‘Ina ngalmun lagau malu’ (This Part of the Sea Belongs to Us): Politics, Sea rights and Fisheries Co-management in Zenadh Kes ()

Annick Thomassin Department of Anthropology McGill University, Montreal

May 2019 A thesis submitted to McGill University in partial fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

© Annick Thomassin 2019

Table of Contents

ABSTRACT ...... VI RÉSUMÉ ...... VIII ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... X ABBREVIATIONS AND ACRONYMS ...... XIII CHAPTER ONE: PROBING THE (ANTI)POLITICS OF FISHERIES CO-MANAGEMENT ...... 1

INTRODUCTION ...... 1

CO-MANAGEMENT IN CONTEXT: THE TORRES STRAIT ...... 4

PURPOSE OF THE STUDY...... 6

MODE OF INQUIRY, ETHICS AND CONTEXT ...... 8 Methodology 8 Ethical considerations 12 Setting the scene 14

THESIS SYNOPSIS ...... 23 CHAPTER TWO: POLITICS OF CO-MANAGEMENT: THEORIES AND CONCEPTS ...... 25

POLITICAL ECOLOGY ...... 25

A CRITICAL OVERVIEW OF WESTERN BIO-ECONOMIC APPROACHES TO FISHERIES MANAGEMENT ...... 31 Competing tenure regimes 36 Small scale fisheries and conventional approach to fisheries management 38 Neoliberal forces, anti-politics and resistance 41

PARADIGM ‘SHIFT’: TOWARDS CO-MANAGED FISHERIES ...... 47 Defining co-management 51 On participation and empowerment 56

INDIGENOUS ECOLOGICAL KNOWLEDGE SYSTEMS AND THEIR INTEGRATION WITHIN CO-MANAGEMENT ...... 63

CONCLUSIONS ...... 72 CHAPTER THREE: BIPOTAIM, A GLIMPSE AT THE MASIGALGAL AND KULKALGAL PRE-COLONIAL SETTLEMENT HISTORY...... 74

FIRST ENCOUNTERS WITH EUROPEANS ...... 76

ii

CUSTOMARY LAND AND MARINE TENURE ...... 77

PERSPECTIVES ON SOCIALITY, GOVERNANCE AND SOCIAL ORGANISATION ...... 79

A LIFEWORLD BASED ON MOVEMENT ...... 83

ASPECTS OF BIPOTAIM KULKALGAL FISHING ACTIVITIES AND PRESERVATION OF SEA PRODUCTS ...... 84

TRADING RELATIONSHIPS ...... 87 Extensive trading networks 87 Trading with the newcommers 91

EXPLORATION AND APPROPRIATION: MAKING TORRES STRAIT A TERRA AND MARE NULLIUS ...... 93

CONCLUSIONS ...... 94 CHAPTER FOUR: COLONIAL ENCOUNTERS AND ARTICULATION OF MASIGALGAL CONTEMPORANEITY ...... 96

REPERCUSSIONS AND RESPONSES TO THE ADVANCEMENT OF THE COLONIAL FRONTIER ...... 98 A portrait of the marine industry 98 Racial stratification of the fisheries and emergence of a ‘hybrid zone’ 100

COLONIAL CONSTRUCTION OF ISLANDERS AND ISLANDERS’ RESPONSES: THE LMS AND QUEENSLAND GOVERNMENT .. 107 London Missionary Society (LMS) 107 Colonial administration of the region 110

THE EMERGENCE OF AN ISLANDER-SPECIFIC ALTERNATIVE; THE COMPANY BOATS ...... 116 A space for Islanders’ agency 119 Emergence of an Islander model of economic participation 121 Recasting Islanders initiatives as Islander failures: biopolitics in action 122

THE 1936 TORRES STRAIT MARITIME STRIKE: FIRST CONCERTED ATTEMPT TO SHIFT ISLANDERS/GOVERNMENT POWER RELATIONSHIP ...... 125 The birth of a pan-Islander identity 130 After the Strike: amitaim and the quest for citizenship 131

CONCLUSIONS ...... 134 CHAPTER FIVE: THE POST-LUGGER ERA: RE-INVENTING TORRES STRAIT FISHERIES AND ISLANDERS- GOVERNMENT RELATIONS ...... 136

CAUGHT IN BETWEEN: PAPUA NEW GUINEA’S INDEPENDENCE, BORDER ISSUES AND TORRES STRAIT TREATY ...... 141

iii

The Torres Strait Treaty 144 Papuan perspectives and transborder relations 151

REGAINING CONTROL OVER TORRES STRAIT LANDS AND SEAS ...... 152 Shattering an ‘Australian silence’: Mabo and the end of 152 Secessionist Movement 158

SETTING THE TERMS OF SELF-DETERMINATION AND CONTROL OVER MARINE TERRITORIES ...... 161 Drawing inspiration and support from abroad 164 Erasing Mare Nullius 165

CONCLUSION: A SLOW JOURNEY TOWARDS AUTONOMY AND REPOSSESSION OF SEA RIGHTS ...... 173 PART TWO A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF TORRES STRAIT FISHERIES MANAGEMENT ...... 176 CHAPTER SIX: IN TUNE WITH THE WINDS, THE SEA AND THE PEOPLE, INSIGHT FROM MASIG FISHERS’ QUOTIDIAN ...... 176

LIVING AND FISHING MASIG’S MARINE DOMAIN: AN ETHNOGRAPHIC ACCOUNT OF MASIG CONTEMPORARY SMALL-BOAT FISHERIES SYSTEM ...... 181 Commercial fishing within Masig’s maritime domain 182 In tune with the sea, the winds and the people 217

CONCLUSIONS ...... 231 CHAPTER SEVEN: FISHING PASINS AND LIFE PROJECTS ...... 233

INHERITED BOUNDARIES: MASIG’S MARITIME DOMAIN ...... 234 Masig customary marine tenure regime 237 Exclusive zones, shared territories and the creation of relationships 242

RELATIONAL ‘HYBRID’ ECONOMY ...... 249 Masig small-boat fishery system in their relational hybrid economy 254

CONCLUSIONS ...... 259 CHAPTER EIGHT: FISHING AND HUNTING AS MANAGEMENT: THE EVERYDAY LIFE OF MANAGING, TAKING CARE OF AND SPEAKING FOR MASIG SALTWATER DOMAIN, RESOURCES AND SMALL-BOAT FISHERIES ...... 261

OWNER-FISHERS AS MANAGERS ...... 262

MASIG CONTEMPORARY MARINE ESTATE MANAGEMENT SYSTEM ...... 265 Internal management and fishing etiquette 265

iv

Participation in mainstream monitoring efforts and development of a community-based turtle and dugong management plan 272

CONTROLLING OUTSIDERS’ ENTRIES AND USES ...... 273 Controlling the Australian TVH (Transferrable Vessel Holder) sector 276 Managing the knowledge, managing the management 282

REPRESENTATING MASIG’S FISHERS AND COMMUNITY IN MANAGEMENT COMMITTEES ...... 289

CONCLUSIONS: MASIG VOICES THROUGH THE SEASCAPE ...... 295 CHAPTER NINE: ‘CO’-MANAGING TORRES STRAIT FISHERIES: PARTNERSHIP OR COLLISION OF ROOT METAPHORS? ...... 297

THE POWER OF A STRUCTURE: INSIDE THE TORRES STRAIT PROTECTED ZONE JOINT AUTHORITY (PZJA) ...... 301 PZJA’s Supporting and Consultative Structure (2008–2010) 303 Composition of the consultative forums 306

TORRES STRAIT PROTECTED ZONE JOINT AUTHORITY IN ACTION ...... 311 Uneven and fragile relationships at the management interface 320

DEPOLITICISATION: INVISIBLE LIFEWAYS, AND PARALLEL MONOLOGUES...... 326 Reconfiguring Islanders’ lifeways through techno-bureaucratic categories: 328

CONCLUSION: PARALLEL MONOLOGUES ...... 337 CONCLUSIONS ...... 341

IN THE WAY OF ISLANDERS’ LIFE PROJECTS ...... 344

IMAGINING OTHER POSSIBLE FUTURES ...... 349 REFERENCES ...... 352 ANNEX 1 ...... 393

v

Abstract

Co-management arrangements emerged in response to the limits and flaws of centralised, command-and-control and bio-economic approaches to fisheries management. Acknowledging that fisheries are complex socio-ecological systems, collaborative management purported to be more inclusive of fishers’ knowledge and preoccupations. Co-management arrangements between central governments and Indigenous groups were widely promoted as opportunities to increase compliance, to empower participating Indigenous groups, and to access and incorporate Indigenous knowledge.

The literature on fisheries (and natural resource) co-management has largely focused on the implementation of such arrangements in a wide range of contexts. Much of the research effort in this space has been dedicated to documenting co-management successes, the ecological, economic and social benefits and opportunities they engender, the challenges, shortfalls and possible improvements. A wealth of scholarship on natural resource co-management is also devoted to the complex and controversial task of integrating traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) into these science-driven management approaches.

The present study belongs to a narrower body of scholarship adopting a critical stance on this managerial paradigm, examining, as Nadasdy proposes, ‘the very institutions, practices, and underlying assumptions of wildlife management’ (see Nadasdy, 2003b, p. 379); questioning the ‘core structure of regulation and management’ (Butler, 2005, p. 239) as well as ‘the project of co-management itself’ (Nadasdy, 2005a, p. 215). Located in this critical space—at the junction of political ecology and political ontology—this thesis scrutinises the fundamental assumptions, aims, institutions, and politics of fisheries co-management arrangements as they are actualised in the context of Zenadh Kes/Torres Strait (northeast Australia). Particular attention is given to the politics and conflicting ontological foundations underpinning these arrangements. Drawing on fifteen months of ethnographic fieldwork, I critically examine the tensions between the Torres Strait Islander fisheries system and broader lifeways, and the fisheries structure sponsored by the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA), the co-management body established under the bilateral Torres Strait Treaty. The PZJA has a legislative duty to acknowledge and protect Torres Strait Traditional Inhabitants’ traditional way of life and livelihood. Since 2002 Torres Strait Islander representatives have been included at every level of co-management. Despite this,

vi

Torres Strait Islanders’ power to influence regional fisheries management and development directions has remained limited. The regulatory regime also impinges on ’ aspirations to regain control over their territories, fisheries and livelihoods.

This thesis makes visible the numerous barriers inherent in the bureaucratic and managerial structures framing Islanders’ rights and their capacity to partake meaningfully in the decisions that affect their lives, while also bringing attention to Islanders’ agency and performance of their lifeways within and outside of the co-management relationship. The thesis makes two important contributions to the limited but growing critical scholarship on co- management. Firstly, by documenting the forms of collaboration and conflict—as well as the range of assumptions—driving Torres Strait co-management processes and management decisions, I argue that Indigenous worldviews and lifeways must not merely be accommodated but must be drivers of the design and implementation of co-management arrangements. Secondly, I demonstrate how competing standpoints on ownership and access rights to marine territories, resource management and economic development underpinning the PZJA management structure have tended to hinder genuine dialogue and collaboration between the various actors involved. A shift in paradigm is crucial if fisheries co-management is to support Islander defined fisheries and broader lifeways.

vii

Résumé

La cogestion émerge à la fin des années 1970 comme solution aux limitations et problèmes associés aux approches centralisées et bioéconomiques des pêches. Reconnaissant les pêches comme des systèmes socio-écologiques complexes, la gestion collaborative est souvent décrite comme plus inclusive des préoccupations et savoirs des pêcheurs. Les ententes de cogestion entre les gouvernements nationaux et étatiques et des groupes autochtones sont souvent perçues comme une façon de responsabiliser les pêcheurs autochtones et de combiner leurs savoirs aux savoirs scientifiques.

Les études consacrées à la cogestion ont surtout porté sur la mise en œuvre de tels ententes dans un large éventail de contextes. Plusieurs recherches ont été dédiées à la documentation des succès et des avantages écologiques et socioéconomiques que ces ententes engendrent tout en s’attardant aux défis, lacunes, et façons d’améliorer ce mode de gestion. La tâche complexe et controversée d'intégrer les connaissances écologiques traditionnelles et scientifiques aux modèles de cogestion est également une préoccupation de recherche importante.

