Image credit: Scott Jacobsen.
Scott Douglas Jacobsen is the publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978-1-0692343) and Editor-in-Chief of In-Sight: Interviews (ISSN: 2369-6885). He writes for The Good Men Project, The Humanist, International Policy Digest (ISSN: 2332-9416), Basic Income Earth Network (UK Registered Charity 1177066), A Further Inquiry, and other media. He is a member in good standing of numerous media organizations.
David “Maheengun” Cook, an atheist and humanist from the Mississaugas of the Anishinaabe people, shares his life journey navigating Indigenous identity, secularism, and cultural heritage. Raised near Rice Lake, Ontario, he learned traditional teachings—like oral history, plant knowledge, and seasonal rhythms—from elders. Yet, he embraced atheism at 13, finding Christian doctrines unconvincing and later stepping away from formal Indigenous spirituality, such as pipe-carrying and Midewiwin ceremonies. Cook distinguishes between Indigeneity as a cultural-historical identity and Indigenous humanism, which he sees as increasingly conflated with spiritual beliefs incompatible with secular humanism’s reliance on reason and evidence. He critiques the romanticization of Indigenous knowledge systems, warning against overvaluing localized spiritual traditions as universal truth. Still, he values cultural respect, environmental ethics, and communal decision-making embedded in Anishinaabe life. While he sees overlap with secular humanism in compassion and ethical living, he insists on epistemological clarity: lived experience and reverence are not scientific knowledge. He emphasizes the importance of dialogue, mutual understanding, and intellectual honesty, challenging assumptions from Indigenous and non-Indigenous perspectives. Cook’s reflections underscore the complex interplay between cultural continuity and philosophical integrity in modern Indigenous life.
Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we are joined by David Cook, also known by his Anishinaabe name, Maheengun, which means Timberwolf in the Anishinaabemowin language.
David will share his perspective on Indigenous identity, humanism, and atheism. He was raised near Rice Lake in southern Ontario, where Anishinaabe teachings influenced his formative years. He learned from elders about oral traditions, plant knowledge, and cultural practices rooted in the land and community. Despite this deep cultural foundation, Cook did not adopt theistic beliefs. He embraced atheism at the age of 13 after finding Christian teachings unconvincing.
His journey exemplifies the complex and often misunderstood relationship between Indigenous spirituality and humanist principles. Cook observed that traditional Anishinaabe worldviews emphasize spiritual relationships with the natural world, ancestors, and beings—but not in the form of hierarchical theism or deity worship. Over time, however, he has witnessed a shift in some Indigenous communities toward institutionalized or formalized spiritual practices, influenced in part by colonial impositions and revivalist movements. These shifts sometimes conflict with secular or humanist frameworks. In navigating this tension, Cook stepped away from ceremonial responsibilities, such as being a pipe carrier, to live more authentically within his philosophical values.
His experiences challenge the stereotype that Indigenous identity must be tied to religion or theism. They also highlight the diversity of beliefs and spiritual expressions among Indigenous peoples. Through these conversations, we will explore how Indigenous cultural heritage can intersect with secular humanist values, contributing to a broader discussion on Indigeneity and humanism. I approach this as a learner, open to where the dialogue leads. You never know unless you ask.
David, thank you very much for joining me today.
David “Maheengun” Cook: Thank you for inviting me.
Jacobsen: My first question is: Do you come from an Ojibwe, Odawa, Potawatomi, Algonquin, Mississauga, or Nipissing background?
Cook: My experiences come from Mississaugas, originally.
Jacobsen: That helps. For those who may not know—like myself—how are the various Anishinaabe peoples distinguished from one another? Is it primarily geographic, or is there more to it?
Cook: It is mainly geographic but also linguistic and historical. The Anishinaabe are a group of culturally related nations who speak dialects of the Anishinaabemowin language. The Ojibwe, or Chippewa, stretch across a wide area from Ontario to Minnesota and beyond. The Odawa traditionally lived near the Ottawa River Valley, and the Potawatomi were based around Georgian Bay and further south around Lake Michigan, though many were displaced. The Mississaugas settled primarily in southern Ontario. While they share cultural foundations, each group has distinct histories, migration stories, and regional practices.
Jacobsen: The Anishinaabe are often translated as “original people” or “spontaneous beings,” they are tied to “Mother Earth” and “spiritual emergence.” What does that name signify within the culture?
Cook: Anishinaabe is often translated as “original person” or “first person.” It reflects the belief that our people were created and have always been here—on what we call Turtle Island. In many oral traditions, there are creation stories, including that of Sky Woman, though this version is more prominent among the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois). Among the Anishinaabe, the tale of Nanaboozho is central—he is a cultural hero and teacher who helped shape the world. These stories reflect a worldview grounded in a relationship—with the land, the animals, the elements, and one another—not in dominion or hierarchical worship.
Specific to the Anishinaabe people, there’s a story of our ancestors—the Lenape (or Leni Lenape) from the East Coast—being our predecessors. The Anishinaabe people are said to have split off and migrated westward, following a sacred object known as the megis shell. It is a type of seashell. We followed its appearance and migrated to places where wild rice—manoomin—grew, ultimately reaching the Great Lakes and settling in areas like Minnesota, which marked the endpoint of this ancestral migration.
Anishinaabe is often translated as “original person” or “first person.” It reflects the belief that our people were created and have always been here—on what we call Turtle Island. In many oral traditions, there are creation stories, including that of Sky Woman, though this version is more prominent among the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois).
Jacobsen: What is the significance, within traditional practices, of things like birch bark, wild rice harvesting, and clan systems as part of the Anishinaabe worldview and social structure?
Cook: Good question. So, the teachings of the Seven Grandfathers instructed that our people should follow the megis shell, and we would stop where we found wild rice. As I mentioned, the Anishinaabemowin word is manoomin. Wild rice was—and still is—a staple food and ceremonial plant for the Anishinaabe. Its presence indicated where we were meant to settle.
Birch bark was—and remains—immensely important. It was used to build our traditional homes—wigwams, not tipis. Tipis are associated with Plains cultures, but our homes were dome-shaped structures covered in birch bark.
The Midewiwin society—the keepers of ancient and ceremonial knowledge—used birch bark scrolls to record teachings, medicines, songs, and instructions for building Mide lodges. These scrolls served as a traditional archive. Birch bark also had everyday uses: for containers, canoes, and art.
We also interacted extensively with other nations, including the Haudenosaunee Confederacy—the Mohawk, Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, and Oneida. Later, the Tuscarora joined, forming the Six Nations. Through this contact—both peaceful and hostile—we came to share some elements like the agricultural trio called the Three Sisters: corn, beans, and squash. These came more from our interactions than from our ancestral practices.
Jacobsen: You mentioned conflict. What were the historical bases of some of these clashes between the Anishinaabe and the Haudenosaunee?
Cook: Primarily, it was about control of the Great Lakes region, especially trade routes. This was pre-European contact, so before 1497—when John Cabot explored parts of what is now Canada—and certainly before 1603, when Samuel de Champlain arrived. The Great Lakes were vital corridors of commerce, diplomacy, and warfare. A complex trade web stretched across the continent—copper from Lake Superior, shells from the coast, obsidian, tobacco, etc.
The Haudenosaunee traditionally occupied the south side of Lake Ontario, while the Anishinaabe, including the Potawatomi, Odawa, and Mississaugas, were on the north side. These three groups comprised the Council of the Three Fires, a longstanding alliance rooted in kinship and defence.
The conflicts intensified after Champlain allied with the Wendat (also called the Huron), who had accepted the Jesuit missionaries and their Christian teachings. The Jesuits introduced not only religion but also disease, which devastated many Indigenous communities. Champlain and his Wendat allies—including some Ojibwe—launched attacks on the Haudenosaunee south of the lake. That began a cycle of violence and displacement that lasted for centuries.
Jacobsen: That’s quite the historical sweep. Growing up, what was your sense—within your Indigenous community and in nearby non-Indigenous communities—of the mythologies or perceptions each had of the other?
Cook: That’s a rich topic. The mythologies held by each group—Indigenous or settler—about one another were often oversimplified or distorted. Indigenous communities saw settlers as disconnected from the land, lacking the spiritual and relational teachings that tie people to place. On the other hand, settlers often romanticized Indigenous people or reduced us to caricatures—either the “noble savage” or the “vanishing Indian.” Meanwhile, different Indigenous nations had their own stories and rivalries, often shaped by centuries of conflict, trade, and adaptation.
Jacobsen: Regarding social mythologies specifically, what kinds of stories or collective ideas did Indigenous communities have about surrounding non-Indigenous people, and vice versa? And I mean not religious mythologies like Christian beliefs in an intervening God or Indigenous cosmologies like the creation of Turtle Island, but more about the social perceptions communities held about one another. Also, are you speaking from personal experience growing up or from a more historical lens?
Cook: That’s a good question—and I think both apply. Historically, and in my experience, those perceptions have shifted significantly over time.
Going back to the early contact era—when Champlain was active in this region—you had the Wendat (also known as the Huron) accepting, or at least entertaining, Christian missionaries like the Jesuits. That affected how other nations, including the Haudenosaunee, viewed Wendat and the newcomers. But in those early days, there weren’t many non-Indigenous people in Ontario—just a few priests and fur traders—so social mythologies were formed based on limited interaction.
As colonization progressed—particularly during the expansion of Ontario’s colonization roads in the 19th century—Indigenous people in many areas were respected for their deep knowledge of the land, for trade, and for helping early settlers survive. My family has a cottage about an hour and a half north of here, and there’s a long history of cooperation between Indigenous communities and pioneers. There was absolute mutual respect, at least in some areas.
But then things shifted. Public perceptions began souring by the 1960s and 1970s, especially among non-Indigenous people. Many stereotypes took hold—things like alcoholism, laziness, or exemptions from taxation—which created resentment and suspicion. A lot of this was media-driven. People formed their opinions not from direct interaction with Indigenous people but from distorted narratives coming out of other regions or from sensationalized news.
I remember vividly the Oka Crisis in 1990. It was centred in Kanesatake and Akwesasne, Mohawk territories in Quebec, and had ripple effects across the country. Suddenly, many non-Indigenous Canadians—especially in Ontario and Quebec—developed very negative views of Indigenous people, even if they had never met one in their lives. It was a myth-building through fear and media framing.
But today, things are changing with the ongoing work of Truth and Reconciliation and the broader public access to accurate historical information. Conversations are more open. There’s greater willingness—among non-Indigenous people especially—to listen, learn, and reconsider those long-held social mythologies. Today’s understanding is more grounded in reality than it used to be.
I was working hard to raise awareness about something that deeply concerned me. An NDP Member of Parliament from Winnipeg introduced a private member’s bill that would have criminalized the denial of the residential school system.
Jacobsen: How did that go over?
Cook: Well, while I believe that residential schools were a horrific part of Canadian history—and that the intergenerational trauma they caused is still being felt today—I don’t think criminalizing denial helps truth and reconciliation. And it certainly doesn’t support the free speech rights of non-Indigenous Canadians.
