Protecting the entrepreneurial spirit

The Native American story is one of land loss and the extreme suffering that came with colonisation. It’s important to acknowledge the truth of these events, but also not to forget other stories—those of economic self-sufficiency and creative entrepreneurship.

An important part of the Native American story is how they have fought to protect their cultural expressions and traditions from exploitation. Penobscot woman Theresa Secord is just one of many examples of indigenous women who have led these efforts.

In the mid-1800s, indigenous women began taking their woven baskets to coastal Maine resort towns in the summer to sell to tourists, but learning how to weave subsequently waned in popularity. Now, Secord is playing a vital role in the resurrection of one of what is one of the oldest known Native American crafts.

Speaking to me before heading out to a major art market in the US, Secord describes basket weaving as a family tradition, beginning with her great grandmother. Secord is a member of the Penobscot nation, a federally recognised tribe in Maine.

After founding the Maine Indian Basketmakers Alliance 25 years ago, she helped bring forward a new generation of basket makers. The average age of those involved in basket weaving fell from 63 to 43, while the overall number of participants grew.

She’s spent a long time advocating for the art form, and feels that “too often, we undervalue ourselves”.

“Looking back, I think it’s safe to say that women of my generation and earlier are very undervalued when it comes to their rights to IP,” she says.

Hers is a similar story to that of Sámi woman Solveig Ballo, who I speak to while she’s on a four-and-a-half-hour drive, travelling between her offices in northern Scandinavia where she supports nearly 50 Sámi businesses and entrepreneurs with advice and counselling.

Hailing from a region that stretches across the northern part of Scandinavia and Russia’s Kola Peninsula, the indigenous Sámi people are perhaps best known for their reindeer herding. But the community has a rich culture of arts and handmade crafts, such as Joik—the folk music of the Sámi.

But young people are moving to bigger cities and abandoning traditional ways of life.

For the women who stay the biggest challenge, according to Ballo, is daring to take the bold step to become a full-time entrepreneur.

“This applies to everyone, but it’s especially true in small communities. It takes a lot of courage to say: ‘I’ve made this and I want to sell it for the right price’,” she adds.

Building a new culture

All the women I speak to offer the same story: IP can play a crucial role in developing the businesses of indigenous entrepreneurs, but there’s a lack of understanding in their communities.

"Laws and regulations need to be in place where the IP for innovations and creations of indigenous women is respected and valued." Rebecka Forsgren, WIPO 2019 Indigenous FellowIndigenous women are often the protectors and carriers of their cultures, and their traditional knowledge and cultural expressions are invaluable, says Rebecka Forsgren, a Sámi and the World Intellectual Property Organization’s (WIPO) 2019 Indigenous Fellow.

“They may not wish to commercialise their culture and knowledge. However, if they do, they should have access to the IP system and be able to protect the IP of their innovations and creations,” she explains.

Secord and Ballo both took part in WIPO’s training and mentoring programme for women entrepreneurs from indigenous peoples and local communities.

“Learning more about IP is important for entrepreneurs here as we don’t have a culture of protecting our services and goods and creative expressions,” explains Ballo, who says she’s seen a lack of understanding in how the system works and how the Sámi people perceive the system in the community.

Forsgren adds that through WIPO’s programme, indigenous peoples, and especially indigenous women, can “feel that their culture is an asset, with a great cultural as well as economic value”.

But cultural appropriation is rife, as the Native American and Sámi communities have both experienced to their cost.

“IP gives us the knowledge and tools to address this and ensures we’re able to define what is ours and what makes us unique,” says Secord. “But we have to be invited as collaborators and not be invited as exploitation.”

There have been some positive instances of collaboration, but they’ve usually stemmed from earlier controversies. The Walt Disney Company worked with the transnational Saami Council, and Sámi parliaments of Norway, Sweden, and Finland on “Frozen 2”, but only after it was contacted by the indigenous community about “Frozen” and its use of indigenous elements.

Emboldened by the WIPO programme, Secord is planning to register her own logo and is developing an IP webinar to share with the Native American artist community who, she says, are hungry for information.

What most dismays Secord is the cost of protecting IP and filing lawsuits. “Unless you can get pro bono help, it’s going to be impossible for indigenous communities to hire a lawyer,” she laments.

Forsgren concludes: “Laws and regulations need to be in place where the IP for innovations and creations of indigenous women is respected and valued. Possibilities to protect their IP should be available to indigenous women on all levels, local, national and international.”

While traditional knowledge doesn’t fit squarely into the existing IP system, there’s a growing awareness that this needs to change. In the meantime, skills that have existed for centuries will be passed on and their importance to the creators will endure—as will the sad fact that indigenous women have only the charity of lawyers and moral fortitude of lawmakers to fall back on.