Ma thèse appartient à un corps d’études plus restreint adoptant une perspective critique envers ce paradigme gestionnaire. Elle examine, comme le propose Nadasdy, « les institutions, les pratiques et les postulats sous-jacents à la gestion de la faune » (2003b, p.379); remet en question la « structure de base de la réglementation et de la gestion » (Butler, 2005, p.239) tout en questionnant « le projet de cogestion même » (Nadasdy, 2005a, p.215). Située dans cet espace critique à la jonction de l'écologie politique et de l'ontologie politique, ma thèse examine les présupposés, les objectifs, les institutions et politiques informant les accords de cogestion des pêches tels qu'ils existent dans le Détroit de Torres au nord-est de l’Australie. Une attention particulière est accordée aux politiques et aux fondements ontologiques contradictoires qui sous- tendent ces ententes. En m’appuyant sur quinze mois de travail de terrain ethnographique, j'examine les tensions existantes entre le système de pêche Insulaires et la structure de pêche parrainée par la Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA), l'organe de cogestion des pêches établi par le Traité du Détroit de Torres. Parmi ses mandats, la PZJA est légalement tenue de protéger les modes de vie et modes de subsistance traditionnels des Insulaires du Détroit. Depuis 2002, les représentants du Détroit sont inclus à tous les niveaux de la structure de cogestion. Malgré cela,

viii le pouvoir des Insulaires du Détroit d’influencer les orientations de gestion et de développement des pêches régionales demeure limité. Le régime réglementaire entrave également les aspirations des Insulaires de reprendre le contrôle de leurs territoires, de leurs pêcheries et de leurs moyens de subsistance.

Cette thèse met en évidence les nombreuses barrières inhérentes aux structures bureaucratiques et gestionnaires qui encadrent les droits des Insulaires et leur capacité à prendre une part active aux décisions qui affectent leur vie, tout en attirant l'attention sur le dynamisme des Insulaires et sur l’actualisation de leur mode de vie à travers la relation de cogestion. En documentant les formes de collaboration et de conflit, ainsi que les prémisses régissant les processus gestionnaires et décisionnaires en place dans le Détroit de Torres entre 2008 et 2010, j’affirme que les façons d’êtres au monde et les modes de vie autochtones ne doivent pas simplement être adaptés aux ententes de gestions proposées par l’État, mais plutôt en devenir l’une des pierres d’assises.

Ma thèse démontre comment les principes de gestion des ressources adoptés par la PZJA ont eu tendance à entraver un dialogue et une collaboration véritable entre les divers acteurs impliqués. Un changement de paradigme est crucial pour que la cogestion des pêches puisse vraiment prétendre soutenir les pêcheries, modes de vie et modes d’être Insulaires.

ix

Acknowledgements

Preparations for this thesis began in Montreal (Tiohtià:ke) on unceded ancestral Kanien'kéha:ka territory. The research component was conducted on the Kulkalgal (Masigalgal) estates and country, and subsequently written up while working and living on Ngunnawal and Ngambri country. I pay my respect to you, your ancestors and your Elders, past, present and emerging. Thank you for allowing me to live, learn and leave my footsteps on your respective territories and for your wisdom and intellectual contribution to this research.

I would like to express my gratitude to my thesis supervisory panel, Colin Scott, Monica Mulrennan, Ronald Niezen and Ismael Vaccaro. Thank you for your time and the precious advice and support you have given me along the way. I feel privileged to have had you as my guides and I am looking forward to seeing you all again in a not so distant future. Special thanks to Olga Harmazy for helping me navigating the submission process and to my defence panel, including my external examiner, for the interesting and stimulating comments and questions. This give me ample material to consider for future papers.

To my family, friends and collaborators on Masig Aka Golly, Awa Dan, Ama Hilda (mina big esso for being with me at my defence), Awa John, Adu and Amos, Awa Molly, Awa Gavin, Awa Lota, Aka Matti, Athe Moses Mene, Aka Vida, Aka Daisy, Athe Terra, Athe Gabriel, Aunty Millie, Awa Fraser, Athe Kudu and Aunty Abu, Awa Philip Billy, Aunty Kales, Kisu, Awa Ned Mosby (Aunty Jessie, my sisters Susanna, and Gikana, and the rest of the family), Athe Simon, Awa Rocky, Awa Victor Lui, Awa William, Aunty Loicy, Awa Pencio, Aunty Rannie, Awa George Biggie, Awa David, Awa Colin Messa, Aunty Lizzie. My sisters Thelma, Nella, Helen and Nazareth. Athe Sela, Aka Awa Jack, Aunty Norah, Aunty Matilda Billy, Aunty, Athe Michael Nai, Yessie and Aunty Mona, Aunty Cynthia, Awa Thomas, Aunty Annie, Aunty Maawi (Sheena, Margaret and Dicky), Aunty Flora (Linda, Paterson, and the rest of the family), Elma & Awa Leonard, Aunty Emma, Aunty Mary Mosby, Laurie Mosby, Desmond Billy, Awa Willie Mosby, Awa Alfred, Awa George Billy, and Aunty Kimico, Aunty Bethalia Nai. I am missing many names here, but you are part of this too. Mina keoima esso to everyone for your kindness, time, patience, guidance, support and for trusting me with your knowledge and stories. I am forever indebted to all of you.

x

Across the wider Torres Strait, I would like to give special thanks to Martin Nakata, Toshio Nakata, Aunty Cessa Nakata, Awa Francis Pearson, Aunty Michelle Martin, Awa Ned David, Aka Paula Gutchen, Bala Jim Larry, Philemon Mosby, Aunty Nazareth Fauid, Awa Kenny Bedford, and so many, many more.

Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA) and Land and Sea Management Unit (LSMU): Again, mina keoi esso to Stan Lui, Toshio Nakata, Victor McGrath, Don Whap, Frank Loban, Steve Hall, Toshi Kris, Damian Miley, Rebecca Clear, (and more recently, Raymond da Silva). Thank you for your time and support and enabling me to fly to and from Masig and when there were no commercial flight servicing the region.

Thanks to my colleagues and friends at CAEPR, especially Jon Altman for taking me in at CAEPR as his research assistant. Thanks Mandy Yap, Kirrily Jordan, Janet Hunt, Francis Markham (thanks for working on the maps with me), Geoff Buchanan, Deirdre Howard-Wagner, Julie Lahn, Frances Morphy, Kaely Woods, Seán Kerins, Will Sanders, Elizabeth Ganter, Denise Steele, Tracy Deasey, Annette Kimber, Bill Arthur, Maggie Brady, Talia Avrahamzon, Inge Kral, Kate Sullivan, Helen Fraser, Helen Alexiou (and the whole family), Agnieszka Nielson, Tony Dreise, Jerry Schwab, Tjanara , Simone Georg, Jonathan Kilgour, Chay Brown, Heather Crawford, Emilie Ens, Zazie Bowen, Michael Dillon, Elise Klein, Katherine May, Nanny Concu, John Hughes, John Taylor, Gill Cosgrove and Hilary Bek. Thank you all for being so inspiring to work with and for the stimulating corridor and coffee break discussions. A special thanks to Jon, Janet, Frances, Deirdre, Seán, Simone, and John Hughes for your comments on parts of the thesis. Thanks to Francis for your help with the maps and a very special thanks and all my gratitude to Mandy and Kirrily for the late-night writing sessions, the brainstorms, the feasts and all the encouragements I needed to submit this thesis.

Thanks to my mentors at Laval University, Sylvie Poirier, Yvan Breton and Marie- Andrée Couillard. Thanks for inspiring me to take the path I have followed, for believing in me and encouraging me to start this journey.

Thank you to my family and friends in Québec and Montréal, papa, Lucie, Paule (Lucas), Lyne (Ken), Antoine, Ethan, Tiffany, Evans & Léonie (Shalia and Elena), Geneviève, Isabelle & Frédéric, Valérie & Olivier (Charlie), Katherine, Rémy and many more. I miss you all every day

xi and love you all dearly. I am grateful that you have forgiven my continuous absence. A special mention to my friend Fabienne Labbé. We’ve navigated through our respective PhD journeys together, albeit thousands of kilometres apart. This is finally our year!!! Annie Lalancette, thanks for sharing the Torres Strait journey! It was great that we were often there at the same time and able to bounce ideas with each other and speak French from time to time. Thanks also to Kerryn, Leroy, Awa James and family, Samantha Faulkner, Aunty Matilda House, Susie and Annie, Aunty Lydia, Suane, Moya, Nadia, Barbara and Liberty.

Thanks to my colleagues and friends and the Australian National University, Marie Spiers-Williams, Asmi Wood, Deborah Cleland, Sandy Potter, Margaret Jolly, Fiona Jenkins, Kim Rubenstein (and the past and present Gender Institute board members and administrators), Trang Pham, Bruce Doran, and Sean Perera. Thanks also to Jessica Weir at the Institute for Culture and Society of Western Sydney University.

Thanks Joe, (as well as Megan and the rest of the As You Like It staff) for letting me use your café as my second office!

Thanks also to Garrick Hitchcock, Jan Aird (and Jasper), Glenn and Margaret McConnell, Robyn White, Roz and Leon Rodwell, Ross and Lindell McConnell, Steve Whalan & Carsten Wolfe (AIMS).

Finally, thanks to my partner Maino Mosby who gave me the strength and passion to keep going. Thanks for your patience and for your enthusiasm when I bounced ideas with you. There are no words that can express the depth of gratitude and the joy you bring to my life. This thesis is as much yours as it is mine!

This PhD journey was punctuated by immense losses and grief, ill health and related stress, but also by countless joyful moments. The kindness that you’ve all shown me is what kept me going during the difficult parts. I am forever grateful and humbled by it. I can’t thank you enough.

This thesis would not have been possible without the financial support of the Social Sciences and Human Research Council (SSHRC) of Canada, the Fonds de recherche du Québec – Société et culture (FRQSC), McGill University, and the Desjardins Foundation.

xii

Abbreviations and Acronyms

ABS Australian Bureau of Statistics AFMA Australian Fisheries Management Authority CDEP Community Development Employment Project CDP Community Development Program COAG Council of Australian Governments CFG Community fisher representative group CTG Closing the Gap DAIA Department of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs DAFF Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry DNA Department of Aboriginal Affairs EEZ Exclusive economic zone FAO Food and Agriculture Organization IBIS Island Board of Industry and Service ICC Island Coordinating Council IEK Indigenous ecological knowledge IIB Island Industries Board IK Indigenous knowledge ITQ Individual transferable quota JAC Joint Advisory Committee LMS London Missionary Society LSMU Land and Sea Management Unit MSY Maximum sustainable yield NPARC Northern Peninsula Area Regional Council PBC Prescribed Body Corporate PIL Papuan Industry Limited PZJA Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority QFBP Queensland Boating and Fisheries Patrol QMS Quota management systems TAC Total allowable catch TEK Traditional ecological knowledge

xiii

TIM Traditional inhabitant meeting TFSA Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984 TIB Traditional inhabitant boat TSIRC Torres Strait Island Regional Council TSFA Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984 TSFMAC Torres Strait Fisheries Management Advisory Committee TSPMAC Torres Strait Prawn Management Advisory Committee TSRAG Torres Strait Resource Assessment Group TSSAC Torres Strait Scientific Advisory Committee TSPZ Torres Strait Protected Zone TSRA Torres Strait Regional Authority TVH Transferable Vessels Holder UNCED United Nations Conference on Environment and Development UNCLOS United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea UNDRIP United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples

xiv

This thesis is dedicated to:

My beautiful, courageous and devoted mother and my mother-in-law, Danielle Bruneau and Beatrice Basana Mosby who both left us way too soon and whom we sorely miss.

This thesis is also dedicated to the Masig Elders and family and community members who have since passed away.

Athe Joseph Mosby OA Aunty Ella Stevens Ama Abigail Mosby Awa Daniel Mosby Awa Douglas Billy Awa Albert Mosby Awa Michael Mosby Athe Kusini Naawi Aka Ivy Mosby Athe Francis Macfarlane Mosby Aka Nancy Mene Aka Kailang Nai

xv

Chapter One : Probing the (anti)politics of fisheries co-management

Sometimes fisheries management problems are not really fisheries management problems at all.

Svein Jentoft (2006, p. 674)

We need to be able to make decisions about social, cultural, economic, and environmental matters in our region, not just the right to attend advisory meetings which may or may not, pass our ideas up the line.

Getano Lui Jr (1994b, p. 70) Introduction

Since the 1980s, co-management has been widely depicted as an answer to the failure of centralised approaches to natural resource management (McCay & Jentoft, 1996; Pomeroy & Berkes, 1997; Hanna, 2003; Jentoft & McCay, 2003; Natcher et al., 2005; Acheson, 2006; Ross et al., 2011; Trimble & Berkes, 2015). Because it involves, to variable degrees, local stakeholders and their knowledge, this now dominant management paradigm is widely presented as being better aligned with local socio-ecological realities and values, and able to foster biological, economic and social sustainability (Muñoz-Erickson et al., 2010; d’Armengol et al., 2018) while holding the potential to empower local populations (Jentoft, 2005; Davis & Ruddle, 2012). Formal and informal co-management has had a long association with the fisheries sector. Since the 1970s, crises in this sector worldwide have made gaps in fisheries sciences knowledge, and the incapacity of governmental agencies to tackle fisheries management singlehandedly, visible. Involving local stakeholders in management strategies emerged as a way to address these crises and shortfalls, notably by gaining access to local fishers’ knowledge and potentially increasing their compliance with regulatory measures (see Chapter 2).