I’ve had many conversations with people who didn’t believe in or understand the impacts of residential schools. I often wonder whether I could have had those conversations if a law had made such speech a felony. I’m relieved to say that the bill did not pass the first reading in the House of Commons.
Jacobsen: That’s good to hear. That’s a win for open discourse. These conversations will be exploratory, and while there will be common themes and throughlines, we’ll also encounter offshoots. That issue you raised—around free speech and truth-seeking—is critical. It resonates across different communities in Canada.
How do different communities, in your experience—Francophone, Anglophone, Indigenous, and others—view universal rights commonly claimed internationally, such as freedom of expression or speech, especially as they’re articulated in the U.S.? How are those rights viewed, upheld, or contested in public, private, or sacred spaces within these cultural contexts?
Cook: That’s a great question, but I am unlikely to answer comprehensively since I live in one small corner of southern Ontario. I can only speak to what I’ve seen locally.
But it’s interesting. One thing that stands out is how cultural shifts in Indigenous communities—both on reserves and among urban Indigenous populations—have been influenced by younger generations attending Indigenous Studies programs in colleges and universities. I’ve been involved for over 35 years in the Elders’ Conference at Trent University in Peterborough. The tone and focus of that gathering have changed dramatically over the decades.
Like the rest of North America, there is a widening political divide. On the right wing, there tends to be skepticism about what is seen as special rights or accommodations for Indigenous peoples—questions about responsibilities and accountability. On the left wing, particularly within academic environments, there’s often a tendency to avoid saying anything that could be construed as challenging the dominant narratives taught in Indigenous Studies courses.
You risk being accused of creating an “unsafe” environment; honestly, I find that term increasingly vague. It used to refer to a physical threat, but now it can mean someone holds a different opinion from you on campus—the redefinition of “unsafe” to include disagreement.
I’m rambling now, but my answer to your question is elsewhere.
Jacobsen: It’s like that old Billy Connolly joke about getting older—he says (and I’m paraphrasing here, Jacobsenizing it): when you’re young, someone comes into town and asks you for directions to the gas station. You confidently lift your arm, point with your finger, and say: “Go two streets north, take a left, then a right. You’ll be at Smith and Cook Avenue. The gas station’s right there. You’re good to go.”
“Thank you for that, sir. Have a good day.”
Then you get to middle age, and you just sort of wave vaguely with your arm—”Yeah, it’s over there, young man.”
And by the time you’re in your eighties, you’re lifting your leg and going, “Over there!” You know? It’s somewhere in that general direction.
Cook: [Laughing].
Jacobsen: Somewhere in that general direction—that’s precisely it. Now, a pattern in public discourse connects to what you’ve just described. When people speak in the terms you just used—thoughtfully but with nuance—they are sometimes misunderstood, either deliberately or inadvertently. That misunderstanding is then used as grounds to accuse them of dismissing Indigenous teachings or even of being belligerent toward those who describe themselves as feeling unsafe.
How do you feel when you hear someone attributing motives like that to things you genuinely believe? How are your views being mischaracterized—or, on the more benign side, how are they being misunderstood?
Cook: That’s a great question. I love to philosophize, so stand by… [Laughing]
You’ve captured the polarization well. Some people, yes, are intentionally provocative—they want to be misunderstood or create conflict. On the other hand, there’s a tendency to be hyper-vigilant—a kind of eagerness to pounce on any statement that might not align perfectly with what’s expected. They say it becomes a race to display our virtue or signal.
But the reality lies in the middle. And that’s where the real work of democracy and dialogue happens.
We think of democracy as voting for someone who disappears into a legislature to make decisions. But in truth, democracy is the conversation. It’s the dialogue we have as a society.
If you look at small Indigenous bands historically, decisions were made collectively: where to move, when to hunt, how to respond to challenges. That was real, participatory decision-making—consensus-based. As populations grew and governance became more complex, that model had to evolve. However, the essential ingredient remains: meaningful dialogue that defines the middle ground.
To bring this back to Indigenous roots, the Haudenosaunee Confederacy—the union of the Five (later Six) Nations—is often cited as one of the inspirations for American democracy. That system of deliberative councils and consensus-seeking is a powerful model.
Unfortunately, today, we’ve moved far from that. We’re at a point where people on opposite ends of the spectrum can no longer even speak to each other. Everyone sees the other as an enemy rather than someone with a different perspective.
You’re right. On both extremes, it’s not about understanding anymore—it’s about triggering a reaction or defending territory. But democracy cannot survive without conversation, and we lose a lot when we abandon the middle ground.
It’s about active listening. Listening so that you can hear someone and repeat what they just said to demonstrate understanding rather than interrupting to make your point. That’s missing from many conversations now.
I have a theory about that. When I worked for a vast Fortune 50 corporation, I had the honour of contributing to DARPANet, which was the predecessor to what we now call the Internet. I was on the front lines of Internet development in Canada and North America—working on IP addressing, how networks function, how computers talk, and so on.
Then, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, I worked on efforts related to the World Wide Web and how it could be opened for commercial use. The Web was envisioned as a beautiful, global network of connections—a web of shared knowledge, freely accessible and interactive.
But this Web has become a series of cocoons. People don’t hear each other anymore. Instead, they’re caught in echo chambers, where they only receive information reinforcing their beliefs.
Algorithmic polarization: The algorithms behind social media platforms now filter content so that you rarely encounter ideas that challenge your worldview. If you lean left, your feed is filled with progressive content. If you lean right, you get conservative content.
So, instead of a web connecting people and ideas, we’ve ended up with millions of isolated and insulating bubbles. People don’t even know that other perspectives exist anymore. They hear their thoughts reflected on them.
Jacobsen: That’s not off-topic—it’s a key part of this discussion. What people now call virtue signalling, for instance—it’s not a new phenomenon. We talk about it more explicitly now.
Looking at the last five to twenty-five years, you can see it evolve in public discourse. For example, on the left, wearing a rainbow lapel pin signals affiliation and values. On the right, someone might wear a Christian cross. Both are symbolic affirmations of identity and belief systems. It’s the same impulse, just expressed differently depending on the group.
When people talk about “wokeness,” it’s not fundamentally different from the conversations around identity politics we saw in the 1990s. Those earlier discussions were more implicit, while today’s are explicit—partly because of the digital tools you helped build: the Internet, social media, and open commentary platforms. Everything is exposed now; everything is analyzed or debated instantly.
So we’ve seen this explosion of neologisms—some serious, some silly—all part of a broader cultural shift toward explicit signalling. But returning to our core topic—Anishinaabe culture—we’ve been reflecting on Midewiwin, the Grand Medicine Society.
Cook: [Laughing] Sorry—I have an opinion on everything.
Jacobsen: No, that’s fine. That’s the point of this kind of dialogue—to explore thoughts that aren’t usually expressed inside the Beltway or in typical public discourse. And it’s also an opportunity to bring cultural memory and philosophical perspective into deeper public awareness.
We discussed the Ojibwe and some of the broader Anishinaabe identity. But what about the more spiritual or ceremonial aspects—the degrees of initiation, moral teachings, balance, healing, herbal medicine, medicine lodges, chanting, and drumming?
You carried the fight, so to speak. You lived with both the theoretical understanding and practical application of this worldview. How did traditional beliefs frame ideas like the world and the Creator? Would you say that worldview is monotheistic—or is that a result of Christian influence, shaping the image of an intervening Creator?
Cook: Again, I can only speak from personal experience—and it’s important to note that Indigenous cultures are oral traditions. So, everything gets passed down through storytelling, and every elder brings their knowledge, memory, and philosophy to their teaching.
The result is that the stories vary. No matter how much we respect the teachings or the history, there’s no such thing as a single, unchanging version. As I’ve gotten older—and now consider myself an elder—I’ve become acutely aware of how fragile memory can be and how much responsibility it takes to carry those stories forward.
When I was younger, the culture I was taught was not formalized. It was experiential—you learned by being there, by participating. There were seasonal rhythms—like telling stories in the winter, an established cultural practice—but the storytelling was light-hearted, even humorous. There wasn’t the solemnity I see today.
Over time, things have become much more formal. There’s now a strong emphasis on protocols, like clearly stating your name, your community of origin, and your clan and doing so in Anishinaabemowin (our language), even if that’s the only part of the language someone knows. There’s also the expectation to establish credibility—to show who your elders were, who taught you, and whether you are authorized to share what you’re about to say.
That wasn’t the case when I was younger. But now, the role of “Traditional Knowledge Keeper” is formalized and widely used, especially in academic settings and government relations. A big part of that came from the rise of Indigenous Studies programs at universities. Those programs needed structure, so they created protocols to ensure that only those with proper knowledge and cultural authority could teach or share stories.
I understand its intent—ensuring authenticity and preventing cultural misappropriation—but the formality has become quite rigid. It’s now common that, right after someone introduces themselves, they’ll light a smudge—often using a smudge bowl made from an abalone shell, even though abalone isn’t from this region. The same goes for sage, which is not traditional to all territories but is now widely used.
So, there’s been much cross-pollination—ceremonial blending—between First Nations across Canada’s diverse regions. Historically, hundreds, if not thousands, of distinct communities, nations, and cultural protocols—from coast to coast. But now, there’s a kind of pan-Indigenous ceremonial standardization, where some practices have become symbolic shorthand for Indigenous identity, regardless of their geographic origin.
And over time, there’s been much blending—so much so that if you attend a powwow anywhere in North America, you’ll likely see women dancing in traditional jingle dresses. It’s a regalia adorned with 365 cones, often made from the lids of snuff cans. Each cone represents a day of the year and is specifically sewn onto the dress. The sound they produce during the dance is part of the healing tradition.
It’s become that rigid, formalized—and you can now see consistently from Mexico to the northern territories. Well, perhaps less so among Inuit communities, but certainly within a broad swath of First Nations and Native American cultures, you see this kind of cultural homogenization.
Jacobsen: So, let me ask you this. What’s your take on Canada’s earlier cultural flashpoints—the Oka Crisis? How do you see those moments now?
Cook: Oh, wow. The Oka Crisis (1990) was a defining moment for Canada, especially for people in Ontario and Quebec—the so-called centre of Canada. It was the first time that many Canadians had to confront the reality that there were unresolved land disputes, some going back centuries, and that Indigenous people were not a relic of the past. They were present, organized, and resisting.
It forced the conversation into the open and made people aware that fundamentally different worldviews were at play—particularly sovereignty, land stewardship, and historical injustice. But like most big cultural moments, it also became deeply polarizing.
Some people were severely injured—people throwing stones—and others were offering help and support. A similar situation happened here in Ontario with the Ipperwash Provincial Park standoff (1995) when the Premier sent in the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP). They shot and killed Dudley George, a young man who was not posing any physical threat. It became an embarrassment and a tragedy.
Events like Ipperwash and Oka truly set the stage for the emergence of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. They pushed the public to realize that something needed to change—that Canadians needed to become more aware of Indigenous history, the longstanding injustices, and the ongoing consequences Indigenous communities still face as a result. They were defining moments—significant events.
Jacobsen: Now, shifting a bit more toward the central focus of this project—when we talk about people who reject supernaturalism or theistic interpretations of belief within Indigenous traditions, there’s often a social cost.
