The Practice of Etuaptmumk: Two-Eyed Seeing
We used to call the older cultures “primitive.” The IPCC and UNESCO are quietly catching up to what those cultures have always known. About time.
A long time ago a Dutch-born psychologist named Robert Wolff sent me the manuscript of a book he’d been writing for years called Original Wisdom, and asked if I’d write the foreword. I sat with it for several days. I couldn’t put it down.
Wolff had spent decades among the Sng’oi, an indigenous people who live in the deep mountainous rainforest of Malaysia, learning a way of knowing that he had no Western training for and that, he came to believe, Western science had no real vocabulary to describe.
He wrote about Sng’oi who could find each other in dense jungle without speaking, who knew a thunderstorm was coming hours before there was any visible sign, who moved through their forest without leaving a trace, and who made decisions by sitting together in silence until something rose up in the group and was simply known.
The Sng’oi, Wolff insisted, weren’t primitive, weren’t premodern, weren’t on some earlier rung of a ladder we were finally climbing past. They were running on a completely different operating system than the one we run on, refined over thousands of years, that produced, among many other things, an entirely sustainable relationship with the land they lived on.
I wrote the foreword gladly. The book has stayed in print ever since, and I find I keep coming back to it.
I came back to it again this week, after I read a major essay in UNESCO Courier reporting that indigenous knowledge systems are finally being formally integrated into the world’s climate-response toolkit. The piece walks through example after example.
Aboriginal Australians have practiced cool burning, the controlled use of low-intensity fires, for tens of thousands of years to keep their lands safe from the catastrophic megafires we now know to expect when forests are left to accumulate fuel.
The U.S. and Australian governments banned indigenous cultural burning across most of their territories for over a century. The result, in California, Oregon, the Mountain West, and large portions of Australia, has been a fire regime that none of us alive today have ever seen before, because none of us alive today have ever seen the land managed correctly.
Inuit elders document weather and ice patterns with a precision that Western meteorological models still cannot match in the high Arctic. Farmers in Burkina Faso, Mali, Niger, Kenya, and Senegal use techniques like zaï, small water-capture pits, combined with intercropping and indigenous plant varieties, to keep degraded soils productive without synthetic inputs. A 2025 paper in Scientific Reports found that ninety-two percent of South African farmers in one large region rely on traditional plant-based methods to manage pests and diseases.
And this isn’t a fringe finding any more. According to the United Nations, indigenous peoples make up less than five percent of the global population yet steward lands containing roughly eighty percent of Earth’s remaining biodiversity. Forests under indigenous management sequester more carbon, retain more biodiversity, and resist degradation better than forests under almost any other tenure arrangement.
The IPCC’s Sixth Assessment Report formally elevated Traditional Ecological Knowledge from “interesting cultural heritage” to “primary tool for climate adaptation.” That’s the kind of sentence I never honestly thought I’d write in my lifetime.
The deeper move, though, is conceptual. There is a Mi’kmaw word, Etuaptmumk, usually translated into English as “Two-Eyed Seeing”, that the late Mi’kmaw Elder Murdena Marshall and her husband, Elder Albert Marshall, of Eskasoni First Nation in Cape Breton, brought into the academic world in 2004.
The principle is simple. You look at every problem with one eye seeing what indigenous knowledge has to teach, and the other eye seeing what Western science has to teach, and you use the strengths of both rather than pretending one of them is sufficient on its own.
Etuaptmumk literally means the gift of multiple perspectives. It’s now spreading through Canadian medicine, marine biology, fisheries management, climate research, and education. Whole research grants are being awarded under its banner. Government departments are using it as a framework. The reason it’s spreading is that it works. The combination of methods, when honestly attempted, produces better answers than either method alone.
This is the argument I made decades ago in Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight. The civilization we built over the last few hundred years operated on a fundamental error. We assumed we knew more than the older cultures did, and that progress meant leaving their methods behind.
We took that assumption and built a global civilization on it. The civilization we built has destabilized the climate, collapsed roughly three-quarters of the planet’s wild biomass, and put more than a million species at serious risk of extinction in our own lifetimes. The cultures we condescended to, by contrast, kept the lands they stewarded in some kind of working balance for tens of thousands of years.
What does any of this mean for those of us who aren’t indigenous? Two things, I think. First, give back what was taken, or at least defend it where it still exists. Indigenous land sovereignty isn’t a sentimental gesture. It’s a measurable, quantifiable climate strategy.
Land returned to (or kept under) indigenous stewardship reliably outperforms land managed by states or corporations on almost every ecological metric we know how to measure. Defending that sovereignty is, in plain English, a more cost-effective form of climate adaptation than most of the policies our governments are spending hundreds of billions on.
Second, learn how to look with both eyes. Whatever community you’re in, whatever land you live on, there is almost certainly an indigenous lineage that knew that land before your great-grandparents arrived. In many places the knowledge-keepers are still there, still teaching, still willing to share if asked respectfully and on their terms.
The practice of Etuaptmumk, of holding both ways of knowing without forcing one to submit to the other, is something any one of us can take up tomorrow morning. You don’t have to be indigenous to use the gift. You just have to stop assuming your one eye sees the whole picture.
I came back to Robert Wolff’s book this week because the UNESCO Courier essay reminded me of something he wrote near the end of it, almost in passing: that the Sng’oi didn’t talk about wisdom the way we do. They didn’t think it was rare or special or something you had to earn. They thought everybody had it. They thought we’d just forgotten.
The cultures we used to call primitive were never primitive. They were running an operating system that worked, while we were busy crashing ours. The very good news in 2026 is that some of those systems are still here. They’re being formally recognized by the IPCC, integrated into national parks and marine reserves, and finally listened to in the rooms where decisions get made. That’s not just an environmental story. It’s a homecoming.
If there’s an indigenous community on the land where you live (and there almost certainly is, even if the federal government hasn’t officially recognized them), look up their council, their cultural center, their language program, their hunting and fishing rights, and find a way to support them.
If there’s a tribally-led conservation effort in your region, donate or volunteer. If there’s a Two-Eyed Seeing project in your neighborhood, and there are more of these every year, show up.
And if you’ve never read Wolff’s Original Wisdom, or Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight, or any of the great indigenous-voice writers like Robin Wall Kimmerer (Braiding Sweetgrass), Vine Deloria Jr (God Is Red), or Tyson Yunkaporta (Sand Talk), do yourself the favor. The future of the planet and the deepest parts of the past turn out to be the same conversation.
Tell me in the comments what you’re doing where you live. We’re a wisdom school here, and what we’re learning, again and again, is that we mostly aren’t learning anything new. We’re remembering.