When co-management involves the state and Indigenous peoples, it has also been described as holding the potential to reduce conflicts over resources while offering opportunities for incorporating and formalising Indigenous knowledge, skills and practices (Castro & Nielsen, 2001). However, this controversial managerial paradigm is highly complex and variable. For example, co-management has been reported as capable of both reducing conflicts over resources and creating them. It can bring Indigenous voice into decision-making, but also expand state control over Indigenous peoples’ lives and territories (Caruso, 2011). While providing space for

Indigenous worldviews to inform management decisions, it can enable the state to impose its perspectives on environmental governance (Whyte, 2013). In other words, co-management provides a space where power asymmetries and ongoing colonial projects, or Indigenous agency and self-determination, may flourish. It is a space for potential transformation but also co- optation (Diver, 2016).

This suggests a need for a deeper questioning of ‘the project of co-management itself’ (2005a, p. 215). While research on co-management has proliferated over the last four decades1, there have been relatively few studies critically examining the fundamental assumptions, institutions, and politics underpinning co-management arrangements (but see Nadasdy, 2003b; Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; Nadasdy, 2005a; Chuenpagdee & Jentoft, 2007; Caruso, 2011; Whaley & Weatherhead, 2014). Similarly, there has been little analysis of the setting and outcomes of Indigenous knowledge integration processes within co-management strategies (Spak, 2005), or what constitutes ‘success’, and who defines it, in such contexts (Nadasdy, 2003b; Welch-Devine, 2012).

These questions bring to the fore issues of political ecology and political ontology, bringing a critical analysis of power and institutional inequalities into studies of co-management, including how such power, in the form environmental ‘speak’ and processes have had a tendency to render ‘Aboriginal ways of relating to their lands and resources virtually invisible in co- management’ (Stevenson, 2006, p. 108). For example, Nadasdy points to the necessity of ‘restructuring the very institutions, practices, and underlying assumptions of wildlife management’ (2003b, p. 379). Similarly, Butler suggests investigating the ‘core structure of regulation and management’ within co-management (2005, p. 239). In their systematic review of the literature on small-scale fisheries co-management, d’Armengol et al. highlight the lack of emphasis on power asymmetries and distributional equity; outcomes which have ‘rarely [been] explored in depth’ (2018, p. 222). Recent studies have also established a link between co-

1 A large proportion of these studies have focused on the nature of co-management arrangements, their implementation in various contexts, their successes, opportunities, ecological and social benefits and challenges (e.g. integration of various knowledge systems, impediments to user participation) as well as the enumeration of possible solutions to these problems (Nadasdy, 2003b, 2005a; Chuenpagdee & Jentoft, 2007; Jentoft, 2007; Hunt et al., 2009). 2 management and the penetration of neoliberalism into small-scale fisheries systems (Davis & Ruddle, 2012).

The need to pay attention to ‘the initial stages, or the pre-implementation of co- management’ is highlighted by Chuenpagdee and Jentoft (2007, p. 657). This includes whether the ‘performance of co-management initiatives is sensitive to the nature of the pre-existing management system’ (d’Armengol et al., 2018, p. 223, see also Mulrennan & Scott, 2005). Menzies and Butler stress strong consideration of ‘traditional fishing techniques and technologies and the ways in which they might contribute to sustainable harvesting and species conservation, and indeed provide an alternative to current practices’ (2007b, p. 459). As Mulrennan and Scott argue, ‘“co-management” should respond as much to indigenous tenure, knowledge and management practices as to state-organized property definitions, management science and bureaucracy’ (2005, p. 207). To leave unchallenged the largely Eurocentric assumptions embedded in the dominant resource management, development and conservation discourses and practices—that is assumptions about sea ownership, knowledge systems, indigeneity, traditions, stakeholders, economies, bureaucratic framework, and separation of commercial and subsistence fishing—‘risks’, as Howitt and Suchet-Pearson warn, ‘reimposing colonial power relations on groups who make different sense of the world’ (2006, p. 323).

It is in this space, where the preoccupations of political ecology and political ontology intersect, that my thesis makes its main contributions. It makes visible the numerous ontological and political barriers—located at the core of bureaucratic and managerial structures—to Indigenous peoples’ rights and their capacity to partake meaningfully in the decisions that affect their lives. It also brings attention to Indigenous agency and performance of their lifeways within and outside the co-management relationship. It focuses particularly on fisheries co-management in the Torres Strait, where the lifeways of Torres Strait Islanders are deeply interconnected with the sea. As such, the region offers a particularly rich and complex context to investigate whether co-management structures can indeed embrace and enact Indigenous ontologies and knowledge systems and aspirations; thereby leading to transformations in fisheries management and economic development orientations.

3

Co-management in context: The Torres Strait

Torres Strait Islanders2 are the traditional custodians of most of the region’s land and sea. As Melanesian peoples, they share strong cultural and kinship ties with Papuan peoples of the coastal villages and islands of PNG’s Western Province. They also have family and trade relationships with the Kaurareg people3, traditional custodians of the Kaiwalagal island cluster which comprises Waiben (Thursday Island), as well as with other traditional custodians of the countries located along the Cape York Peninsula.

Torres Strait Islanders belong to enduring seafaring cultures. While today’s land-based employment has led many to spend more time on the land, their lifeways remain interconnected with the sea where they learn and transfer their knowledge, build and maintain their identity4, travel, fish, hunt and collect a large variety of seafood for ceremonial, consumption, commercial and trading purposes. Torres Strait Islanders have a long history of involvement in commercial fisheries, whether as part of the region’s extensive trade network pre-dating colonisation (Chapter 3) or the colonial-era commercial fisheries beginning in the mid-1800s (see Chapter 4). Their involvements in these spaces has been characterised by various degrees of entanglement with new ways of being and doing which they articulated with their own.

Torres Strait Islanders have been highly politically active in this space. For many decades, and perhaps over a century, Torres Strait Islanders have fought with fervour and determination for the recognition of their rights to control their marine territories, their livelihoods and their lives. They have done so by deploying a wide array of strategies: from concerted strikes to declarations of secession, legal land and sea claims5, attempts to interrupt

2 The Torres Strait (or Zenadh Kes) is an archipelago located in far North Queensland (Australia). Torres Strait Islander is the generic label assigned to Torres Strait’s Indigenous Nations. I am using this term when discussing matters concerning the entire Indigenous population of the Strait. I will, however, use the vernacular name when speaking about specific peoples. As an artefact of colonisation, the name Torres Strait is increasingly contested. The late Mabuiagal Elder Ephraim Bani proposed that the name be replaced by Zenadh Kes. This proposition appears to be increasingly popular in the region. The name Torres Strait Islanders is an amalgam of Indigenous peoples who are traditional owners of the islands located on the Australian side of the border of what is now known as Torres Strait. Torres Strait Islanders include distinct peoples, with their own cultures, traditions, and aspirations. As such, and despite several similarities, the lifeways or perspectives of a given community, and particular kin structures, should not be interpreted too hastily as characterising the whole of Torres Strait. 3 In contrast to most Torres Strait Islanders, the Aboriginal Kaurareg populations were dislocated from their islands. Many of them were relocated to the Island of Moa (Arthur, 2005a). 4 For example, the catch of a first turtle or dugong are salient thresholds of male Torres Strait Islanders lives. 5 Known respectively as the Mabo (1992) and Akiba (2013) cases. 4 damaging industrial fishing operations in their waters, and the creation of political and local government bodies. The Torres Strait Treaty, ratified by Australia and Papua New Guinea (PNG) in 1985, and the related Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984 (TSFA), left the door ajar for the development of fisheries co-management arrangements in the region by establishing a complex advisory and consultative structure. Involving Torres Strait Islanders, federal and state government agencies, fisheries scientists, and industry representatives, the role of this structure has been, from the outset, to support the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA), the statutory body established by the TSFA to manage the region’s commercial fisheries. Initially limited to the Commonwealth (Federal) and Queensland ministers holding fisheries portfolios, the PZJA was not intended as a mechanism to support the devolution of power from central governments to Torres Strait Islanders. It has to be noted, however, that one of the responsibilities bestowed upon the PZJA through the Torres Strait Treaty is to acknowledge and protect the traditional way of life and livelihood of Torres Strait’s traditional inhabitants.

In 1993, the Marine Strategy for the Torres Strait—an Islander initiative produced in collaboration with social and natural science scholars—articulated Islanders’ determination to be co-managers of their marine territories. Through the Strategy, Islanders clearly stated the non- negotiable requirement that their lifeways, values, ownership regime, knowledge and aspirations must become central to management decisions. A subset of a broader self-determination project6, the Marine Strategy was also supported by a series of local initiatives that led to the adoption of formal co-management arrangements for the Torres Strait fisheries with the gain, in 2002, of an Islander seat at the PZJA level and increased Islander representation across the PZJA consultative platform (see Chapter 4).

While the Strategy clearly signalled their desire for autonomy over Torres Strait lands and waters, the Islanders involved in developing this vision for a way forward opted to engage in a partnership with central governments, a strategic decision that Islanders considered a compromise. To borrow the words of late Torres Strait Elder Steve Mam, this initiative allowed them ‘[…] to meet you [government managers] somewhere along the line from our side of things. It’s compromising—we want to meet you half way. But you must have a clear picture of

6 See Principles and Objectives for the Future of Torres Strait (Island Coordinating Council, 1991). 5 all this—you must have a clear picture of what we want in the Torres Strait—and remember that we have a long term and you have the short term’ (quoted in Mulrennan & McGrath, 1994, p. 78).

Purpose of the Study

The core question for this thesis, understanding the fishery as a ’contact zone’ (Pratt, 1992), is hence the following: how do fisheries co-management strategies include, exclude, use and transform different knowledge systems (scientific and Indigenous) and associated, often conflicting, notions of occupation, property and authority in land and sea? Central to this is a need to interrogate and unpack some of the root metaphors, assumptions, institutions, and power relations underpinning co-management arrangements involving both state governments and Indigenous nations. In other words, this thesis asks: can co-management genuinely accommodate divergent ontological and epistemological standpoints? Or does it instead contribute to the bureaucratisation of Indigenous peoples and further territorialisation of their land and marine estates?

From at least the mid-1930s, Torres Strait Islanders have fought to regain control over their marine territories and fisheries; signalling, among other things, their determination to be involved in the management of Torres Strait fisheries, and shaping the formal co-management structure which has emerged, in various iterations, since 2002. My research explores whether Torres Strait Islanders’ involvement has had a genuine transformative influence on the region’s fisheries management strategies and directions. It questions whether, after years of involvement with and within the PZJA-led fisheries co-management structure and processes, Islanders have succeeded in ‘indigenising’ Torres Strait fisheries management and development orientations.

I find it useful to approach fisheries co-management as a ‘contact zone’, that is as ‘social spaces where disparate cultures meet, clash and grapple with each other, often in highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination—like colonialism [or its] aftermaths as they are lived out across the globe today’ (Pratt, 1992, p. 4). In the case of co-management, such contact zones occur at the intersection of western sciences’ perspectives and accompanying bureaucratic culture and local Indigenous ontologies and knowledge systems, noting that none of these categories are internally homogenous and exists fully disconnected from the others.

6

The thesis makes two important contributions to the limited but growing scholarship adopting a critical stance on co-management. Firstly, by documenting the forms of collaboration and conflict—as well as the range of assumptions—driving Torres Strait co-management processes and management decisions, I argue that Indigenous worldviews and lifeways must not merely be accommodated but must be fundamental to the design and implementation of co- management arrangements. I also demonstrate how competing standpoints on ownership and access rights to marine territories, resource management and economic development underpinning the PZJA management structure have tended to hinder genuine dialogue and collaboration between the various actors involved. A shift in paradigm is critically needed if fisheries co-management is to support Islander defined fisheries and broader lifeways.

These contributions are realised through a multi-level ethnographic analysis of the forms this ‘relation of management’7 has taken in the Torres Strait. This multilevel analysis requires two interconnected ethnographies. The first delves into investigating and describing what constitutes Torres Strait Islanders’ traditional way of life and livelihood. To achieve this aim, it was necessary to build knowledge on the dynamic institutions, systems and values that shape Islanders’ everyday life and relationships with the sea.