In European, Anglo, and Franco-North American cultures, people who reject religion or belief in God are often met with a wide range of slurs—“devil-worshipper,” “possessed,” “demonic,” “immoral,” “untrustworthy,” “disgusting,” and so on. These labels don’t function as intellectual arguments—they’re emotional reactions. They show up in polling and population studies as deeply ingrained sentiments toward atheists and humanists.
This prejudice has real economic, social, familial, and professional consequences. Take the example of a woman in a fundamentalist Christian community working at a university with doctrinal covenants. If she gets divorced, that can be considered grounds for dismissal or social shunning. The emotional pain can be deep—and neuroscience tells us that social rejection activates the same brain regions as physical pain.
Now, within a Canadian Indigenous context, particularly in Anishinaabe communities, are there slurs or informal labels used to describe those who reject traditional beliefs—especially those from Indigenous backgrounds themselves? And how do those social dynamics unfold?
Cook: Great question. The only epithet I can remember growing up was for Native people who were seen as “not Native enough.” In other words, if someone had adopted more mainstream, settler characteristics, they’d be called an “apple”—red on the outside, white on the inside. That’s the only derogatory term I ever heard used within the community.
In Anishinaabemowin, there are some terms for non-Native people that can carry a derogatory tone depending on how they’re used. I remember one elder in particular who always referred to white people with a specific term—though I haven’t heard it used in a long time. I don’t know the exact linguistic root of the word, but it was always spoken with a tone of contempt, so it carried weight.
But to your main point—no, I haven’t heard specific slurs or labels used against Indigenous atheists or secular people within the community. You’re right, though: in broader society, people who reject supernatural beliefs get hit with negative assumptions. But I haven’t observed a structured vocabulary around that kind of rejection within Anishinaabe communities, at least not in my experience.
Over time, things have become much more formal. There’s now a strong emphasis on protocols, like clearly stating your name, your community of origin, and your clan and doing so in Anishinaabemowin (our language), even if that’s the only part of the language someone knows. There’s also the expectation to establish credibility—to show who your elders were, who taught you, and whether you are authorized to share what you’re about to say.
That wasn’t the case when I was younger. But now, the role of “Traditional Knowledge Keeper” is formalized and widely used, especially in academic settings and government relations. A big part of that came from the rise of Indigenous Studies programs at universities. Those programs needed structure, so they created protocols to ensure that only those with proper knowledge and cultural authority could teach or share stories.
Jacobsen: I mean, if you’re only hearing epithets in English, as opposed to, say, Finnish or Arabic or Anishinaabemowin, does that in itself serve as a kind of psycho-cultural commentary on the use—or limitation—of slurs?
Cook: That’s a good question. I don’t know. There could be all kinds of factors contributing to that dynamic. It might also be that not everyone speaks Anishinaabemowin fluently enough anymore to use slurs in the original language—or even to recognize them if they’re used. So, if those sentiments are expressed, they’re more likely to appear in English, where they’re understood. It’s tough to say what the root of that would be.
Jacobsen: If there’s not much in terms of verbal slurs, then what about other forms of social consequences? Not necessarily professional impacts—but gossip, social standing, and social status. That’s a big part of any culture.
Cook: Absolutely. I think there are all kinds of social consequences for not following what I’d call the “received wisdom”—the currently accepted norms or teachings within the community.
Before we started recording, I told you about a social worker I know who worked for Native Family Services. He’s about fifteen years younger than I am. He grew up on a reserve, and although he identifies as Indigenous, he eventually felt forced to leave his position.
He struggled with expecting every meeting to begin with a smudging ceremony, prayers, sage, abalone shells, eagle feathers, etc. He was told he’d be required to take turns leading the ceremonies—to say the opening prayer, light the smudge, and perform those protocols.
When he said he didn’t want to participate, the response was unsupportive. He wasn’t given space to opt-out. He was made to feel very uncomfortable—like he wasn’t “Native enough.” So yes, even in the workplace, there are real consequences for not conforming to certain spiritual expectations.
Jacobsen: That’s significant.
Cook: It is. Because so much of what is now called “Native culture” is deeply tied to spiritual practice. And I use the word spiritual here more in the religious sense—because when something is no longer optional when it’s mandatory, it stops being about personal spirituality and becomes more like a codified belief system—almost like organized religion.
Jacobsen: That distinction makes much sense.
Cook: For example, when I was growing up, women were not allowed to sit at the big ceremonial drums. There were strict gender roles embedded in the ceremonial life. There was much pushback from the 1960s through the 1980s, especially as broader society moved toward women’s equality. But in many Indigenous communities, especially in ceremonial contexts, women were still restricted from participating fully—particularly if they were on what we call their moon time.
During their menstrual cycle, during their moon, women were often expected to abstain from participating in ceremonies. That was the tradition. But that tradition has also been challenged, especially by younger generations. Still, even today, there are ongoing tensions around these issues. So again, when spiritual practices become mandatory, especially in public or professional settings, they stop being spiritual personally and start resembling an institutional system of belief.
So, during their menstrual cycle, women were not allowed to participate in certain aspects of ceremonial life—sometimes even to the extent of not being in the presence of men during specific spiritual events. There are separate ceremonies for men and women. I have many teachings I’m not permitted to share with women, and my wife has teachings she’s not allowed to share with men.
There are still very distinct roles for men and women. For example, women are the carriers of water at ceremonies. Only women are permitted to touch the water and prepare it. Women traditionally gather the so-called “sacred medicines”—cedar, sage, sweetgrass, and tobacco.
Then, there are specific ceremonial medicines—some used only by women and others only by men. I have to be careful here not to share teachings that could get me into trouble, but yes, there are medicines restricted by gender.
During menstruation, a woman on her moon cannot participate in ceremonies and is expected to avoid ceremonial grounds. At full moon, women’s ceremonies celebrate the menstruation cycle, while men hold their parallel gatherings—often involving cleaning ceremonial pipes, for example. These dual ceremonies happen every full moon.
It’s challenging to separate cultural from spiritual or religious aspects because the two are deeply entwined in Indigenous traditions. But what’s clear is that gender plays a significant role in determining who can do what within ceremonial life.
And if you don’t believe in those teachings—if you’re an Indigenous atheist or secular humanist—there are social ramifications. Questions arise: Can you participate in ceremonies? Can you be a dancer at a powwow?
Let me give an example. I helped create a Native cultural community centre here in the Durham region of Ontario, where I live. We didn’t have any services for what we used to call urban Indians—people living off-reserve in urban areas. So we created this centre to offer programming and support. I was elected chief of that organization’s council.
Now, I used to get into trouble constantly. In Anishinaabe culture, people dance clockwise around the drum at powwows. But here, we also have Haudenosaunee people—alongside Inuit and other First Nations folks—who have different ceremonial expectations. For example, some Haudenosaunee teachings say you must dance counterclockwise around the drum.
So, what do you do in an urban setting where one group deeply believes in dancing clockwise and another holds just as strongly to dancing counterclockwise?
That’s a powerful image—and pretty funny. It is a sort of ceremonial traffic jam. It shows how diverse Indigenous cultures are, even among just the First Nations, not to mention Métis and Inuit peoples. It also highlights the challenge of creating inclusive ceremonial spaces in urban environments—where you’re not just dealing with intercultural dynamics between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people but also intracultural tensions within Indigenous communities themselves.
Jacobsen: That reminds me of the diversity in Christian traditions, too. For instance, the modern evangelical movement in the U.S. and Canada is relatively uniform. However, traditions like Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism remain distinct, owing to their long historical separation—between Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew and the Pope.
Cook: Right—and even within those traditions, each has its own internal governance, rituals, and symbolic systems, just like us.
Jacobsen: That’s correct. And in Eastern Orthodoxy, the Ecumenical Patriarch is called “first among equals”—a primus inter pares. However, The Catholic Church does not see the Pope that way. So there’s a lateralization of hierarchy in Eastern Orthodoxy that you don’t see in Catholicism, where the hierarchy is more pyramidal.
Given that, though—and more to the point ritualistically—both the Eastern Orthodox and Catholics, from what I’ve seen in their communities, have a very intricate ceremonial life. I don’t mean “better,” just more complex in structure, especially compared to modern evangelical or prosperity gospel movements, which tend to be simpler in ritual and more overtly political in tone after their Sunday services.
From what you describe about the Anishinaabe, I understand that the rituals are deeply tied to place, history, and cultural memory. Almost everything is done within a spiritual context, whereas in Catholic or Orthodox Christianity, the rituals are rich and symbolic. However, many adherents return to their regular, often secular, lives after the liturgy.
Cook: I think that’s fair. I also believe that a kind of hierarchy of belief or ritual commitment exists within Anishinaabe communities. Let me go back to an example.
Just north of here—about a twenty-minute ride on Lake Scugog—there’s a First Nation where I have many ties. I probably spent as much time there as I did on Rice Lake, where I grew up. That community had a longstanding chief lineage—a family that had held that leadership position across several generations.
But I remember from back then that there wasn’t much visible spiritual practice. It all seemed private; at least, that’s how I experienced it.
Just before COVID, I went up to visit friends in that community. I dropped into the health centre and chatted with some people about my history with the Nation. I’d helped them re-establish the powwow there about thirty or thirty-five years ago. At the time, they had never held a powwow, but I’d been involved in running a successful one in Oshawa for about five or six years. They asked me to help organize their first one—show them how to build the arbour for the drum according to tradition, invite elders, and how to structure the event.
When I visited more recently, I spoke about possibly getting more involved in the community again. But they asked me directly whether I was Midewiwin—or Mide, as it’s often shortened. They implied that if I wasn’t, I might not be welcome like I once was.
That’s a community I grew up in. But they had started holding Midewiwin ceremonies regularly, and those come with a much more formal structure. So yes, there’s a hierarchy there. That particular spiritual tradition—the Midewiwin or Grand Medicine Society—requires a kind of adherence to specific teachings, ceremonies, and protocols.
You could compare it loosely to a Masonic lodge in structure—not in content, but in how it’s organized into degrees or levels. As you advance, you gain access to more profound teachings, some of which are kept secret or sacred until you reach a certain level or have participated for several years.
Jacobsen: That’s a very structured system. You mentioned earlier the status of women as a factor. Most cultures at least pay lip service to the ideals the international community promotes—things like gender equality and inclusivity.
What parts of traditional or historical Indigenous culture—specifically Anishinaabe—do you see as genuinely practicing gender parity? And conversely, where is that parity lacking? Especially in today’s conversation, are there ways that transcendental, supernatural, or extra-material justifications are used to explain or defend those inequalities—or even to silence criticism?
Cook: Great question. Let me start with something I touched on earlier—women sitting at the drum. Today, if you attend powwows—certainly in this region—you will see women sitting at the main drum and singing, the big drum representing Mother Earth’s heartbeat. Traditionally, women used smaller hand drums, usually 12 to 18 inches in diameter, and men sat at the big drum. That’s changed. There’s no more gender parity in that ceremonial role, at least in some communities.
As for justifications for maintaining older traditions or exclusions—yes, there are stories. Indigenous cultures often preserve and transmit social structures through traditional narratives. These stories are told to explain why things are the way they are, often in spiritual or cosmological terms.
