to complete surveys. The last two methods do require an internet connection and the use of app marketplaces. But no information about the surveys is collected, and no identifying information about individual survey participants is stored, said Shanna Lorenz, an associate professor at Occidental College in Los Angeles and a product manager and education facilitator at Our Data Indigenous.
Such efforts to protect data privacy go beyond the capabilities of the technology involved to include the design process. Some Indigenous communities have established codes of use that people must follow to access community data. And most technology platforms created by or with an Indigenous community follow that group’s specific data principles. For example, Āhau adheres to the Te Mana Raraunga Principles of Māori Data Sovereignty. These include giving Māori communities authority over their information and recognizing the relationships they have with it; recognizing the obligations involved in managing data; ensuring that information is used for the collective benefit of communities; practice reciprocity in terms of respect and consent; and exercising guardianship over access to and use of data. Meanwhile, Our Data Indigenous is committed to the First Nations Principles of Ownership, Control, Access, and Possession (OCAP). “First Nations communities are setting their own agenda in terms of what kind of information they want to collect,” particularly in the areas of health and wellness, economic development, and cultural and language revitalization, says Lorenz. “Even when giving surveys, they practice and respect local protocols for community interaction.”
It is critical that Indigenous communities themselves are involved in the design of these data management systems, notes Āhau co-founder Kaye-Maree Dunn, acknowledging the early adopters of tribes and communities who have helped shape the prototype of the Āhau app. “We bring the technology to the community so they can see themselves in it,” she says.
For the past two years, Errol Kayseas has been working with Our Data Indigenous as a community outreach coordinator and app specialist. He largely attributes the app’s success to involving trusted members of the community. “We have our own people who know our people,” said Kayseas, who is from the Fishing Lake First Nation in Saskatchewan. “Having someone like me who understands the people is only the most positive thing in reconciliation and healing for academia, government and indigenous people together.”
This community involvement and involvement helps ensure that Native-led apps are built to meet the needs of the community in meaningful ways. For example, Kayseas points out that research data collected with the Our Data Indigenous app will be used to support government grant proposals focused on reparations. “It’s a powerful combination of being rooted in the community and serving,” says Kukutai. “They don’t operate as individuals; everything is a collective approach and there are clear accountabilities and responsibilities towards the community.”
While these data privacy techniques are specific to native-led apps, they can still be applied to any other app or tech solution. Storage apps that keep data on devices rather than the cloud could find adopters outside of Indigenous communities, and a set of principles to regulate data usage is an idea many tech users could support. “Technology can’t solve all problems, of course,” says Kemper. “But it can — at least if done responsibly and if it’s co-created with communities — lead to more control over data.”