Bearing in mind that every Island community is unique and internally diverse, from the outset, this research focused on experience and perspectives at the community of Masig. This ethnographic study provides insights into the intricacies of their fisheries system, including how it is regulated by Islanders’ customary marine tenure regime and embedded within the Island’s relational economy. This ethnographic account also aims to demonstrate how Masig fishers’ knowledge goes far beyond their dynamic and intimate understandings of their marine environment and animals. This knowledge is deeply entangled with local and external laws, value systems, markets, and politics.

The ethnography of Masig Islanders’ fisheries system offers a strong base to contrast and analyse the data obtained from the second ethnographic site, that is, the PZJA meetings. The

7 Drawing on Escobar (Escobar, 1991, 1997a) and Labrecque (2000) ‘relation de développement’, I find useful to approach co-management as a relationship. This enables me to examine the performance and experience of co- management, paying attention to the power dynamics among actors and institutions, range of assumptions and communication challenges that are part of this relationship. 7 institutional ethnography of fisheries meetings and PZJA agencies allowed me to scrutinise co- management processes, standpoints and strategies and the conditions of Torres Strait Islanders’ involvements in this structure; and explore the ways in which Torres Strait Islanders’ socioecological and political knowledge, traditional way of life and livelihood have been incorporated within the management processes to inform fisheries management and development outcomes.

Together, these community and institutional ethnographies render visible some of the ways Islander groups are resisting, reclaiming and reinvesting in some of the existing political and legal instruments and structures to influence fisheries management decisions. It also shows how unresolved competing standpoints, especially with regard to marine sovereignty, have resulted in endless parallel monologues.

The following section delineates the methodological and ethical underpinnings of this thesis and presents the general context in which the research unfolded.

Mode of inquiry, ethics and context Methodology

Part of this research followed a classic anthropological research methodology. It draws on extensive ethnographic fieldwork—in this case over 15 months conducted between mid-July 2008 and January 2010—weaving together participant-observation, formal and informal interviews, life-stories, storytelling, and text-based research. It involved sharing good, sad, intense and relaxed moments with the people I got to know and was privileged to build relationships with along the way and most importantly, it was about deep listening and trying to see beyond what my eyes and mind had been trained to see as a North American, Québécoise, French speaking female raised in a small wooded village outside Québec City. Most of the fieldwork took place on the Island of Masig. Masig was chosen building on my supervisor, Colin Scott’s, relationships with members of the community to whom he presented my research project. An invitation was extended to me by Masig’s former Councillor, Mr John Mosby, as a result. On Masig, I largely focused on understanding the intricacies of Masig’s everyday life, fisheries related activities and knowledge, broader economy, and interconnections with the regional fisheries management structure. Waiben, or Thursday Island, was the site of what can be

8 described as an institutional ethnography which combined the research methods enunciated above applied mainly, in this context, to the PZJA and the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA), their fisheries meeting cycles and organisational structures. Part of the research also involved attending meetings in Cairns (July 2008), Islander sea claim Federal Court Hearing sessions on Poruma (October 2008) and a High Court appeal hearing in Canberra (July 2013). This fieldwork was complemented by a thorough review of the literature (from academic papers, newspaper articles, published and unpublished documents, grey literature and so on).

My research is essentially qualitative and followed an empirical-inductive logic. As Creswell notes, ‘the qualitative design is one in which the rules and procedures are not fixed, but rather open and emerging’ (1994, p. 8). As I was initially an outsider to Masig and as a non- Islander, this choice of research design was the most appropriate, notably because it created a space for the unexpected to permeate the research. This choice also stemmed from an acknowledgment that ‘no one can “know” what it is to experience the web of relationships that is the world from a position they do not hold’ (Kwaymullina, 2016, p. 441). Accordingly, and most importantly, this approach allowed for my research collaborators, whose interests are at stake, to inform the research directions and ensure my research aligned with their concerns and needs. To that effect, a Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) describing my research, its process, its objectives and my responsibilities and rights as a researcher was developed in the first few weeks of my fieldwork with members of Masig community. My research question and the objectives were thus initially based on a quite general theoretical framing which was refined over the course of the fieldwork. An outline of questions was also developed to guide the semi-directed interviews throughout my fieldwork (See Annex 1). As a researcher, I adopted a standpoint strongly guided by reflexivity and decolonising principles building on values such as ‘respect, responsibility, reciprocity and relevance’ (Arsenault et al., 2018, p. 4); relational accountability; and humility and knowledge co-production (Kwame, 2017). It was also guided by an awareness of the power asymmetries embedded in the practice of research. Through this research, I have also given prominence to Masig and broader Torres Strait Islanders’ standpoints.

While on Masig, I conducted interviews and conversed with men and women aged from their early 20s to their late 70s. I worked over multiple sessions with many of the Elders and other community members who were strongly involved with the local commercial and non-

9 commercial fisheries at the time of the research, or who had been in the past. These formal and informal sessions occurred across a wide range of locations. I met my collaborators at their domiciles around their kitchen table or in their backyard, at the freezer house, and the local Council, Police and Immigration offices. We met at the outdoor community area, at St-John’s Anglican Church after Sundays’ services, in cars to take advantage of air-conditioning, in and in front of one of the two local stores, in dinghies while fishing or travelling, on the beach, at the jetty and so on. When possible, and with peoples’ informed consent, interviews were audio- recorded to complement my note taking. Formal interviews followed a semi-structured model and lasted from 30 minutes with some extending to a whole afternoon sustained by cookies and tea. Some events, activities and discussions were also filmed with the permission of those present.

Over the course of my fieldwork, 31 out of approximately 265 Masig Islanders (or approximately 22 % of the population aged over 25) were formally interviewed on multiple occasions.8 My collaborators included the two Community Fishers Group (CFG) representatives, the Island Councillor and Island Manager, the freezer operator, full time and part-time active and ‘retired’ commercial fishers. Many more community members have taken part in this research on a more informal basis. I also had discussions with some of the marine scientists who worked on the Island’s sponge farm project. The timing and location of the interviews and conversations were often matter of serendipity, with many ad hoc discussions happening as I encountered people on the street, at the beach or in other public areas. The interviews and conversations were conducted in a mixture of , English, and words in Kala Lagaw Ya/Kulkalgal ya (traditional languages of Western and Central Torres Strait). On occasion, maps, photos, music, and films were used to kindle conversations on specific topics.

Over the 15 months spent on the Island, I lived in three different households. For the first two months of my fieldwork, I stayed with Awa9 Dan Mosby, one of Masig’s Elders whose rich stories have been invaluable to this research. His and other Elders’ generous accounts of Masig’s

8 While, with the exception of one person, the collaborators interviewed have accepted to be identified, I have largely opted for the use of pseudonyms to limit possible negative social repercussions linked with their participation in this research. 9 Awa is the honorific vernacular for ‘uncle’. Over the course of this thesis, I use the local kinship nomenclature both as a sign of respect and to express my relationship with the named person. 10 past, present, and aspirations for the future provided some sense of the Island’s fisheries and social history and culture. Through their stories, I met many of their ancestors who have shaped their community. I progressively got acquainted with the local families, how they are connected and how their kinship networks expand in all directions, reaching the southern region of PNG’s Western Province, every island of the Torres Strait, communities on Cape York, in Cairns, Brisbane and beyond. I used the first weeks to a month on Masig to slowly get to know the Island and its people. Awa John Mosby and Awa Dan Mosby introduced me to a few key community members, such as Masig’s freezer operator, Awa John Morris. My network expanded progressively based on community members’ recommendations and as the word spread on the reason for my presence on the Island.

As mentioned above, participant-observation was an important dimension of my fieldwork. This mode of inquiry provides ethnographers with invaluable opportunities to ‘come to understand the nuances and details of everyday life’ (Menzies, 2001, p. 27). Partaking in the quotidian of the Island for 15 months added layers of complexity and depth to the information obtained through the interview process. Because I focused on the local fisheries, aspects of this everyday life included being taught and shown various fishing techniques for the different species, tides, seasons, and time of the day, including hours of snorkelling on the reef looking for kaiar (tropical rock lobster), fishing off dinghies, camping on uninhabited islands, witnessing how turtles are hunted, and so on. Whenever possible, I have attended fisheries and community meetings covering fisheries issues. I also joined forces with the CFG representative, Awa Gavin Mosby, helping him with note taking on a few occasions during such meetings. Besides conducting interviews, my time on Masig consisted largely of walks, often punctuated by long chats with the people encountered along the way, time spent with friends and parents and their children at the beach, swimming, fishing and watching the kids inventing worlds with anything they could find on the sand. It was sharing meals, stories, laughter and tears. It was about contributing to community life where I could, helping with preparing events, bringing dishes to feasts, creating a slide presentation for the primary school graduation, helping to build baskets for the Masig’s pilot sponge farm, etc. I learnt many Kala Lagaw Ya songs during evening community practices. It was also about trying my best to understand what to do when community members passed away or lost loved ones. These experiences and relationships helped build my

11 understanding of the fisheries, their broader socioecological context, and their importance for Masig Islanders. Menzies writes that ‘[o]ur research brings us into direct contact, over extended periods of time, with real people […] in fact many of us do form lasting personal relationships with the people we work with and live among while doing our fieldwork’ (2001, p. 27). On the Island and across the Strait, I made many friends, and I gained several family members, as I also met my life partner on Masig. His presence and support over both the period of my fieldwork and the writing process have provided me with invaluable insights and perspectives.

On Waiben, my fieldwork consisted of semi-directed interviews with managers and employees of the TSRA, its Land and Sea Management Unit (LSMU) and the Australian Fisheries Management Authority (AFMA) as well as participant-observation in meetings and workshops. I paid attention to the locations and physical settings of these meetings and workshops, who chaired them, the ways the agendas were presented, the content covered and added by participants, the language used, the place given to Islander fishers’ representatives in the discussions, and the interactions taking place behind the scene, that is, during breaks, lunch, dinners, drinks and returning trips. These breaks also provided brief occasions to have discussions with fisheries representatives from across the region. I took minutes for one of the TSRA’s CFG meetings. I was introduced in most meetings by the committee’s Chair with an option provided for the participants to object to my presence. I was heavily questioned by two Islander representatives during my first fisheries meeting on Waiben. They inquired about the nature of my presence and whether I had obtained authorisations to conduct this research from the right people, which I did thanks to former Councillor John Mosby who guided me through the local protocols. My stays on Waiben were often short, from two days to a week. CFGs often travelled to Waiben for the duration of the meetings, returning to their home islands almost as soon as these were over. The commercial airline service across the Torres Strait was grounded for approximately nine months of my fieldwork. Travel between islands was, therefore, more limited and difficult than usual. However, I received support from the TSRA and the Torres Strait Reef Pilots to travel from Masig to attend meetings on Waiben.

Ethical considerations

Ethical concerns can be grouped into two categories; that is, the official ethical and research integrity requirements associated with conducting research involving humans; and the

12 ethical and moral responsibilities and rights embedded in local cultural protocols. Concerning the first aspect, my doctoral project was approved by the Ethics Board of McGill University on the 11th of February 2008 and renewed in February 2009 and 2010.

Menzies stresses that non-Indigenous researchers ‘will only make meaningful contribution if [they] change their approach so that it becomes part of a process of decolonization’ (Menzies, 2001, p. 21). This process requires the researcher to open the research design to changes but also to respect and privilege local protocols. I sought to get acquainted with the formal cultural protocols regarding how to be and how to conduct respectful research with Torres Strait Islander collaborators when I arrived on Waiben. At the time, the TSRA offered a workshop on cultural questions hosted by Gabriel Bani. While this workshop was certainly a useful introduction highlighting important dimensions of how to be in the Torres Strait, cultural awareness can hardly be achieved through courses and workshops. It must be lived. It grows and is embodied through a continuous and immersive learning process, through listening, asking questions (when appropriate) and observing, and through a number of faux-pas. It requires great patience (especially from the host side of the relationship), humility and humour. My approach to doing fieldwork learnt through past fieldwork experience in Australia and Vietnam, has been to proceed with small-steps, taking time to get familiar with the place and people and allowing people to become at ease with my presence, a luxury which one can fortunately afford while conducting more sustained fieldwork.

Respect includes an acknowledgement that the knowledge and personal stories shared through interviews and discussions are the intellectual property of my collaborators who are co- producers of the knowledge. There are therefore important responsibilities involved in drawing on this material. In light of this, my analysis and conclusions have been presented to and discussed with numerous members of the community prior to publication. This doesn’t mean that there is no space for disagreements or that a piece becomes non-rigorous. It is instead, as Menzies remarks, part of a ‘peer-review process’ (2001, p. 23).