To give you a tangible example: at a powwow, a man can dress however he likes—shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes. He’ll still be allowed into the circle to dance. Some of us old-timers still wear ribbon shirts and regalia, of course. But if a woman shows up in a dress that doesn’t go to her ankles, someone will almost certainly take her aside, ask her to change, or even leave the circle.
That gender-specific expectation is still very much present—at least here. It could certainly be viewed as restrictive or patriarchal from a mainstream cultural lens. However, within the culture, teachings passed to women help contextualize and justify these expectations. Whether you see it as subjugation or sacred protocol depends on your frame of reference.
Jacobsen: That reflects a broader tension—between cultural tradition and modern equality frameworks. And I’ve seen this tension play out even in international settings. I did two weeks of journalism in mid-March at UN headquarters in New York City during the 69th Session of the Commission on the Status of Women (CSW69). I sat in on an entirely Indigenous-led session with a panel of Canadian Indigenous women—both young and older voices.
The stories shared were incredibly moving. There were moments during the panel when there was open crying—not just among the speakers but also among the audience. The speakers discussed intergenerational trauma, displacement, gender-based violence, resilience, leadership, and cultural renewal.
That kind of setting brings out the depth of these issues. It shows how women’s voices in Indigenous communities—especially when given a platform—often expand and complicate the narrative beyond the neat boxes that institutions like the UN try to put things in.
These weren’t minor figures either—these were foremost Canadian Indigenous leaders, speaking candidly. At the same time, you had high-profile figures like Bob Rae, Canada’s ambassador to the UN, walking through because he had other meetings—there was this strange mix of formality and intimacy.
What struck me most, though, was how it tied back to what you mentioned earlier—the consciously inflicted tragedy of the residential school system. What I saw in that room wasn’t necessarily what I’d call healing, at least not in the clinical or complete sense. It was more like people were, at that moment, relieving themselves of the burden of silence—finally saying things aloud that had weighed on them.
To me, that release—while powerful—is private and not always therapeutic in the lasting sense. It’s more like a momentary purging. It’s the difference between washing a wound and disinfecting and stitching it. That open expression of pain, especially in a public space where others have shared history if not identical experiences, creates a kind of communal recognition.
Now, the women themselves would describe it far more eloquently and precisely. However, that was the emotional atmosphere I absorbed from that session at the UN in New York. That said, this living history is not something we can choose to ignore. It’s here, whether we talk about it or not. That brings me to this: Are there contexts in which traditional beliefs can offer an anchor, a sense of grounding—but where supernatural elements or superstitions surrounding those beliefs may not serve long-term health or healing?
I’m thinking here of something Noam Chomsky once shared. He described knowing an immigrant mother who had lost her child. She found deep comfort in the belief that she would be reunited in heaven with her child after her death.
Chomsky, of course, didn’t believe in that promise. But he also didn’t try to strip her of that consolation. He understood that in the moment, it brought genuine emotional relief. Still, he questioned whether that kind of belief system, while temporarily comforting, is ultimately sustainable or healthy. It’s sort of like using an antidepressant or anxiolytic for a period of acute need—but then pairing that with practical life changes or cognitive tools that support longer-term well-being.
Over time, you wean off the medication, and you’re left with sustainable skills and insights. In this way, the person can integrate their trauma rather than escape it.
So, Can traditional Indigenous spirituality serve that kind of transitional function—providing ritual and meaning early on but eventually giving way to something more lasting, less myth-bound, and potentially more universal? They’re dealing with the context of their own life story.
Cook: Absolutely. And I have some pretty strong opinions about that—because I know so many people who experienced residential schools firsthand and who still live with that trauma. And what’s even more heartbreaking is how that trauma was often passed on. It created parents who didn’t know how to nurture or protect their children, and those children—now adults—passed the trauma on again to their kids. That’s the intergenerational trauma we keep talking about.
This is one of my core criticisms of Indigenous humanism as it is sometimes practiced today. One of its guiding ideas is the creation of strong communities rooted in culturally grounded mental and physical health programs tailored to Indigenous needs. While that’s well-intentioned, I worry that, in some cases, it does not address the root problems.
It’s similar to my broader critique of religion. As Marx said, it’s the opium of the masses—not because it’s inherently evil, but because it can offer a Band-Aid without providing honest answers. It may feel good to believe in the power of prayer. But to me, prayer and meditation are quite different. Meditation is an internal process, a focus on self-awareness and grounding. In many traditions, prayer involves asking for something, often from a higher power. That’s a very different kind of psychological engagement.
My point is this: religions tend to provide emotional scaffolding, a way of soothing pain. But mental health professionals can do that too, and in many cases, more effectively, without relying on superstition or magical thinking.
So, in the Indigenous context, when Native spirituality is used to help people cope, yes—it can offer comfort. But I also think it can delay more profound healing or perpetuate specific traumas under the guise of tradition. Some of this intergenerational pain might be addressed earlier and more effectively if we approached it with direct, evidence-based support instead of spiritualized frameworks alone.
Jacobsen: That’s a very personal critique. Speaking of personal—what about your own experience, living as an atheist within the community?
Cook: [Laughing] The short answer is: I’m not really “out.”
Jacobsen: Oh? Some people might be in for a surprise.
Cook: Yeah— Because honestly, it wasn’t hard for me to step away from social and ceremonial aspects of community life.
All of my elders, the people I deeply respected—the ones who made the Native community meaningful to me—have passed away. That’s the thing about being an elder: there’s only one destination, and we’re all moving quickly. (chuckles)
I’d had conversations with a few while they were still alive. They knew where I stood. They understood that for me, participating in ceremonies wasn’t about belief but culture and showing respect for our traditions and them.
For example, when I was growing up, the concept of a single, monotheistic Creator never really came up—at least not in any way I remember. That may have been introduced later or emphasized more heavily as Christian influence spread.
When we got into a canoe to cross a lake, we would put down tobacco at the edge of the water—or directly into the water—to honour and protect ourselves from the spirits believed to inhabit the area.
There’s a specific water spirit in Anishinaabe tradition, Mishipeshu, or the underwater panther. In our traditions, Mishipeshu lives in lakes and rivers. If you fail to pay proper respect, you might experience a storm, or your canoe could capsize, or worse. That spirit wasn’t just a story—it was part of the everyday consciousness of being on the land and water.
As a kid, when you were alone in the forest, we also had stories about Wendigos. There’s even a famous poem about them. In our culture, the Wendigo was this malevolent, ghost-like creature—part spirit, part cautionary tale. They were associated with greed, cannibalism, and spiritual imbalance. They lived in the woods and were a real part of the spiritual landscape.
Everyday life included constant gestures of respect toward nature and the spirits. In that way, it’s very similar to Shinto, the traditional Indigenous religion of Japan, where kami, or spirits, are found in rocks, trees, rivers, and mountains. That was the world I grew up in.
Even now, when I walk past a giant tree, I instinctively put my hand on it—not because I believe it will speak to me, but out of respect. So, maybe some of my “superstitious” thinking hasn’t completely left me. But for me, it’s not superstition—it’s about honouring the natural world around me. Or at least, that’s how I justify it now.
As a child, though, this wasn’t metaphorical. It was literal. We believed in individual spirits—everywhere. And this is deeply embedded in Anishinaabemowin, our language. The language doesn’t just have masculine and feminine genders, like French or Spanish—it also distinguishes between animate and inanimate nouns.
And what’s considered “animate” isn’t always what Western culture would define that way. A boulder, for instance—a glacial erratic you might stumble upon in the forest—is considered animate because it has spirit. We’d refer to it as a grandfather, a being who has been there since time immemorial.
In the sweat lodge ceremony, when heated stones are brought in, they’re not just “rocks”—they are greeted as grandfathers (Mishomis) and treated with reverence. That’s the spirituality I grew up with. It’s not monotheistic or dogmatic, just interwoven with the land, the water, and the life around us.
Jacobsen: How are you distinguishing Indigenous humanism (or Native humanism) from secular humanism? And why don’t we collapse the terms under something broader like Humanists International’s definition of humanism?
Cook: Because they’re not the same. In some ways, yes—there’s overlap, and they can work together in many areas, but at a fundamental level, they’re incompatible.
Secular humanism is grounded in reason, science, and ethics without reliance on the supernatural. It emerged from the Age of Reason, and its philosophical foundations rest on empirical evidence, reproducibility, and skeptical inquiry.
On the other hand, Indigenous humanism is deeply embedded in spirituality and cultural tradition. Spirituality and culture are not separable in Indigenous contexts. There’s no culture without spirituality and no spirituality without culture. They’re intertwined.
Indigenous humanism also emphasizes connection to nature, reverence for the land, and relational thinking, aligning with some of secular humanism’s environmental ethics. So there’s common ground, especially around values like sustainability and community well-being.
However, the gap becomes philosophically significant when one worldview is based on ancestral wisdom, oral tradition, and what’s now often called “alternative ways of knowing,” and the other is based on scientific rationalism.
Jacobsen: What do you make of attempts to merge the two—to create some hybrid identity between Indigenous and secular humanism?
Cook: I think doing so requires a massive amount of cognitive dissonance. The two systems operate on very different epistemological foundations.
Secular humanism—again—is about what can be tested, measured, and replicated. It’s a product of Enlightenment thinking. Indigenous humanism is about lived experience, ancestral teachings, oral transmission, and sacred relationships with land and life. When someone tries to blend the two, they often end up unconsciously prioritizing one over the other or reframing one to fit the lens of the other.
And to be honest, the modern framing of “alternative ways of knowing” tends to get used in philosophically muddy ways. It can obscure more than it reveals, especially when not critically examined.
Jacobsen: Would it be fair to say that secular humanism doesn’t offer a “variety of ways of knowing” but a shared standard of inquiry?
Cook: It’s not about many truths—it’s about one standard for evaluating truth claims. In that sense, it doesn’t offer pluralism the way Indigenous frameworks do. And that’s where deep tensions arise when people try to conflate the two without acknowledging that.
So that concept—“ways of knowing”—is one that, as a secular humanist and as a scientist, I find very difficult to accept in a literal sense. I don’t believe there are multiple valid epistemologies when uncovering truth. There are ways of being, indeed—those are cultural. But I’m very skeptical of ways of knowing as alternative epistemic systems.
We know things through scientific inquiry and critical thinking—through processes that yield repeatable and reproducible results. That’s the foundation of empirical knowledge. Now, I know there’s a common critique that science is reductionist. That’s true, but reductionism has also given us tremendous insight into the natural world and a robust framework for understanding reality.
My experience has been that Indigenous ways of knowing are often tied to experiential learning—through direct engagement, observation, and interaction with the environment. This can be valuable as a teaching method and cultural transmission, but it is unreliable for discovering objective truths.
We’d still be stuck in a Newtonian physics model if we relied solely on direct experience as a path to knowledge. We wouldn’t have the relativity of Einstein or the quantum models of the subatomic world—because you can’t see those things with the naked eye. Much of what we now understand about the universe is counterintuitive, and it took sophisticated tools and models to uncover those truths.
The reality is that humans have cognitive biases—lots of them. And when we rely only on intuition, feeling, or observation without rigour, we risk being led astray. I often hear, even within Indigenous communities, references to people who claim psychic abilities or who say they “just know” something spiritually or emotionally about the land or the Creator—because of a sign or feeling only they can perceive. That’s very similar to what you hear in other religious traditions.
As a humanist, I struggle to understand how that could be called knowledge in any formal sense. We must be careful not to confuse belief or emotional insight with empirical evidence. Many people feel compelled to pay deference to Indigenous humanism because they have a genuine desire for reconciliation, respect, and inclusion. I support that. I respect the individuals.
But that doesn’t mean I have to respect the belief system—especially when the system makes claims unfalsifiable or unsupported by evidence. So, when someone says, “I know this is true because an elder told me,” it’s a classic example of an appeal to authority. By scientific standards, that doesn’t constitute knowledge.
To be clear, Indigenous humanism has beautiful and valuable elements. The ethical teachings, especially around respect for the environment, are profound. But even there, we must be honest—those values are not unique to Indigenous worldviews. Take Greta Thunberg, for example. She is not Indigenous, yet her environmental ethic is evident, principled, and powerful.
Jacobsen: We also need to distinguish between humaneness, as in compassion or emotional sensitivity, and humanism, as a defined philosophical and ethical worldview. You mentioned feelings earlier—that idea of having a feeling about a rock, a vibe from a place, or a sense about a person.
That kind of subjective experience—how I feel about a particular location or object—might be meaningful in a personal or cultural context. Still, it’s not a factual claim about that location’s chemistry, biology, or geophysics.
Those are different domains. One is about the internal emotional experience; the other is about objective external reality. Confusing the two can lead to misunderstandings within Indigenous communities and broader knowledge, belief, and truth discussions.
There’s a subjective fact there. You can describe how someone feels about something and that’s real for them. However, it does not represent the objective state of affairs external to the person. It’s not about the object itself but about how that person experiences the object.
So, there’s a difference between that kind of emotional resonance and what we might call the “woo-woo” formulation of a vibe. In the 1960s and 1970s, this vibe culture emerged among many Euro-American communities, especially within a hippie culture—a sort of diffuse, mystical energy reading of the world.
But that’s distinct from something like intuition. Sure, people can misunderstand or misuse intuition, but in many cases, intuition is grounded—it’s developed from experience and a deep familiarity with a field. For example, a scientist might have a hunch about a hypothesis or direction for research based on years of work, even before the data fully confirms it.
So those are subtle but important distinctions. And I think there’s a humanistic, empirical way to talk about those kinds of experiences—intuition, emotion, reverence—without turning them into mysticism or supernaturalism. That way, we respect the emotional or intuitive side of human understanding while remaining grounded in the natural world and a commitment to truth.
Cook: I agree. And earlier, you used the word “humaneness.” I think as a secular humanist, and in my case, not just an atheist but an anti-theist—because I believe religion does real harm—it’s still essential to recognize context. I don’t need to brandish my atheism in people’s faces.
If someone finds comfort at a funeral because they believe their loved one is in a better place, now is not the time to challenge them. That’s not compassion. A compassionate stance is central to secular humanism—the desire to support well-being and respect others, even if we don’t share their beliefs.
So I get it if someone tells me they had a powerful emotional experience in the woods—a deep sense of connection or reverence. I’ve stood under the aurora borealis and felt awe; that emotional reaction is human. It might arise from intuition, nature’s scale, or raw beauty. And that feeling can lead us into scientific exploration. The stars can move you, and you still want to understand the physics behind them.
So again, to return to what I said before, conversation is critical. We lose opportunities for shared understanding when we shut down dialogue or categorically dismiss something without engaging.
Many discuss integrating science and Indigenous humanism or bringing the two into respectful dialogue. I support that principle—as long as we maintain clarity about what we mean by knowledge, belief, emotion, and experience.
And probably the most controversial thing I’ll say is this: I don’t think there is anything uniquely Indigenous—in terms of knowledge or worldview—that doesn’t exist elsewhere. That doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable, but I question whether it’s epistemically unique. I’d go so far as to say that, in some cases, these cultural beliefs can have an adverse effect—they can hinder rather than help.
I have two anecdotal examples that shed light on what I mean.
First, I recently watched a documentary about bison in Yellowstone National Park. Researchers had long believed the bison population was dwindling because wolves had been reintroduced to the park. But after years of research and scientific reductionism—they discovered that the real culprit was lake trout.
Here’s how: the lake trout were predators of salmon, a primary food source for grizzly bears. And grizzlies, who usually don’t prey on bison outside of a very short period during calving, were now starving. The only time bears can kill bison is for about two weeks in the spring when the calves are still tiny. However, the bears hunted more young bison during that narrow window because of the salmon shortage. Wolves had not contributed to the bison population decline.
You can only arrive at that kind of conclusion through systematic scientific inquiry. You cannot deduce that from direct observation alone—not with any reliability. Yes, maybe you’d intuit that something upstream was causing the bears to behave differently, but then you would need to test that hypothesis in a repeatable and reproducible way. That’s how we know what’s happening.
The second example relates to archaeological research. The Smithsonian Institution has a vast collection of human skulls from all over the world. These have been used for anthropological, archaeological, and evolutionary research. Some of the skulls in the collection are of Indigenous origin.
The law rightly states that when the provenance—that is, the tribal or cultural origin—of a skull is known, it should be returned to that Indigenous group for repatriation and appropriate cultural handling. I fully support that.
But it becomes complicated here: many skulls have unknown or unverifiable provenance. And some Indigenous groups are now refusing to allow any study of those skulls. In some cases, female researchers are prohibited from touching the remains during certain times of the month based on ceremonial protocols. Even x-rays of the skulls—non-invasive digital scans—are sometimes requested to be returned or destroyed because they are also considered sacred representations of the remains.
Now, I ask—where do we draw the line? I find it very difficult to see how treating an X-ray as a sacred object benefits anyone, especially when we’re talking about the pursuit of human knowledge and scientific understanding that could benefit all people, including Indigenous communities themselves.
As a child, though, this wasn’t metaphorical. It was literal. We believed in individual spirits—everywhere. And this is deeply embedded in Anishinaabemowin, our language. The language doesn’t just have masculine and feminine genders, like French or Spanish—it also distinguishes between animate and inanimate nouns.
And what’s considered “animate” isn’t always what Western culture would define that way. A boulder, for instance—a glacial erratic you might stumble upon in the forest—is considered animate because it has spirit. We’d refer to it as a grandfather, a being who has been there since time immemorial.
In the sweat lodge ceremony, when heated stones are brought in, they’re not just “rocks”—they are greeted as grandfathers (Mishomis) and treated with reverence. That’s the spirituality I grew up with. It’s not monotheistic or dogmatic, just interwoven with the land, the water, and the life around us
Jacobsen: That raises a lot of essential questions. As our mutual friend, Dr. Lloyd Hawkeye Robertson, often points out, the self—and, by extension, culture—is not static. It’s a dynamic process. Cultures evolve and adapt over time, as individuals do, at varying rates and ways.
How have you seen Indigenous culture evolve in Canada over the years? Some observers describe what’s happening now as a renaissance—a revival or reinvention of traditional knowledge and spiritual practice. Do you see it that way?
Others have observed something different—an integration between Indigenous cultures and Anglophone or Francophone Canadian culture, resulting in what might be called a hybrid identity, particularly among urban Indigenous peoples.
Then you have people—like yourself—taking a more universalistic approach, seeking frameworks that view the human species through a scientific lens. That’s the truth-based perspective, where ethnicity is understood as a sociological category, a layer we place over our shared biology.
This also ties into an epistemology that aspires to be universal—not necessarily in opposition to every microprocessor within broader “ways of knowing,” but certainly in tension with epistemological pluralism, which often rests on less rigorous foundations. By contrast, the scientific method offers a universal filter for arriving at objective truths about the world.
So, how have you seen these elements—cultural revitalization, hybridization, and scientific humanism—evolve during your lifetime?
Cook: Wow. That’s a big question.
Specifically regarding knowledge, I would say that Indigenous culture has crystallized—that is, it’s become more codified and standardized in ways that weren’t present when I was younger.
As I mentioned earlier, there’s been a homogenization of Indigenous cultures across North America. Historically, sharing between nations was done to support trade—cultural elements were exchanged pragmatically. But now we see deeper integration and standardization of ceremonial practices. From coast to coast to coast, there are often standard formats for things like vision quests, sweat lodges, powwows, and even the regalia worn at those gatherings.
Alongside this has come a more defined idea of Indigenous humanism, particularly regarding how knowledge is transmitted. There’s a growing emphasis on learning from elders, which is being passed on in Native Studies programs, language classes, and cultural revitalization efforts. The resurgence of Indigenous languages is one of the best things happening now. There’s nothing to criticize about strengthening cultural continuity—that’s essential and beautiful.
But where I start to think critically is in the epistemological space. All around the world, cultures have developed systems of knowledge—about the environment, healing, and ethics. Indigenous cultures have made meaningful contributions, for example, to agricultural practices like crop rotation or land stewardship. But I wouldn’t say those practices are uniquely Indigenous. Versions of them exist across many cultures globally.
And that’s where I think the scientific method offers something distinct—the process that has served us best since the Age of Reason. It begins with hypotheses, follows with testing, and leads to the development of theories—not just beliefs but replicable, predictive models.
I struggle sometimes to express this clearly, but what I’m getting at is that while the diversity of cultural worldviews is essential and enriching, when it comes to understanding the natural world, the scientific pursuit of knowledge remains the most reliable, universal process we have. That doesn’t invalidate cultural meaning-making, but we shouldn’t confuse it with empirical truth.
Of course, you understand how “theory” gets thrown around—“It’s just a theory.” But a scientific theory is far more than a hunch or intuition. It’s something that’s been tested rigorously, often in hundreds of different contexts, and has repeatedly held under those conditions.
That doesn’t mean it’s 100% guaranteed—it’s not absolute certainty—but it does mean that we haven’t yet found a way to disprove it. And that’s meaningful. That’s what knowledge grounded in evidence looks like.
That way of thinking is foundational for me—and this is how I’m wired, maybe because I come from a scientific background. There are Indigenous and scientific parts of me, but I can’t help it: I reason, believe in systems, and think in processes.
I have difficulty conceptualizing some of these so-called “other ways of knowing.” Throughout my life, I’ve understood the cultural teachings I received not as truth claims but as stories—valuable but not epistemologically authoritative.
So when I walk through the woods and put my hand on a tree, that action connects to something cultural—maybe even spiritual, in a poetic sense—but it feels like a kind of vestigial organ from that part of my heritage. It doesn’t represent the truth to me. As I see it, the truth comes from science and rational inquiry.
And I don’t know how we’re supposed to reconcile that tension. From my perspective, scientific thinking is still the best tool we’ve developed as a species to understand the world around us. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than anything else.
And the scientific method isn’t culturally exclusive. It may have been formalized during the European Enlightenment, but it’s been adopted and applied by cultures around the world. The cross-cultural sharing of scientific knowledge has done more to bend the moral arc of history than the exchange of supernatural or magical beliefs ever has.