I have worked on this thesis over several years while employed at the Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (Australian National University; ANU) and the ANU Gender Institute. Over the years, I have had the privilege to discuss and enrich my thoughts and

13 analysis through interactions with the aka (grand-mothers) and athe (grand-fathers), awa (uncles), aunties, bala (brothers) and sissy (sisters) of all ages and from across the Torres Strait who came to visit us in Canberra. I also visited Cairns, Thursday Island, and Masig in November 2017 and February 2019, to seek feedback on my analysis with a number of community members, some of whom are named in our MoU, as well as others with whom I worked closely throughout this research. I have also discussed findings emerging in Chapter Nine, which are largely based on the institutional ethnography aspect of my research and the general conclusion with Torres Strait Islander leaders and managers. This was an opportunity to ensure the analysis and conclusions of my thesis reflect their reality, to discuss how the material and analysis gathered for this thesis can be transferred for it to be most useful for Masig and the broader Torres Strait fishers and community, and to explore options for how we can work together to design material and strategies to influence related policies.

Setting the scene

Before going further, it is imperative to provide some information about the Torres Strait region and its peoples and more specifically about Masig where most of this research was conducted. The context provided here includes demographic data available around the time I have conducted the fieldwork for this research, that is between 2008-2010.

14

The Torres Strait/Zenadh Kes region

Map 1: Source, Lahn, 2003 The Torres Strait covers an area of approximately 48,000 square kilometres, stretching from the Coral Sea to the Gulf of Carpentaria and connecting the tip of Cape York (north Queensland) to the southern shores of PNG. On the Australian side of the border, the archipelago comprises over 270 islands, coral cays and reefs, 18 of which are permanently inhabited while many more are occasionally populated and regularly visited for diverse purposes (commercial and subsistence fishing, collection of bird eggs, turtle hunting, etc.).

Torres Strait is generally divided into five socio-linguistic and ecological clusters or what Fuary describes as ‘cultural zones’ (1991, p. 59). The Guda Maluyligal (Top Western) cluster includes Saibai, Dauan and Boigu; the Maluyligal (Western) cluster comprised of Badu,

15

Mabuiag, and the communities of Kubin and St-Pauls on ; the Kaiwalagal (Inner Islands) cluster which includes Waiben (Thursday Island), Ngurupai, Kirriri and Muralug; the Kulkalgal (Central) cluster regrouping the island of Warraber, Poruma, Iama and Masig; and finally, the Meriam (Eastern) cluster composed of Erub, Ugar, and Mer (including Waier and Dauar). Each of these clusters is characterised by its traditional language; the western-central zone of the Torres Strait speaking dialects of Kala Law Ya—Kala Kawaw Ya (Guda Maluyligal), Kala Lagaw Ya (Maluyligal), Kaurareg (Kaiwalagal), Kulkalgaw Ya (Kulkalgal)) and the eastern cluster speaking variations of Meriam Mir. Masig is, however, a special case. Having strong connections with Eastern Islanders, their language variation includes Meriam Mir words. The impact of colonial processes on these languages has been devastating. While local traditional languages remain spoken regularly in communities such as Saibai, Boigu, Dauan, Badu, and Mer, other communities, like Masig, had no fluent speaker over the life span of this project. Efforts have since been made to renew Kala Lagaw Ya (and Kulkalgal Ya) by teaching the language at the local primary school and in the broader community. Words of the original languages are embedded in the English-based creole which progressively replaced local languages from as early as the 1840s (Moore, 1979). Today, Torres Strait Creole, also known as ‘broken’, yumplatok or Ailan tok, is Torres Strait Islanders’ linga franca. English is widely understood and spoken. People of Papuan descent may also speak Papuan languages. Creole and English were the languages used in the context of this research.

As mentioned earlier, the Torres Strait is traversed by an international border defining the maritime territories of both Australia and PNG which is located only few kilometres north of Saibai, Boigu and Dauan. In addition to this border, multiple jurisdiction lines also define fishing rights, seabed jurisdiction, and territorial seas for each country. These various boundaries were co-agreed upon by Australia and Papua New Guinea following the PNG independence in 1978 with little regard for Torres Strait Islanders and Papuan neighbours’ own boundaries which delineate their respective sea domains based on their enduring marine tenure regimes. This disregard for local tenure regimes and sovereignty over vast land and sea territories is a salient aspect of the management relationship involving the Australian state and Torres Strait Islanders and will be discussed at length through this thesis.

16

Overall, Torres Strait ecosystems are rich but fragile; from the mangrove and seagrass meadows of the west which support the world’s largest dugong population, to the reef-strewn channels of the central-east notably rich in reef fish, mackerels and prawns. The marine resources coveted by Islander and non-Islander fishers are distributed unevenly across the region. Islander communities have a differential, and often mediated, access to profitable fishing grounds and culturally significant species. Dagnal (dugongs), for instance, are a rare occurrence in Kulkalgal waters and accordingly, are seldom caught by Kulkalgal hunters. Many Western Islanders, on the other hand, are fond of thupmul (a type of ray) and selpis (clamshells) which thrive mainly in Kulkalgal waters. Dagnal, thupmul and selpis meat is therefore exchanged through established networks connecting communities from both clusters. The hawksbill and green sea turtles, which are species of great cultural and spiritual significance for Torres Strait Islanders, can be found across the region but the clear water of the Kulkalgal territories make the turtles living in this space more desirable. Torres Strait waters host a number of commercial fisheries including the tropical rock lobster (kaiar), prawns, trochus shell (kabar), mackerel (duboi), coral trout (witi), crab (githalay), barramundi, bêche-de-mer, and pearl shell (mai). Both Islanders and non-Islanders fishers are active in the region10, but access to some fisheries and the expansion of commercial fishing efforts are reserved for the Islander sector. Torres Strait Islanders are absent from the highly industrialised prawn fishery. More details on these species and fisheries practices will be provided in Chapter Six.

The region’s terrestrial ecosystems are as diverse as their marine counterparts. The richness or poverty of the soils influenced the degree of Islander groups’ reliance on marine resources. The extremely fertile soils of the volcanic Eastern islands and good soils of the Top Western group allowed them to focus on horticulture as a key facet of their livelihood while the Kulkalgals who largely inhabit low-lying sand cays with poor soils and limited sources of freshwater depended largely on the sea and on trade as mean of subsistence (Fuary, 1991; Johannes & MacFarlane, 1991; Lawrence & McGrath, 1994; Lawrence & Lawrence, 2004).

10 The region’s two most lucrative fisheries are the tropical rock lobster and prawn fisheries which, for the 2008-09 financial year worth AUD$6.94 million (228 tons) and AUD$6.4 million (505 tons) respectively (Wilson et al., 2010). Over the 2016-17 financial year, these figures raised to AUD$12.9 million (283 tons) for the lobster fishery while the prawn fishery dropped to AUD$4.0 million (249 tons) (Commonwealth of Australia, 2018).

17

For administrative purposes, the Torres Strait is subdivided into three regions11; the Outer Islands, the Inner Islands and the Northern Peninsula Area (NPA). The Outer Islands are, as Arthur emphasises, ‘overwhelmingly an Islander domain’ (2005a, p. 13) with approximately 90 per cent of the area’s population of 4,015 identifying as Torres Strait Islanders (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2012). This area is comprised of the 13 inhabited Islands of the Kalakawal, Kalalagal, Kulkalgal and Meriam clusters. Demographically, the size of these small Islander communities ranges from 48 inhabitants on Ugar in the eastern Strait to 782 on the western island of Badu (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2012). The Outer Island area is entirely encompassed in the Torres Strait Protected Zone (TSPZ), administered by the PZJA.

The Inner Islands area corresponds to the Kaiwalagal cluster, a Kaurareg territory. Thursday Island, located in this area, has been the Torres Strait administrative centre since 1877. The Island is Torres Strait’s largest in terms of population size which was estimated to be just over 2,600 inhabitants in 2011 (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2012). Thursday Island’s population is also the most multicultural. Sixty-five per cent of the people living on the Island identify as Indigenous (ibid.). The historical migrations associated with the development of the pearl and bêche-de-mer industry from the 1860s have resulted in a large proportion of Torres Strait Islanders sharing European, Malay, Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, Papuan and Polynesian ancestry. As an administrative town, Thursday Island hosts several state and Commonwealth government departments, including the Australian Fisheries Management Authority (AFMA) and Queensland Boating and Fisheries Patrol (QFBP), attracting public servants from the Australian mainland.

The NPA includes the Aboriginal communities of , Umagico, and New Mapoon as well as the Islander communities of and Seisia. The Inner Islands and NPA are located outside the TSPZ and are therefore not implicated in the PZJA’s decisions.

While the total Islander population in the Torres Strait was estimated at 5791 inhabitants in 2011 (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2012), approximately 42,000 Torres Strait Islanders live permanently on Australia’s mainland. The Torres Strait Islander population is quite mobile.

11 Given their ageless relationship and connections with the Torres Strait, Arthur (2005a) notes that the Treaty villages of the Western Province of PNG could be added as a fourth region. 18

Islanders from the outer Strait region use Thursday Island and the mainland as an extension of their home island. People often migrate in and out of the Torres Strait for work, education, health or other reasons.

As one of Australia’s two international borders, the region is geopolitically sensitive and of strategic significance. Accordingly, it receives considerable attention from the Commonwealth of Australia’s government principally regarding defence, immigration, customs and quarantine, as well as natural resource and fisheries matters (Babbage, 1990; Commonwealth of Australia, 2010). As an international shipping route, the region is also subject to Article 17 of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) concerning the right of innocent passage which entitles foreign vessels to traverse Torres Strait waters. Keon-Cohen, barrister in the Mabo case, describes the Torres Strait as ‘an area the subject of layer upon layer of legislative control, and indeed an international treaty between Australia and Papua New Guinea’ (in Butler, 2010). While the Torres Strait Treaty purportedly recognises both countries’ interests12 in and responsibilities for the region’s fisheries, this bilateral agreement also upholds the centrality of the Torres Strait marine environment for the region’s ‘traditional inhabitants’ and their traditional way of life and livelihood.13 This acknowledgement, partly resulting from political pressure exercised by Torres Strait Islanders, buttresses the PZJA’s mandate to protect Islanders’ traditional fisheries and consult with Islander groups over fisheries management matters (see Chapter 5). Whereas the relationship with PNG and the communities of the Treaty villages is a paramount facet of the Treaty and has significant structural effects on fisheries management in the Torres Strait, this thesis focuses most specifically on the relationship of management between the Australian Government and Torres Strait Islanders, lifeways and perspectives.

Layers of governments in the Outer Torres Strait

This thesis focuses essentially on matters concerning the Outer Island region of the Torres Strait. In 2008, the region was administered by one local governing body, the Torres

12 The Torres Strait Treaty has regularly been criticised and contested by Torres Strait Islander leaders, Papuans from the Treaty villages as well as by the PNG government (see for example, http://asopa.typepad.com/asopa_people/2015/07/oneill-calls-for-review-of-torres-strait-border-arrangements.html (last accessed on 21 March 2019). 13 The category ‘Torres Strait traditional inhabitants’ includes Papuan peoples from thirteen villages (known as the Treaty villages) north of the border. 19

Strait Island Regional Council (TSIRC) and by the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA)14, an Australian Government Statutory Authority responsible for formulating and implementing programs for Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal peoples living in the region and sustaining Torres Strait Islanders’ ailan kastom (Island culture). The Torres Strait Island Regional Council (TSIRC) was created in March 2008 as a result of the agglomeration of 15 formerly autonomous Island Councils following enactment of the Queensland Local Government Reform Implementation Act 2007 (the Reform Act). Composed of 15 Councillors representing each of the Outer Island communities, and headed by Mayor Fred Gela since its inception, the TSIRC is administered from Waiben. As a local government, the TSIRC provides facilities and services (from roads, water, waste management, housing, to climate change adaptation planning as well as cultural and native title services.15 The remaining Inner Islands and the NPA are governed respectively by the Torres Shire Council and the Northern Peninsula Area Regional Council (NPARC).

As mentioned above, the PZJA is the institution responsible for the management of the region’s commercial and ‘traditional’ fisheries. Established through the Torres Strait Treaty and ensuing Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984, this institution is vested with three key mandates: to acknowledge and protect Islanders’ traditional way of life and livelihood, to preserve and manage the marine environment within the Protected Zone and to facilitate the ‘optimal sustainable utilisation’ of the resources.

Native title to all of Torres Strait’s island communities has been recognised. A regional sea claim was ongoing at the time of this research, seeking the recognition of the persistence of native title rights over approximately 44,000 square kilometres of sea. In 2013, on appeal, the rendered a decision in favour of the Torres Strait Islander claimants. Colloquially known as the Akiba Case, this native title determination is a landmark case as it recognised for the first-time commercial native title rights and interests, in this case, over the marine resources of the zone (Brennan, 2012; Butterly, 2013). As this thesis is mainly concerned with the 2008-2010 period, discussions about the outcomes of the Akiba case and its impacts on fisheries co-management arrangement are beyond its scope, but see Butterly (2013).