Jacobsen: In the African American community in the United States, there’s often the perception that atheism or humanism is a “white thing.” Do you find anything similar in Indigenous communities in Canada—where science, secularism, or even atheism is seen as foreign, colonial, or somehow outside the cultural norm?
Cook: Oh. That perception exists.
And I think that’s part of the reason Indigenous humanism has taken root—it’s a kind of response to the perception that science, and by extension secular humanism, is a product of white Western culture. There’s a historical trauma there, of course, because science was often tied to colonial institutions—residential schools, anthropological exploitation, eugenics, resource extraction—you name it.
However, that distrust of science is not unique to Indigenous communities. Just look at the religious right in the United States. Much of that worldview is grounded in Christian fundamentalism, and it also treats science as a left-wing enemy.
So you get this strange convergence: one side rejects science because they see it as secular, the other see it as colonial—but both resist the same process that has arguably done the most to improve human life on a material and ethical level.
The current administration is actively dismantling scientific institutions and educational infrastructure because it sees science as foreign, something separate from its culture and worldview. So yes, after having been to many universities across Canada, I’ve never seen an Indigenous science class. I’ve seen Native Studies classes at virtually every institution—but not Indigenous-led science education that operates by scientific principles. That absence is telling.
Jacobsen: I often point out, for example, that however the Egyptians built the pyramids, it wasn’t “Egyptian engineering.”It was just engineering. It happened to be carried out by Egyptians, but it was part of the universal domain of human problem-solving. And the same applies to science. It emerges from culture, sure, but any one culture does not own it.
Cook: That’s exactly right. That’s why I made that flippant comment about Greta Thunberg—ethics, environmentalism, and scientific reasoning aren’t culturally bound. They’re philosophical systems we’ve developed as a species.
I’d say the opposite of what’s often claimed. One commonly repeated claim about Indigenous humanism is that it has forced science to become more ethical and environmentally aware. But I don’t believe that’s true.
Regardless of cultural background, many scientists are already working hard to integrate ethics, sustainability, and responsibility into research. That pressure didn’t have to come from any single cultural worldview. It’s not a unique contribution of Indigenous epistemology or any other cultural system. These are universal human concerns.
I mentioned this earlier: the moral arc of history is bending, but not because of culture. It’s bending because we’re becoming more interconnected and aware of how we are all part of the same planetary system. That’s where progress comes from—not from traditionalism, but often despite it.
Cultural frameworks can often become obstacles to progress. They assert, “That doesn’t fit my culture, so I can’t accept it.” But when you look at what has slowed human development, it’s often things like religious dogma, nationalism, and rigid racial or ethnic identities. These forces have stifled progress—not fostered it.
So, progress didn’t happen because of culture; in many cases, it happened despite culture.
Jacobsen: Do you think that some of the current emphasis on race and ethnicity, particularly in academic or professional contexts—using the language of “allies” and “identity”—might deter Indigenous people and other minorities who are genuinely interested in joining science or engineering departments?
In other words, does the intense focus on Indigeneity as identity, when applied to objective disciplines like science, inadvertently create a kind of self-re-racialization that alienates people from universal spaces of inquiry?
Cook: You know what? I hadn’t considered that before, but that’s a critical point.
Let me collect my thoughts without sounding too controversial right off the bat.
But yes—I would have to say yes.
I think all young people—regardless of background—reach a point where they have to decide the direction of their future: career, values, identity. For young people in Indigenous communities, especially on reserves, that decision can be even more complicated.
Some may enter fields like political science, sociology, or psychology, where they can gain knowledge and return to their communities to provide leadership or serve as advocates. That’s admirable.
But here’s where I get stuck: I have difficulty articulating this clearly, and I don’t know if it’s truly possible to keep one foot firmly in the culture and one foot in a scientific discipline—at least not without tension.
And maybe that’s not a fair generalization, either. Take anthropology, for example. That’s a scientific field where you could still honour and explore your cultural background. That could be a space where the two can coexist.
You know what? I don’t have a complete answer to this. It’s something I’d need to think more about. Speaking just for myself, my gut instinct is that I can’t do both. I can’t believe in the cultural stories as truths, and, at the same time, I am fully committed to science. But that’s just me—and I wouldn’t want to impose that view on others.
This is probably a research project in the making. We need a proper survey of Indigenous students—which career paths they’ve taken, especially those who’ve pursued STEM fields—and what kinds of internal or external tensions they’ve experienced. That’s your next project right there.
Jacobsen: Is there a kind of taboo around pursuing formal education—particularly using the academic vocabulary of the Anglophone world? I remember watching a documentary on educational attainment, where a Black British educator pointed out that, for some Black boys in the UK, having a strong English vocabulary was viewed as “acting white.” So, you get this intra-cultural stigma where academic achievement becomes a source of social deterrence.
Do you think something like that might be at play in Indigenous communities in Canada, too—where embracing science or formal academic discourse is seen as stepping away from the culture?
Cook: That’s an interesting question. I don’t know if I’ve experienced that.
I haven’t noticed students avoiding academic vocabulary in some Indigenous Studies classes I’ve taken at Trent University. The conversation is usually conducted as you’d expect in any university-level seminar. I didn’t get the sense that anyone was being stigmatized for speaking in that way or that it was seen as “too white.” Based on my experience, I haven’t witnessed that dynamic.
Jacobsen: Fair enough. Another way humanism is often summarized internationally is with the triad: reason, compassion, and science. Where do you see sufficient overlap between that kind of humanist framework and the values within Anishinaabe culture? I mean that we’ve talked about birch bark, the sacredness of nature, and the spiritual worldview in Anishinaabe culture, where rocks, trees, and rivers all have spirits. That’s quite different from a scientific-naturalist framework.
So, where do you see alignment points in broad strokes—places where secular humanism and Anishinaabe worldview might meaningfully intersect?
Cook: So there are some areas of overlap, though not necessarily the ones people assume. Given some of the things I’ve experienced—and again, it’s hard to define this solely as “Anishinaabe culture” because it has shifted quite a bit over my lifetime—I’d say the places where mainstream society and secular humanism intersect with Indigenous culture are rooted in respect.
That includes respect for history, traditions, culture, and older people—I’ll say older people rather than elders since the term elder has specific ceremonial and cultural significance.
There’s also respect for all living things, which is where environmentalism or environmental stewardship comes in. Then there’s the idea of balancing our lives—the physical, social, and emotional aspects of being. Even values like diversity and inclusion are embedded in Anishinaabe culture to varying degrees.
I’d also mention the pursuit of ethics and ethical behaviour. These aspects are part of Anishinaabe traditions and secular humanism’s fundamental premises.
Jacobsen: That’s generally what I was getting at. Far be it from me to be a fan of evangelicalism, but if we take Protestantism more broadly, there are specific values that, while not always embraced to the extreme, have merit. For example, there is an emphasis on work ethic, which has virtue, whether applied to building a family, community, infrastructure, business, or academic excellence.
But I think the dominionist strain—particularly the desire for political control under religious mandates—is corrosive. It’s at odds with the secular aims that most humanists value: freedom of thought, pluralism, and individual rights.
On the Indigenous side, I don’t gravitate toward supernaturalism, but I see value in the naturalistic emphasis found in many Indigenous spiritual teachings. It’s concrete and practical and reflects a deep awareness of interdependence.
The ethic of caring for the environment rather than asserting dominion over it seems far more appropriate—especially given where we are as a planet. So, no culture has a monopoly on wisdom, but I think if we take a fine-grained look at different espoused virtues, there’s a lot we can learn.
Cook: I agree.
Jacobsen: And, of course, we must also acknowledge that espoused values are not always lived. That’s true in every culture. People often say one thing and do another.
Cook: Right—and a lot of that, I think, is related to scale and scope. Most people, outside of those with diagnosed psychopathy or similar disorders, aren’t going out of their way to harm animals or inflict suffering just for the sake of it.
Ethical lapses stem more from systems, pressure, or disconnect than intentional cruelty. Those systems are shaped by histories and structures, not just individuals.
The sheer scale of the challenge—feeding 9 billion people globally—has created a significant tension between ethically desirable and operationally scalable. That’s one of the things I’d say about Indigenous humanism: there’s much talk about ethics, sustainability, and traditional methods. Those ideas are important but also easier to apply in small communities or enterprises.
When you zoom out to the planetary scale, it becomes much harder. Yes, you can rotate crops to preserve soil health. That’s good practice. But then you hit a wall: monocultures exist because they allow for massive food production. And if you remove them without scalable alternatives, you run the risk of people starving.
So while many of us would love to see greater sustainability, better treatment of animals, and more respect for traditional practices—especially in smaller, land-based societies around the world—the hard limits of global logistics can challenge those ideals.
Jacobsen: It becomes an issue of scale and how values operate differently depending on context.
Cook: And that’s where utilitarian philosophy comes into play: Jeremy Bentham. It’s really about doing the least harm when faced with difficult trade-offs.
Again, those ethical frameworks—balancing harms and considering outcomes—aren’t uniquely Indigenous or part of Indigenous humanism. They’re part of global ethical discourse. I’ve often heard atheists say, “If I had to write a list of Ten Commandments, I could come up with seven better ones than the original.”
Jacobsen: [Laughing] That’s a valuable thought experiment.
Cook: Absolutely. It helps clarify what values matter. Because let’s face it: we’re not hunter-gatherers anymore. And while the Haudenosaunee agricultural tradition of planting corn, beans, and squash in the same mound—with a fish for fertilizer—is a brilliant, sustainable method, it’s not practical for feeding billions.
Jacobsen: How much interaction have you had with global Indigenous groups—from places like Western Europe, Latin America, Africa, or elsewhere?
Cook: Virtually none. I’ve interacted with Indigenous Australians and am familiar with some of their traditions. And I’ve only had limited interactions with Inuit here in Canada. That’s why I try not to generalize too broadly. I know my cultural neighbourhood and try to speak from that place.
Jacobsen: Do you watch the news much?
Cook: Every day.
Jacobsen: When it comes to Indigenous issues—as they’re often referred to in Canadian media—what are the things that mainstream outlets are getting right, what are they getting wrong, and what are they ignoring or failing to cover adequately? I’m thinking specifically in terms of factual accuracy and proportionality.
Cook: That’s a big one. I think it’s hard to get mainstream media to pay attention to Indigenous issues unless Indigenous people themselves create what looks like a crisis.
Take the example of Chief Theresa Spence and her hunger strike. That pushed attention toward the Idle No More movement across Canada. It wasn’t until thousands of us took to the streets, raised flags, and blocked bridges that the broader public started to see issues like many First Nations communities lacking clean drinking water. These communities have been on boil water advisories for over 50 years.
That’s a critical issue—and it’s one that’s barely covered. It occasionally pops up in the media, but there’s no consistent attention. And because of that, municipal, provincial, and federal governments only respond when there’s noise. Even the current Liberal government, which talks a lot about reconciliation and Indigenous rights, hasn’t made anywhere near the progress they promised. And I think part of that is because mainstream media is not holding them accountable—there’s no sense of urgency being communicated to the broader public.