14 http://www.tsra.gov.au/the-tsra (last accessed on 12 March 2019). 15 http://www.tsirc.qld.gov.au/your-council/who-we-are/about-council (last accessed on 12 March 2019). 20

Masig

Masig is part of a group of inhabited and uninhabited islands located within the Kulkalgal cluster. Situated at the eastern edge of this cluster, it lies geographically closer to the eastern islands of Ugar and Erub, than to its nearest Kulkalgal neighbour, Poruma. Its relative proximity to PNG allows the Masig Islanders to make the journey across the relatively recent border in only a few hours.16

The teardrop-shaped coral cay measures approximately 2.8 kilometres by 800 metres at its widest and rises to only three metres above sea level. The Masigalgal environment is more saltwater than land; more undulation than stasis. The waters comprising Masig Islanders’ marine domain are relatively shallow, reaching approximately 28 meters in their deepest parts (malu— deep sea). The complex daily and seasonal tidal patterns are unrelenting, expanding and reducing the surface of each island’s reef surface, giving the seascape a strong three-dimensionality and creating ‘a strong temporal dimension to sea space’ (Nietschmann, 1985, p. 135). The neap and spring tides influence fisher-hunters’ access to their reefs, dictating the right time to go out, the techniques to be used and the species to be targeted. Masig Islanders’ marine estate is an ever- changing environment. Their islands and sand banks are in constant transformation, beaten by the rhythm of the seasonal winds that relentlessly modify their configuration and erode their beaches; forming small coves which will become shelters for some fish, crustaceans and molluscs for a few months before shifting sides again. The Sager tonar or southeasterly trade winds that blow half of the year and the shorter north-westerly monsoon (Kuki tonar) both can generate very rough water conditions and poor water visibility which are often unsuitable to small boat navigation and diving. Masig’s reef-strewn waters host a rich marine biota that has supplied the small local population with food and products to trade from the pre-contact era to the present. The area is notably rich in green and hawksbill turtles, tropical rock lobsters, mackerels and coral trouts, pearl shell, trochus shell, bêche-de-mer, prawns and reef fish.

The present-day village at Masig covers roughly 900 square metres of the mid-eastern end of the island. In 2009, Masig’s Island Manager estimated the Island population at 265 persons. This represented a decline of roughly 13 percent from the population of 300 recorded

16 Traditional visits between Torres Strait Island communities and thirteen ‘treaty villages’ on the PNG side of the border are permitted under the terms of the Torres Strait Treaty. 21 during the 2006 census (Australian Bureau of, 2007). Since that census, many members of the community have moved elsewhere in the Torres Strait region or to the Australian mainland while only a few Masig Islanders living on the mainland have returned to live on the island. The population was expected to drop further with the imminent departure of a few families (Pers. Comm., AMB, 2009). This declining trend was reflected in the 2011 national census which reported a population of 238 inhabitants (Australian Bureau of, 2012). In 2011, the Island included 62 households living in homes that were mostly rented through the TSIRC (ibid.).

Until recently, a few families resided at least semi-permanently on some of the neighbouring islets, such as Mawar and Koedal. Although these islets were not inhabited over the span of this research, areas on these surrounding cays continue to be associated with and customarily owned by specific families—used as garden areas, campsites, fishing and hunting grounds and bases from which fishers can access more distant reefs.

Akin to other Outer Island communities, Masig’s population is predominantly ‘Indigenous’17 (Torres Strait Islander) ranging from approximately 89 per cent in 2006 to 97 per cent in 2011 (Torres Strait Treaty, 1985; Australian Bureau of, 2007, 2012). The remainder of the population is composed of Papuans who, having strong and sustained connections with Masig, chose to remain in Australia when PNG gained its independence, as well as a few outsiders whose presence on the Island is essentially work related (nurses, primary school teachers, an accountant, a mechanic and the reef pilots).

Commercial fishing has been a mainstay of Masig Islanders’ livelihood for over 150 years. In 2008-2010, Masig had 27 commercial fishing boat licences. Most of the Island fishers were partaking in commercial fisheries on a part-time or occasional basis. The main source of employment was the Community Development Employment Project (CDEP), a Commonwealth government employment, income support and community development program scheme (see Chapters 6 and 7).

The Island hosted a council office and community hall, a grocery store and a convenience store, a health centre, a primary school, a ten-ton freezer and processing facilities which was out-

17 The ‘Indigenous’ identifier is one of the categories of the ABS Census survey. 22 of-order from mid-2008, a CDEP shed, a mechanic workshop, a small guest house, a diesel fuelled power station, a water dam, a water treatment plant, and an airstrip. A weekly barge serviced the Island, bringing in store goods and fuel. Masig also serves as a Torres Strait Reef Pilots base which employs a few local people.

The Island’s population is remarkably young. In 2011, 53 per cent of the residents were below 25 years of age while only five per cent were aged 55 and over (Australian Bureau of, 2012). Resembling the tide with its ebbs and flows, its variations in amplitude and sporadic seasonal tidal surges, Masig’s inhabitants, including the non-Indigenous population, are highly mobile. Part of the inflows and outflows are connected to the Masig Islanders’ extensive kinship network and the sets of rights and responsibilities entrenched in these relationships.

Thesis synopsis

I hope this [research] serves a greater purpose and makes clear to whoever reads this that they understand and look from our point of view on how we see it, live by it, and manage our own affairs.

Interview with Awa Lota Warria, Masig, 2009

This thesis is organised into two main parts. Part One locates the argument theoretically and conceptually (Chapter 2)—within the fields of political ecology and political ontology—and also historically across three broad periods, that is, Bipotaim—the pre-colonial period (Chapter 3), the early colonial period to the collapse of the pearling industry (1860s to 1960s) (Chapter 4), and the post-pearling industry era (since the 1960s) (Chapter 5). Drawing heavily on the literature and complemented by information and perspectives from interviews with my collaborators on Masig, Chapters Three to Five examine various aspects of continuity and change. They explore the entanglements of governance regimes, economic rationalities, customary and state marine tenure systems and technological innovations that have shaped the dynamics of Masig and other Torres Strait communities’ engagement with their marine environment. They tell of colonial interference and impositions, but, most importantly, of Islanders’ agency, resilience, political skills and creativity. They provide a foundation for

23 understanding the complicated relationships between the Islanders and the state, the non-Islander fishing industry and the multiple actors involved in the management of Torres Strait fisheries. They also offer strong insights into Masig Islanders’ contemporary fisheries and fisheries management practices.

In Part Two, the focus shifts to a detailed ethnographic analysis of Masig Islanders’ contemporary ‘fisheries system’ (Chapter 6). I consider in depth the fishing activities, management practices, and ethics comprising this system, and how these dimensions are connected with the Island’s customary marine tenure regime and wider economic context (Chapter 7), in particular their intersection with non-Islander fishers and managers (Chapter 8). Finally, Chapter Nine provides an analysis of Torres Strait fisheries managerial and developmental apparatus and strategies. It looks at the role played by state managers, scientists and Torres Strait Islanders within the PZJA’s co-management structure and the power relationships that inform regional fisheries management.

The chapters comprising Part Two draw principally on fifteen months of ethnographic research spent mainly within Masigalgal territory, with short visits to Poruma and Ugar, and also to Waiben/Thursday Island and Cairns where I attended fisheries management group meetings. I juxtapose the quotidian of the fishers and wider community of Masig (Chapters 6, 7 and 8) and the fisheries management and development directions designed and embraced by the multiple levels of the PZJA (Chapter 9). My aim in doing so is to make visible the convergences, disjunctions and tensions that are present in economic perspectives and pursuits, marine management strategies, and relations of sea ownership and jurisdiction, as between locally grounded and managerial levels (see Chapter 9).

24

Chapter Two: Politics of co-management: theories and concepts

This chapter delineates the theoretical and conceptual foundations from which I approach the multilayered relations of power and fisheries co-management involving Indigenous peoples, the state and a range of other stakeholders. Situating the contributions of this thesis at the junction of political ecology and political ontology, I explore the shaping of fisheries management by development paradigms, neoliberalism, and processes of de-politisation/re- politisation. This chapter confronts competing, entangled and shifting positions on knowledge, marine tenure regimes, economic alternatives, participatory approaches, and empowerment. It is also inspired by the scholarship of numerous Indigenous academics working in this space.

Political ecology

A fruitful way to examine natural resource management, including co-management regimes, is through the lens of political ecology. Emerging as a sub-field of the social sciences in the 1970s, this multidisciplinary field, born from the ‘interweaving of several ecologically orientated frameworks and political economy’ (Escobar, 2010, p. 91), regards environmental debates as framed simultaneously by political, ecological and social processes (Bryant, 1992; Greenberg & Park, 1994; Escobar, 1997a; Scoones, 1999). Studies in this field focus on the ‘interrelations among nature, culture and power’ (Blaser & Escobar, 2016), looking at the conflicts and struggles, social inequalities, collaborations, exchanges and negotiations between various sociological actors (from Indigenous peoples, to a range of local groups, state governments, international agencies and private sectors, etc.) regarding the definition of, access to, and control of natural resources (Martínez-Alier, 2002).

Blaser and Escobar (2016) identify three generations of political ecology18, the most recent consisting of a transition towards what they tentatively label ‘political ontology’ (see also Escobar, 2008; 2010; Blaser, 2009b, Leff, 2015, 2017) . In its first iteration, political ecology accepted the ontological dualism and epistemological realism associated with the Western- modern perspective, where nature and culture are regarded as distinct domains19 and where the

18 As Escobar emphasises, many of the trends dominating each generation of political ecology coexist rather than replace the previous trends (2010). 19 Citing Sahlins, Asch writes, ‘[t]he dominant naturalist ontology of the Western-modern world “…supposes a world from which spirit and subjectivity were long ago evacuated…” (Sahlins 1995:163)’ (2017, p. 256). 25 sciences (including the social sciences) are considered to have privileged access to ‘reality’ (Blaser & Escobar, 2016). Political ecology’s second and third generations, which inform this thesis, question such Western-modernist epistemological and ontological postures, the later focusing on the politics of co-existence of multiple worlds or modernities (Escobar, 2010; Leff, 2015; Blaser & Escobar, 2016; Schulz, 2017). Leff speaks about ‘the necessity of deconstructing the power devices rooted in the hegemonic rationality of modernity—the logocentrism of science (Derrida, 1982), the juridical norms (Foucault, 1998), the modes of production and market logic (Marx, 1965)’ (2015, p. 64; 2017, p. 225). During the 1990s, infused by poststructuralist, post- Marxist and postcolonialist theories (Brosius, 1999; Blaser & Escobar, 2016), as well as constructivist and anti-essentialist epistemological postures (Escobar, 1999, 2010; Blaser & Escobar, 2016), the second and third generations of political ecology approach nature, identity, and ways of being as contingent and problematic. The interweaving of political ecology, poststructuralist and postcolonial theories brought the interactions and entanglements between knowledge, power, and representation to the forefront (Escobar, 1995, 1996; Peet & Watts, 1996; Escobar, 1999; Nygren & Rikoon, 2008). This shift of focus spurred a re-evaluation of core concepts of conventional natural resource management—such as ‘nature’, ‘environment’ and ‘resources’, ‘property’, and ‘knowledge’— proposing to address these concepts as socio-cultural constructions largely constituted through language rather than objective realities (Escobar, 2010). Drawing on Foucault who emphasises the need to denaturalise the concepts used to define the ‘reality’, Escobar urges us to defamiliarise the familiar (Escobar, 1997a) by placing these core notions within their historical and socio-cultural context of production and local and global networks (Escobar, 1996).