Jacobsen: So, what does the media get right, wrong, and ignore? What would you say?
Cook: Okay, let’s break it down.
And the old saying about the media—what is it? “If it bleeds, it leads”?The media is built to chase the dramatic story, not the slow-moving but essential. Unfortunately, that means the real work of reconciliation—the hard, slow, policy-based work—often goes uncovered. When that happens, public pressure fades, and governments don’t feel compelled to act.
I can’t be entirely critical in terms of getting things right. The fact is, Indigenous issues do pop up in the news, and they do receive some visibility. You’ll see coverage of the leadership of various national and provincial Indigenous organizations, and there’s at least some public awareness.
But again, coverage often happens when there’s controversy—incompetence, criticism, or a political failure. The positive, ongoing work tends to be overlooked. So, while I appreciate that Indigenous issues remain somewhat within the mainstream’s awareness, I don’t think the media does an excellent job in terms of in-depth, accurate, or wide-ranging coverage.
Jacobsen: I once interviewed Lee Maracle before she passed away. I don’t recall whether we published it, but I remember something she said that stuck with me. She made a passing remark about how, if you took a river and superimposed a cylinder—completing its spatial circularity rather than thinking in just half or three-quarter arcs—you could use that to calculate the flow or size of the river. It was a fascinating metaphor.
What struck me was how she connected abstract structures, like those found in geometry, quantitative reasoning, or even axioms, with real-world patterns and spatial awareness. That got me thinking: Are there aspects of Indigenous thought or daily practice that incorporate this spatial or abstract reasoning—not through formal schooling in mathematics but through the lived culture itself? I’m curious whether these forms of insight emerged in ways that are just embedded in how people lived—whether nomadically, semi-nomadically, or in place.
Cook: Oh, wow. That’s a great question.
Strangely enough, the first thing that comes to mind is how Plains Indigenous peoples used buffalo hides to record their histories. They did it in a spiral format, starting from the center and spiralling outward, year by year, marking significant events. It’s a circular conception of time, which I’ve always found fascinating. It’s not linear—it emphasizes cycles, return, and continuity.
Another area is astronomy. Our constellations and celestial stories are very different from the ones recognized by European science. But the concept of constellations—linking stars into meaningful shapes that connect to narratives or moral teachings—is shared. It’s another way of imposing structure and meaning on the natural world. The patterns are interpreted differently, but the cognitive process is quite sophisticated.
Even if the outcomes are different—logic, categorization, and relational thinking exist. In many traditions, that reasoning is still embedded within a spiritual framework. There’s usually some spirit or force causing events to unfold. So, even where there’s spatial or numerical thinking, it often comes with a sacred or mythological dimension. That doesn’t make it less analytical—it just means it’s integrated differently than in Western scientific models.
I think in the other direction. The perception of time as cyclical is very prominent.
That’s true for many Indigenous cultures around the world. Time is often seen as cyclical rather than linear because of its close relationship to the natural environment. When you’re living within the rhythms of the land, you begin to observe and internalize the constant cycles of seasons, plants, animals, migration, birth, and death.
Jacobsen: What about the social and ethical culture? Are there aspects of Anishinaabe tradition—like an emphasis on compassion or universal moral principles—that overlap with humanism? For example, in situations like a dispute over food or land, whether with another community or within a family, were there mechanisms of resolution that reflected something like a humanistic ethic?
Cook: That’s an interesting question. I don’t know how to characterize it as a humanistic ethic in the Western sense. But what I find remarkable and unique in Anishinaabe culture is the approach to guiding others. It’s often done through gentle encouragement rather than direct correction or authoritative instruction.
Let’s say a child is doing something dangerous. In mainstream Western culture, a parent might yell, snap, or slap their hand if the child reaches for something hot. But in the Indigenous contexts I’ve been part of, the response is often gentler—more about guiding the child away from harm than punishing them for curiosity.
I remember an example from one of the elders I knew, a remarkable woman. She ran visiting elder programs, going into schools and organizations to share wisdom and offer guidance. One day, she came to me with a concern.
The community near me, which I’m closely tied to, had repatriated a skeleton—the remains of a man who had been identified, through evidence, as Midewiwin. The bones were around 300 years old and had been found off-reserve. The community brought him home and held a traditional Midewiwin ceremony to lay him to rest in their cemetery.
The woman who led the ceremony told me that she felt that the community wasn’t treating the grave with enough respect. Her concern wasn’t expressed in anger or confrontation but with sorrow and gentleness. She felt a sacred duty had been mishandled—not out of malice, but out of forgetfulness or carelessness.
That speaks to a relational ethic—not one rooted in universal rules but in context, relationships, and reverence.
I hesitate to call it “humanism” formally. But there are shared values: compassion, restraint, and guidance without domination. And those principles—whether Indigenous or humanist—have much to offer today’s world.
In modern Anishinaabe culture, that translates to the belief that graves must be well-tended and respectfully maintained. In this case, the elder I mentioned was concerned because the repatriated grave was neglected. She shared her concern with me, and I responded, “No problem—I’ll go back and make sure that it gets done.”
But I was wrong to use that kind of directive language—”I’ll make sure it gets done.” That’s not how guidance works in Anishinaabe culture. You don’t give orders. You don’t tell people what to do or how to behave. Instead, you tell stories, you coach, and you nudge gently. That’s the approach. It’s gentle, respectful, and, in many ways, a beautiful part of the culture. I was counselled to tell the traditional story of Nanaboozho and his fight with his brother. That was the right way to help the community understand why the grave needed to be more carefully tended.
But there are downsides, too.
In a community where alcoholism can be pervasive, for example, people might not intervene. They won’t necessarily step in to stop someone or help them recover. If someone is engaging in self-harm, the traditional approach of non-interference may mean the community stays quiet, even when someone needs help. That’s changing now, thankfully, as many reserves are getting better access to health services, mental health support, and intervention programs.
But culturally, there’s still a tendency toward non-intervention, which can be both a strength and a weakness, depending on the situation.
Jacobsen: That seems like a deeply embedded ethic—one that’s built around respect and autonomy, but that can have real costs when applied rigidly. Are there any parts of your notes you haven’t had a chance to bring up yet—things you think should be included in this conversation?
Cook: Let me take a look. I haven’t even checked my notes in about three hours now. [Laughing] You’ve been good company.
One thing that stands out in my notes, which we haven’t discussed much yet, is how people—especially in more left-leaning or social justice-oriented circles—value Indigenous humanism. I don’t particularly like terms like “woke” or “social justice warrior”—mostly because I think they’re overused and poorly defined—but I think we all know the general type of person I’m talking about: culturally aware, often highly sensitive, and well-intentioned.
These individuals sometimes overvalue Indigenous humanism. I’ve thought about why that might be. I understand why people associate environmental ethics, climate consciousness, and spiritual ecology with Indigenous traditions. There is value there.
However, I suspect that part of the overvaluation is due to intellectual laziness. People latch onto romanticized ideas of Indigenous wisdom without thinking critically about what’s being said or those philosophies’ real-world impact.
For instance, if we’re talking about climate change, and someone says that Indigenous knowledge systems provide foundational insight into global warming, I argue that the actual contribution is limited. Most Indigenous knowledge systems were developed in local ecological contexts, not global climate models. They offer invaluable insight into local environmental shifts but are not a substitute for climate science.
So, yes, if you’re an Inuit in the High Arctic, you’ll notice the dramatic changes in seasonal patterns and temperatures. Your lived experience becomes a powerful data point. But to say that Indigenous humanism provides a universal climate ethic—I think that’s an overstatement.
That’s a necessary clarification. Respecting a tradition doesn’t mean inflating its scope. It means understanding it on its terms and recognizing its value within the context in which it was developed.
If you live in a small community north of Toronto, on a reserve, I can’t imagine that your local weather observations would offer any unique insight that meaningfully contributes to our broader understanding of climate change. That’s not a criticism of local knowledge—it’s just a recognition of scale.
This brings us back to the need for centralized mechanisms to evaluate truth and knowledge—systems that can collect localized observations, synthesize them, and turn them into theories that are then made actionable. That kind of comprehensive perspective is impossible to form solely at the local level—especially when the issues are global in scale.
So, while the ethical and moral frameworks present in Indigenous humanism are admirable—and often very positive—they’re not unique to Indigenous cultures. People all over the world have developed similar values in different ways.
I guess the summary for me is this: Indigenous humanism is often overvalued, especially by the “woke” or “social justice warrior” types. Not because the ideas are wrong—but because people sometimes elevate them without adequate critical reflection or contextual understanding.
Jacobsen: That’s an important distinction. Lloyd Robertson wrote about Indigeneity and humanism and argued—rightly, I think—that they can be compatible if you frame the conceptual puzzle carefully.
Now, you’re focusing on Indigenous humanism and its relationship to secular humanism. The mistake people often make in reasoning isn’t necessarily with the premise but with the categorization of humanism itself.
Many people mistakenly believe that humanism—of any variety—is a political party or ideology. But that’s fundamentally incorrect. The earliest declarations and policy statements, especially those formalized through bodies like Humanists International, are very careful with their language. Humanism emerged as a philosophical life stance—particularly after the barbarism of World War II—in reaction to the atrocities committed under both totalitarianism and religious fundamentalism.
In that sense, humanism is not political as people often frame it. It’s not anti-religious people—it’s anti-theology when theology violates autonomy, critical inquiry, and shared human values. It’s also not a political party, although it can align selectively with political movements that advance secular, evidence-based policy.
Right. Also, groups like Humanists UK carefully show that humanists can fall across the political spectrum. You’ve got Humanists for Labour, Humanist Conservatives, and so on. The philosophical core of humanism is one thing—how you apply that philosophy in politics is another.
So we shouldn’t expect humanists to vote as a bloc, though you might see that happen when a party becomes too deeply entrenched in religious fundamentalism or violates secular norms.
That’s one piece. The other issue is this concept of “wokeism” or identity politics—or whatever form of it people are reacting to. What often happens is that humanistic language gets co-opted for tribal political goals. And that can distort what humanism is actually about.
They come from good intentions and can undoubtedly have positive effects, particularly in mobilizing people around important causes. But where people seem to react negatively is with the language, the intimidation tactics, and the tendency to cancel rather than engage. That creates a moral pressure that can become alienating.
There’s also sometimes a lack of empirical rigour, especially compared to the standards you’d traditionally expect from humanist approaches—where careful reasoning, evidence, and thoughtful dialogue are foundational before you become “activated” around an issue. Of course, something might trigger you emotionally or historically, and that might lead you to pursue deeper research. But too often, it feels like the research is skipped, and people go straight to outrage.
Cook: We’re seeing a similar dynamic emerge in the context of Indigenous humanism. There’s cultural meaning, yes—but there’s also a risk of conceptual inflation and politicization, identical to what’s happening in other identity-based or ideologically driven spaces.
Jacobsen: That brings me back to what I raised about Dr. Lloyd Robertson’s paper earlier. He’s deliberate in using the term indigeneity rather than Indigenous humanism per se. He argues that Indigeneity—the full range of characteristics, histories, and identities that define someone as Indigenous—can be integrated with humanist thought if the framework is structured correctly.
So, moving beyond whether Indigenous humanism and secular humanism conflict, what about Indigeneity and humanism more broadly—can they coexist as a single, integrated worldview?
Cook: I’ve heard the term indigeneity before. Lloyd’s used it with me in conversation a few times. And if we define it broadly—all the things that make a person Indigenous, culturally, historically, linguistically, spiritually—without trying to narrow it down too tightly, then there’s no incompatibility.
The difficulty comes when we start labelling things. Humanism’s values can easily be co-opted by people with genuine ethical commitments or those more interested in virtue signalling. That’s not unique to humanism; it’s true for any moral framework.
While we were briefly pausing, I asked Google to pull up a list of humanist values to see how they read in plain language.
Let’s take a few:
Honestly, this list reads more like what the Ten Commandments should have looked like. Instead of a list of “thou shalt nots,” it’s a positive ethical framework.
Jacobsen: So, in essence, these values are philosophically universal, making them easily embraced but also misused.
Cook: It’s easy to co-opt this language for your cause—whether ethical or performative. But the values themselves? They’re very hard to argue with—and I think that’s why properly understood humanism can be a meeting place, not a battleground.
When we use the word Indigeneity, there’s nothing in Indigenous culture that would contradict core values like dignity, worth, or reason. The definition of science might differ from the Western model, but what is often called Indigenous science still involves observational knowledge passed down through generations.
Take willow bark, for example. It contains acetylsalicylic acid—the active ingredient in aspirin. Indigenous people knew it could relieve pain, even though they didn’t see the chemistry. That’s still a form of empirical, experience-based science.
Ethics, human rights, and social justice are all values Indigenous people would recognize and affirm, whether explicitly or in practice. So, Indigeneity fits very comfortably with humanist values.
The only area where I find some tension is naturalism—the idea that the universe is governed strictly by natural laws, without supernatural forces. That’s where worldviews can diverge. In many Indigenous cultures, spiritual forces or non-material entities are part of how knowledge is explained or understood.
So, while I don’t think anyone would argue with the core principles of humanism, the point of difference lies in the belief that you can know things in ways that aren’t empirical or naturalistic. Aside from that, there’s widespread respect for the ethical foundation of humanism, even if the epistemological framing differs.
Jacobsen: That’s well put. And to nod to critics and defenders of those labelled as “woke,” something is interesting about how people signal their values. On one hand, critics might point to something like a rainbow lapel pin or a cross necklace—as a way of saying, “I’m a good ally” or “I’m a good Christian.” It becomes a kind of virtue signalling—an external signifier of internal moral standing.
Are there parallels in Indigenous culture today, particularly among younger generations—or even some elders—where there’s an increased use of symbolic items or participation that might not carry deep personal meaning but instead function as a cultural signifier?
Cook: I think I understand what you’re asking: whether some people are going through the motions—participating in culture symbolically without necessarily believing in the deeper spiritual or philosophical layers.
And the answer is absolutely.
In Anishinaabe culture, for instance, there’s a widely recognized symbol—the medicine wheel, sometimes called a unity pin. It’s a circle divided into four quadrants:
An entire lifelong system of teachings is embedded in that wheel. It includes medicine teachings, stages of life, seasons, directions, and spiritual roles. However, not everyone who wears the medicine wheel engages deeply with those teachings. Some wear it simply as a cultural marker—a way of showing identity or solidarity.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. But yes, it can become the Indigenous equivalent of a symbolic lapel pin. And just like in other communities, symbols can be used meaningfully or superficially.
It’s the Anishinaabe equivalent of a cross on your lapel. For a Christian, the cross is supposed to represent all the teachings and values of the faith. But for some, it’s simply an accessory—”I don’t know what it means, but it looks good on my jacket.” It’s symbolic shorthand, like an American flag pin on a senator’s lapel.
You see medicine wheels all over the place, and I could talk for days—possibly months—about the depth of teachings that go into those four colours arranged in a circle. So much culture, history, philosophy, and spiritual guidance are tied into that symbol. And yet, I don’t wear one.
Because, like with other symbolic items, some people wear it without engaging with its meaning. You’ll find people proudly wearing a cross who can’t explain even the basic tenets of Christianity. Or LGBTQ+ individuals wearing the Pride flag without necessarily understanding the struggles of the ’60s and ’70s—the history of protest, persecution, and civil rights activism that made those symbols possible.
So yes, absolutely—virtue signalling exists within Indigenous communities as well.
Jacobsen: That brings to mind the idea of private or protected knowledge found in some Indigenous traditions. You mentioned earlier that there are certain things you cannot speak about publicly—because doing so could lead to pushback or even breach community expectations.
That sounds reminiscent of Freemasonry—where inner circles, ritual practices, and esoteric teachings are passed down within structured hierarchies. It stands in contrast, in some ways, to humanism, which leans heavily on transparency and open inquiry.
So my question is this: What role does that kind of secrecy or ritual exclusivity play in Anishinaabe society—either historically or in the present day?
Cook: That’s a great and tricky question. Yes, you’ll find elitism in ceremonial groups like the Midewiwin Lodge—but it isn’t purely negative. It shows that members earn their place through real commitment and participation, creating a clear hierarchy.
A useful, if imperfect, comparison is the Shriners (an offshoot of Freemasonry). Structurally, the Midewiwin works the same way: you progress through degrees, and each degree unlocks deeper teachings. Whether those teachings focus on practical skills or spiritual wisdom often depends on your own path and experience.
Advancing has always carried a cost. In the past, members offered goods—livestock or trade items. Today, it usually means significant travel, time, and money. Those costs both limit membership and prove dedication: they show you’re serious about this path.
Like Freemasonry, the Midewiwin includes rituals—special handshakes or signs that mark your level. The details differ, but the organizational logic is similar. (I’m not a Freemason myself; I’ve drawn this understanding from research and conversations.)
In the Midewiwin Lodge, each level has its own rituals and secret knowledge. If you haven’t reached a given level, you don’t participate and you don’t observe. It’s a deliberately structured system.
I guess the summary for me is this: Indigenous humanism is often overvalued, especially by the “woke” or “social justice warrior” types. Not because the ideas are wrong—but because people sometimes elevate them without adequate critical reflection or contextual understanding.
Jacobsen: That’s a fascinating comparison—not in terms of belief systems, but organizational logic, ritual structure, and gatekeeping of knowledge.What else is on your mind?
Cook: [Laughing] We’ve covered a lot.
I keep thinking about the word “indigeneity” and how I’m trying to understand it. Is there a helpful distinction between ethnicity and culture here?
Take someone Jewish, for example. They can be ethnically Jewish but secular, with no religious inclination, or the reverse—they can be religiously Jewish but not ethnically.
I wonder if Indigeneity works similarly. It can describe someone’s ethnic identity or heritage, regardless of whether they fully engage with the cultural or spiritual practices traditionally associated with it. Maybe that’s why I can reconcile humanism with Indigeneity—because it’s about roots, background, and shared history.
But I struggle to reconcile humanism with “Indigenous humanism,” especially when the latter emphasizes supernatural belief systems or non-naturalistic knowledge. Humanism’s focus on science, reason, and naturalism creates tension.
Indigeneity can be descriptive and inclusive, while “Indigenous humanism” might sometimes involve conflicting epistemologies—mainly if the framework includes magical thinking or metaphysical assertions.
Jacobsen: One from left field: In history, if you could have dinner with Pontiac or Tecumseh, who would you choose?
Cook: [Laughing] Wow.
Honestly, I would’ve loved to have had dinner with Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce. From everything I’ve read, he was a remarkable human being—deeply ethical, thoughtful, and courageous.
Between Tecumseh and Pontiac? That’s harder to answer. One of my elders, who passed away in 2013, was named Angus Pontiac—a direct descendant of the Pontiac. So, out of respect, I’ll stay quiet on that one. [Laughing]
Jacobsen: Fair enough. How about something more contemporary—what do you think of Adam Beach’s acting?
Cook: I like Adam Beach. He brings a lot of depth and vulnerability to his characters. He’s got great range. I know Adam Beach. He’s a pretty good actor. He’s been cast in more comic or comedic roles; sometimes, he plays them with humour. But he’s also done some serious work that is quite strong.
[Laughing] I’ve got five more names I could throw out, but I’m not sure how far down that rabbit hole you want to go. One of them is Tom Jackson—he’s a friend of mine.
Jacobsen: I was thinking about William Whipple Warren, who was of Ojibwe and European descent and authored History of the Ojibwe People in 1885.
Cook: Oh—that does ring a bell. I have a very extensive library and that book is included.
Jacobsen: Or Louise Erdrich or Chief Peguis?
Cook: Chief Peguis—yes, that name rings a bell. I’m struggling to recall the details off the top of my head. He was a prominent leader, but I’d need to double-check the historical specifics.
Jacobsen: One more: Autumn Peltier—born February 2004. A young activist, she’s spoken at the United Nations, criticized environmental policies, and received awards like the International Children’s Peace Prize. She’s a leading voice in the global environmental movement.
Cook: I wasn’t aware of her. I was thinking of Leonard Peltier—he was part of the American Indian Movement, and he’s currently serving time in a U.S. federal prison, accused of involvement in the murder of an FBI agent during a standoff in 1975.
Jacobsen: Possibly a relation—but maybe not.
Cook: The structure of bands and surnames can be more complex than people outside Indigenous communities realize.
Jacobsen: Many First Nations in Canada have quite a small population. The numbers drop significantly once you get past the first 2,000 to 3,000 members.
Cook: We have a Mississauga Anishinaabe reserve about an hour and a half north of here. There are only about three surnames on the entire reserve.
Now, that doesn’t mean everyone’s related—though some are. But many are not. And a lot of that traces back to residential schools. When children were taken, they were often renamed. If your name was “Little Squirrel,” that wasn’t good enough for the school system. So, kids were given new first names, often English or biblical.
In many cases, they were also assigned the last name of the Indian Agent in charge of that reserve. That’s how family names were standardized, and that’s why surnames aren’t reliable indicators of lineage in many Indigenous communities in Canada.
Jacobsen: That’s incredibly revealing—how naming was institutionalized and how identity was systematically altered.
Cook: When people trace ancestry by surname, they often run into dead ends or false assumptions. Our names were reshaped by colonial policies, not by our customs or kinship systems. And that legacy still lingers.
Here’s a closing comment, I suppose:
I’ve said things today that could be perceived as critical, but I’ve lived an extraordinary life in the Native community. I’ve spent years balancing one foot in the scientific world and one foot in Indigenous culture. I love Indigenous culture deeply, but at some point, it became impossible for me to reconcile its spiritual components with my atheism and humanism.
Still, I have immense respect for the challenges Indigenous communities face and the progress they’ve made. And if people rally around something like Indigenous humanism as a unifying framework—even if I see tensions between that and secular humanism—I won’t take that away from them. If it brings meaning and solidarity, that’s their opium, to borrow a phrase.
Jacobsen: Thank you very much.
Cook: Thanks, Scott. I’ve enjoyed our conversation.
Jacobsen: Take care, David.
Photo by Michael Krahn on Unsplash