Poststructuralist political ecology is notably informed by Foucault’s concept of ‘governmentality’. Described as the ‘conduct of conduct’ (Foucault 1984), governmentality refers to the dynamic processes through which modern institutions of governance (e.g. state governments, international agencies, NGOs and other forms of bureaucracies) attempt to impose their ‘regime of truth’ (Foucault, 1976) through an assortment of discourses, techniques and mechanisms (e.g. statistics, education, training, programs, policies, surveillance apparatus, etc.) over a population, its individuals and the physical world. These discourses, techniques and mechanisms, to borrow Li’s words, notably operate ‘by educating desires and configuring habits,

26 aspirations and beliefs’ (2007a, p. 275). Asch writes that ‘one key role played by “governmentality” is to impose [the state national] identity on a jurisdiction, thereby turning the culture of one community into the culture of a jurisdiction to which all citizens must adapt to participate in public discourse’ (2007, p. 282). It is thus a process of normalisation which acts upon and aims to transform the representation systems, practices and, in the context explored in this thesis, the human-nature relationships or human-human relationships for the control of natural resources and territories. This normalisation process externally defines and circumscribes concepts such as ‘indigeneity’ and ‘Indigenous’ (Agrawal, 2005b; McCreary & Milligan, 2014) as well as Indigenous peoples’ relationship with ‘nature’ (Buege, 1996; Nadasdy, 2005b; Kahui & Richards, 2014). Hence, Foucauldian analysis, while interested in the discursive construction of ‘truths’ or ‘reality’, is mainly concerned with the ‘effects power produces’ (Agrawal, 2005b, p. 78 emphasis in original) and the manners in which ‘[h]egemonic discourses influence what are perceived as possible solutions to a particular societal problem’ (Buizer & Kurz, 2016, p. 50). When applied to the subject matter of political ecology, including fisheries management practices, this Foucauldian analysis enables us to examine how power and knowledge are harnessed (although always imperfectly)20 by governments and other dominant institutions to produce particular effects driven by a particular regime of nature (where nature is considered separate from human beings, controllable to a degree, and in need of being managed); a particular system of knowledge to make sense of it (natural, social and techno-sciences); and a set of norms which regulate the conduct of the population and individuals who are transformed into ‘environmental subjects’ (Agrawal, 2005a) and/or ‘Indigenous subjects’(Altamirano- Jiménez, 2013, p. 86). With regard to governmental programs, these ‘subjects’ are further ‘positioned’ in categories such as ‘experts’ or ‘targets’, each category enhancing or limiting the influence and the ‘capacities for action and critique’ of various actors (Li, 2007a, p. 276).

Leff highlights that ‘[p]olitical ecology deals more concretely with the power relations involved in current social movements for the reappropriation of nature, culture, technology and knowledge’ (1999, p. 21). This reminds us that co-management must be analysed in the context of ever shifting identities, relationships and with reference to the growing or weakening strength and visibility of these movements at local, national and international levels (Spaeder, 2005).

20 As Li (2007a) suggests, government programs rarely fully work according to plans. 27

Political ecology thus allows us to interrogate the multiple and complex dimensions associated with the implementation of management systems: the notion of environmental sustainability and sustainable use, and, as Peet and Watts suggest, ‘the social origins of degradation21, the plurality of perceptions and definitions of ecological problems, the need to focus on the land [and sea] manager (and his opportunities and constraints), and the pressure of production on the resource’ (1996, p. 6). In Foucault’s words ‘the real political task in a society such as ours is to criticize the working of institutions which appear to be both neutral and independent; to criticize them in such a manner that the political violence which has always exercised itself obscurely through them will be unmasked, so that one can fight them’ (quoted in Rutherford, 2007, p. 302).

Science is one such seemingly neutral and independent institution whose privileged status is scrutinised by political ecology and science and technology studies (STS) scholars (Latour, 1987; Irwin, 1995; Latour, 1997; Forsyth, 2003; Nygren & Rikoon, 2008). Herein, science and its disciplines (whether of the natural or social kinds) as well as its mode of production and relationship with power become the object of inquiry examined in relation to its western-modern ontological and epistemological context, as a product of culture(s) (Howitt & Suchet-Pearson, 2006) and the negotiations and debates embedded in this system (Blaikie, 1996). These inquiries notably emphasise the privileged relationship binding science, western bureaucratic systems and institutional structures; a relationship which includes private and government agencies’ financial investments in research projects. Ellis also points to science’s association with industrial culture, ‘as a tool [employed] by the industrial complex’ (2005, p. 75). As Strang highlights in relation to water governance, scientists are part of a ‘larger series of networks and assemblies of people who, though they don’t own water or have a political mandate for its governance, influence ways in which it is managed and controlled’ (2011, p. 184). Along similar lines of analysis, Irwin (1995) examines how the product of scientific inquiries may be decontextualised or distorted by the bureaucratic system. He explains how such distortions may come to justify the implementation of management and developmental policies and programs. To borrow his words, ‘[s]cience from this perspective becomes a weapon used to further economic and political

21 For example, the emphasis on the human-induced loss of biodiversity and environmental degradation (which I am in no way casting doubts on) has served to justify international pressure on nation-states and their populations to cooperate with them in order to fight against the ‘causes’ of resource misuse and overexploitation identified by these organisations: poverty (but not wealth), poor level or lack of education (again omitting that education may also provide the tools enabling over-exploitation), illiteracy and the like (Peet & Watts, 1996; Escobar, 1997b). 28 interests in a somewhat covert manner; science essentially becomes “politics by other means”’ (Irwin, 1995, p. 49).

In co-management contexts, like the one examined in this thesis, the proximity of science and bureaucracy has been documented by a few authors as having significant impacts on the capacity of Indigenous peoples’ knowledge, institutions and concerns to inform management decisions (see for instance Nadasdy, 2003a; Blaser, 2009c). As Blaser illustrates, when Indigenous knowledge or perspectives clash, the authority to define the ‘limits of what is reasonable and conceivable’ in terms of sustainability, for example, rests on the bureaucrats and the experts (Blaser, 2009c, p. 17, see also Povinelli, 2001) a position which itself rests on the perceived privileged position of science to account for the ‘reality “out there”’ (Blaser, 2009c, p. 17). As I will address in more detail later in this chapter, the recognition, documentation and processes of integration of Indigenous knowledge with science and western management practices have been an important focus of various streams of political ecology and the object of increased scrutiny from a number of Indigenous and non-Indigenous critical scholars.

Yet, while the already vast and expanding pluridisciplinary field of political ecology offers strong analytical tools to understand co-management, Schulz reminds us that the field is not decolonised per se. In various ways, the different streams of political ecology which co-exist today still adhere ‘to research practices and paradigms that were mainly developed in the West […] regardless of [their] internal diversity and dynamism’ (2017, p. 129). In other words, the risk of continuing the essentialisation, subordination and colonisation of non-Western paradigms often remains (Hunt, 2014). Political ecology still carries the potential for framing other realities or lifeworlds through the epistemological lens of the sciences (Leff, 2015, 2017) including idealised representations of Indigeneity which are frequently framed as place-based and associated with the land, territories, resources and timeless traditions (Cameron et al., 2014; de Leeuw, 2014; McCreary & Milligan, 2014) and linked to perspectives, such as the sentience of more-than-humans, often interpreted as ‘myths’ or ‘beliefs’ (Cruikshank, 2012). The heterogeneity of Indigenous perspectives and of their intimate and dynamic experience of colonisation (de Leeuw, 2014), of industrialisation (Boutet, 2014), forms of ‘métissage’ (Desbiens & Rivard, 2014) and Indigenous peoples’ lived entanglements with bureaucracies, modernity and neoliberalism (Dussart & Poirier, 2017), in contrast, have more frequently been

29 overlooked. So has the possibility of Indigenous peoples remaking ‘their worlds in their own ontological images […] as they struggle through unbalanced alliances and live with uneven distribution of power’ (Borrows, 2017, p. ix) in contexts of ongoing colonial encounters and interventions.

As Blaser and de la Cadena argue, ‘[i]nasmuch as knowledges are world-making practices, they tend to make the worlds they know’ (2018, p. 6). These worlds or ontology22 re- making practices, often underpinned by processes of ‘uncontrolled equivocation’23, carry the risk of ‘falling into the trap of […] simply reducing other worlds to our own’ (Blaser, 2009c, p. 18). Hence, the western-modern world or ontology to which bureaucrats and experts are largely associated (acknowledging the internal complexity and cultural and ethnic diversity of such categories), ‘sustains itself through performances that tend to suppress and or contain the enactment of other possible worlds’ (Blaser, 2009c, p. 16 , see also Nadasdy, 2003). As I will discuss further below, even in contexts inclusive of Indigenous knowledge systems, ‘the terms of recognition normalize an ontology in which Indigenous difference becomes, above all, a different way of knowing, not a way of being on the land that makes that land something different, that renders that land subject to other modes of not just use but also governance’ (McCreary & Milligan, 2014, p. 121).

In light of this, the emerging field of political ontology is providing fresh, more holistic and radical new perspectives from which to examine and understand natural resource co- management arrangements. It takes us beyond the politics of knowledge recognition and integration, and conflicts around the access to and control of natural resources; alerting us to the potentiality of coexistence of many ‘divergent’ and ‘heterogenous’ worlds (Poirier, 2013; Blaser & de la Cadena, 2018, p. 6) and the implications of their enmeshed and co-constituted coexistence (Blaser, 2014) when agency is not confined to the realm of human beings Cruikshank, 2005, 2012; Scott, 2006; Poirier, 2013; Thom, 2017). Hence, ‘[f]rom a political

22 As Blaser stresses, the term ‘ontology’ is not synonymous with the term ‘culture’. Cultural perspectives imply different perspectives on ‘one-reality world’. Ontologies, on the other hand, imply the existence of a multiplicity of worlds (Blaser, 2014). Hence, ontology pertains ‘to the nature of reality, to the nature of things (persons and objects) and to the nature of their relations as conceived, lived, experienced and acted upon by a world’s social agents’ (Poirier, 2013, p. 53) 23 Coined by Vivieros de Castro, the concept pf ‘uncontrolled equivocation’ refers to ‘a type of communicative disjuncture where the interlocutors are not talking about the same thing, and do not know this’ (2004). 30 ontology perspective’ Blaser argues, ‘one must never assume that cultural perspectives on a single world are what is at stake in a conflict or negotiation; rather, attention to the possibility that different worlds are what is at stake is warranted’ (Blaser, 2009c).

Returning then to the main question underpinning this thesis, are co-management arrangements framed in a way that genuinely takes Indigenous epistemologies, ontologies, methodologies and axiologies seriously or, at least, holds the potential to imagine forms of co- existence between heterogenous ‘worlds animated in different ways’ (Blaser, 2014, p. 51)? To imagine such forms of coexistence it is necessary to critically examine some of the fundamental theoretical and conceptual underpinnings of conventional fisheries management practices.

A critical overview of Western bio-economic approaches to fisheries management

For centuries European maritime powers conceived the resources of the world’s vast oceans as being largely inexhaustible (Smith, 1994; Berkes et al., 2001; Hauge et al., 2012). From the turn of the twentieth century, a few decades following the emergence of industrial fishing operations in various parts of the world (see Ganter, 1994; Kurlansky, 2008; Blackford, 2009), marine biologists, alongside coastal fishers and communities began to raise concerns about the prospects and potential dangers of overfishing (Finley, 2009). After World War II, significant technological developments led to a sharp increase in commercial fishers’ extractive capacities, while allowing them to exploit distant fishing grounds and remain at sea for lengthy periods (Blackford, 2009). The accelerated post-war industrialisation of commercial fisheries swiftly exposed the fragility and exhaustibility of marine resources and environments. This increased pressure on sea resources and habitats spurred important institutional changes for the management of marine fisheries. Over that period, fisheries sciences began to gain influence and supported the assumption that the stability of fish stocks could be maintained provide that enough data on the stocks were collected and extractive activities were monitored and controlled. From the scientific natural resource management perspective, it was widely believed that ‘designing strategies to maintain and enhance the stability of ecosystems’ (Nadasdy, 2007, p. 209) was possible.

In the 1950s, the field of fisheries economics became pivotal to the development of Western approaches to fisheries management. This field, St. Martin et al. note, ‘build[s] upon the

31 initial neoclassical insights of Gordon (1954), Scott (1955) and others’ and ‘has as its entry point and ontological foundation an understanding of fishermen as individuals competing on an open access commons’ (2007, p. 224). The unregulated open-access or ‘inadequate’ common-property rights regimes, arguably characterising the world’s fisheries, were identified as the leading causes of the depletion of commercial fish stocks; prompting a shift towards centrally controlled and privatised24 fisheries regimes to prevent further depletion (Gordon, 1954; Scott, 1955; Sinclair, 1960; see analysis by Feeny et al., 1990; Hanna & Munasinghe, 1995; Ostrom, 1999, 2002b), and avoid what Hardin (1968) termed the Tragedy of the Commons.

Hardin’s influential theory argued for the establishment of centralised command and control fisheries management systems. This position is partly justified by a particular construction of the fishers which are understood as ‘self-centered utility maximizers, unrestrained by community and social relations’ (Berkes, 2009b, p. 56). This theory found enduring support among ‘public analysts, scholars and public officials’ (Ostrom, 1999, p. 493; Maurstad, 2000; McWhinnie, 2009) who saw external managers, rather than so-called self- interested user groups, as being better positioned to ‘act in the public interest and understand how ecological systems work and how to change institutions so as to induce socially optimal behavior’ (Ostrom, 2002a, p. 2). As Verelst suggests, ‘[t]hese presumptions argue for an “external Leviathan” to control and regulate shared natural resources and have therefore historically legitimized governmental management intervention’ (2013, p. 14), see also Jentoft et al. (2009) and Ostrom (1990). Hardin’s Tragedy has therefore contributed to discrediting collective forms of management, including Indigenous practices, dismissing these as conducive to mismanagement (Aswani, 1999). For the proponent of Hardin’s theory, ‘greater “efficiency” and investment in sustainability can be gained by alienation as open access and common regimes are inefficient in controlling and limiting resource uses (Strang, 2011, p. 173). The proposition that the ‘imposition of firm property rights is essential in order to harness the natural greed, selfishness and economic rationality of human beings for the greater good’ formed a dominant perspective of neoliberal thinking from the 1970s into 2000 and beyond (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015, p. 306).

24 Preferably through Individual Transferable Quotas (ITQs) see St-Martin et al. (2007) which begin to emerge in the late 1970s (Acheson et al., 2015). 32

The Tragedy of the Commons theory was left relatively unchallenged by fisheries managers and scientists until the mid-1980s, although critics of the theory emerged from the mid-1970s progressively providing alternative ideas on the role of the Commons (Berkes, 1977, Mulrennan 2012). It is only relatively recently that ‘the possibility that the appropriators themselves would find ways to organize themselves’ gained traction in the economics literature (Ostrom 2002, p. 3) despite a large body of empirical evidence contradicting Hardin’s condemnation of local self-organised commons emerging from scholarship on common-pool resources, community-based management and customary marine tenure regimes (Johannes, 1981; Nietschmann, 1985; McCay & Acheson, 1987; Cordell, 1989; Ostrom, 1990; Bromley, 1992; Feeny et al., 1996; Hviding, 1996; Sharp, 1998; Aswani, 1999; Ostrom, 1999, 2002b). As Hanna and Munasinghe point out, ‘scientific evidence indicates that sustaining environmental resources is not dependent on a particular structure of property regime, but rather on a well- specified property rights regime and a congruency of that regime with its ecological and social context’ (1995, p. 4). As Berkes argues, ‘[m]ost fisheries are commons; but contrary to Hardin, resource destruction is not “inevitable” and neither is it dependent on external regulation’ (2009b, p. 53).

The mid-1950s also marked a new phase in the nationalisation of marine territories with progressive claims over, and push for the establishment of, the 200 nautical mile Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) regime formalised in 1982 through the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS).25 The enforcement of the EEZ notably came to ‘solidif[y] the relationship between wild fish and the state’ (Pieraccini & Cardwell, 2016, p. 732) and empowered coastal nation-states to regulate commercial fisheries within their waters (Jentoft, 2004). The new international regime also came with an important caveat as it ‘required that a nation fully exploit its own fisheries before it could exclude other nations from its 200-mile territorial waters’ (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015, p. 306), thus prompting many countries to build up their fishing capacities (Pinkerton, 2017). Around the late 1960s, state agencies began to play central roles in managing commercial marine fisheries. As I discuss below, this blanket imposition of the territorial seas regime in international law along with the regime of truth

25 Coastal States have sovereign rights over their EEZ with respect to natural resources and certain economic activities, and exercise jurisdiction over marine science research and environmental protection (UNCLOS 1982). 33 constructed around Hardin’s ‘tragedy’ are examples of ‘how the pervasive and dominant European perceptions of environments and social space have impeded indigenous aspirations to own and manage the sea’ (Jackson, 1995, p. 87, see also Sharp, 1998).

The concept of ‘resource management’ or fisheries management more specifically, is similarly based on a set of underlying assumptions about the world conceived as entrenched in the political economy of capitalist resource extraction (Nadasdy, 2007) oriented toward economic growth and heavily entangled with processes of commodification of nature and industrialisation (Berkes, 2009b). Its main purposes are to prevent biological and commercial extinction (Berkes et al., 2001). The term ‘management’ is linked to the question of ‘property’ and ‘pertains to the ‘right to regulate internal use patterns and transform the resource by making improvement’ (Ostrom & Schlager, 1996, p. 131). ‘Resources’, according to this paradigm, are ‘something to be tapped into’ (Spak, 2005, p. 235). Resource management thus implies forms of human domination over nature (ibid.) and ‘refers to the attempt by “managers” to use a particular resource rationally, based on their knowledge of that resource’ (Nadasdy, 1999, p. 13). The term evokes a technical relationship with the environment orientated towards ‘ensur[ing] its optimum economic exploitation without depleting or destroying its reproductive capacity’ (Spak, 2005, p. 235).

Western models of natural resource management have ‘centralized command-and- control, based on expert knowledge, aiming for the control of nature, and treating people as if they were separate from the environment’ (Berkes, 2003, p. 6) and have tended to be considered as ‘universally possible and appropriate’ (see also Howitt & Suchet-Pearson, 2006; Howitt et al., 2012, p. 52). Highly bureaucratised and compartmentalised, these approaches are usually species specific (Menzies & Butler, 2006), constructing each resource as a ‘management unit’ thought to be manageable somewhat in isolation from the complex and interdependent socio-ecological systems to which they belong (Usher, 2000; Berkes, 2009b).

In the field of fisheries management, such compartmentalised and technocratic approaches have typically relied on bio-economic theories, neo-Malthusian26 stock management

26 See Boserup (2002). 34 strategies aimed at determining the maximum or optimal27, ecological or economic sustainable extractive yield principles and associated total allowable catch (TAC) regimes28 which have formed the foundation of systems of quota allocation29 and distribution of rights of access for the exploitation marine resources. As Ostrom explained,

Contemporary policy analysts […] share a belief in the feasibility of designing optimal rules to govern and manage common-pool resources for a large domain utilizing top-down direction. […] What is needed is to gather reliable, statistical information on key variables, determine what the optimal harvesting pattern should be, divide the harvesting level into quotas, and assign quotas to users. Prescriptions calling for central governments to impose uniform regulations over most natural resources are thus consistent with important bodies of theoretical work, as well as the most advanced scientific approaches to resource policy. […] These prescriptions are not, however, supported by empirical research (1999, p. 495 my emphasis).

Critics of such approaches to fisheries management emphasise their reliance on overly optimistic assumptions about the capacity of national governments and their numerous agencies to manage natural resources efficiently (Pomeroy, 2001). They draw attention to dated perspectives on environmental systems and contested ecosystem equilibrium theories (Holling & Goldberg, 1971; Holling, 1978; Nadasdy, 2007), an ‘illusion of certainty’ (Charles, 2008; Berkes, 2009b; Blaser, 2009a), and persistent beliefs ‘that ecosystem responses to human use are linear, predictable and controllable’ (Folke et al., 2002, p. 437). Most importantly, with regard to marine and coastal fisheries more specifically, Acheson et al. stress that ‘there is little evidence that fishing effort can be linked to stock size’ (2015, n.p.). The limitation of science in this space is also acknowledged in Chapter 17 of Agenda 21 (UNCED, 1992; Mulrennan, 2013).

27 Berkes notes that the ‘maximization approaches tend to reduce natural variability, impairing the renewal capacity of ecosystems and the ability to absorb shocks and stresses’ (Berkes, 2009b). Optimisation, on the other hand, ‘necessitates a process of reaching consensus on the most appropriate objectives, hence bringing people into the decision-making model more explicitly than is the case with MSY and MEY’ (2009b, p. 52). The two options remain largely the foundation of fisheries management (including co-management) arrangements. 28 TAC is a limit set for a particular fishery. It is an administrative tool that establishes the maximum level of biomass that can be extracted over a specific period (usually a year or a season). The TAC is calculated as a tonnage. 29 As Acheson notes, ‘[b]ecause these economists see private property as having many advantages, they have long advocated solving resource-management problems by effecting private-property rights or by simulating such rights with mechanisms such as licensing or quotas’ (2006, p. 121). 35

State-level management models are also characterised by their ‘disembeddedness, universality, instrumentalism, and the separation of the user from the manager, nature from culture, and the objective data from the subjective’ (Banuri et al., 1993, p. 9). Again, and of particular significance for the topic examined in this thesis, conventional approaches to fisheries management have tended to ‘[overlook] traditional and customary knowledge and management systems in the belief that the state is the best guardian of society’s interests’ (Pomeroy, 2001, p. 111). This reflects unrealistic assumptions about the capacity of the state and its numerous agencies to know what is in the ‘public’s best interest’. As Berkes suggests, ‘[m]any resources are too complex to be governed effectively by a single agency’ (2009a, p. 1694). Yet, top-down governmental controls, informed by scientific research, are ‘data intense’ (Berkes et al., 2001, p. 6) and have proven complicated, costly and fallible (Berkes et al., 2001; Pomeroy, 2001) and have been linked to collapse around the world of commercial marine fish stocks in the 1980s and 1990s and a related ‘“crisis of knowledge” in relation to the oceans’ (Mulrennan, 2013, p. 99).

Competing tenure regimes

The purported legitimacy of these conventional management systems stems fundamentally from the claim—and often legal fiction—that the state is the sole owner of its national territories, including territorial seas, seabeds, and marine resources. This process of territorialisation, that is, the process of ‘carv[ing] the landscape [and seascape] into different geographical units’ (Nadasdy, 2017, p. 339); ‘excluding or including people within particular geographic boundaries’ and ‘controlling what people do and their access to natural resources within those boundaries’ (Vandergeest & Peluso, 1995) is sanctioned and reinforced by international agreements, such as the UNCLOS or the Convention on Biodiversity (CBD). Such agreements ‘assume that nation-states have the capacity, the internal legitimacy, and the will to manage all resources falling within that nation-state’s territorial boundaries’ (Peluso, 1993, p. 199). As Spaeder and Feit stress, ‘the control of common property resources by centralized governmental structures has generated much conflict. Many local communities with well- developed local systems of land [and sea] tenure, ecological knowledge and resource use have witnessed the loss of both land and management rights’ (2005, p. 148), see for example, Nadasdy (2003a); Mulrennan and Scott (2005); Gruby and Basurto (2014); Menzies (2016).

36

The globalisation of markets has also contributed to expanding state control over relatively remote and very remote territories formerly overlooked by central governments and hitherto left in the hands of informal or formal local managers (Spaeder, 2005). As Feit explains, ‘[t]hrough the assertion of state claims to land [and sea] and resources, previously autonomous communities have become encapsulated within the political economy of modern nation states’ (Feit, 1988). Yet, many forms of local land and sea tenure regimes, management strategies and economic systems have persisted, often informally, despite imposed centralised state management structures (Nadasdy, 2003a; Feit & Spaeder, 2005; Spaeder, 2005; Kerins, 2010).

For countless coastal historical and contemporary communities worldwide, the sea and its resources are not open access30. From Ireland to Norway, to the Faroes to the Solomon Islands, New Zealand, the US, Canada and Australia, communities, villages, clans, families, and other groups, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, have developed comprehensive and dynamic self- regulated marine tenure regimes with defined sets of rules, rights and responsibilities in regard to access and use of territories and resources (Cordell, 1989; Pinkerton, 1989; Feeny et al., 1990; Ostrom, 1990; Hviding, 1996; Aswani, 1999; Barvinck, 2001; Kerins, 2010).Yet, since the mid- sixteenth century, many of these formal and informal regimes have either been neglected or actively eradicated by the establishment of territorial seas31 which formalised nation states’ sovereign control over marine territories (Sharp, 1998; 2002 for more detailed accounts; Prescott, 2014).

Berkes argues that ‘many government managers do not regard local-level systems as “management”, as they are not based on formal science32 but merely on customary practices and traditional ecological knowledge’ (Berkes et al., 1991, pp. 4-5). In Whyte’s words, ‘“management” can connote a non-indigenous view of the appropriate relationship among

30 Many authors have also highlighted that Hardin’s model misguidedly conflates ‘common property’ and ‘open- access’ resource regimes—the latter referring to a regime free of property rights where resources are available for all to take (Ostrom, 1999, 2002b; Berkes, 2009b). 31 Initially restricted to three nautical miles (nm), territorial seas gradually expanded to 12 nm from 1909 until the mid-century when the notion of 200 nm EEZ began to take shape. 32 That management decisions, instruments and policies are science-based is the subject of debate. Nadasdy, for example, mentions that ‘scientific resource managers are among the first to complain that science often plays too small a role in resource management decisions’, their recommendations being regularly overlooked by politicians (2007, p. 216). 37 humans, other living beings, and the environment’ (2013, p. 10). Indeed, ‘firmly rooted in the traditions of western industrialized society’ the concepts underpinning resource management ‘carr[y] much ideological baggage’ (Notzke, 1994, p. 1, see also Spak, 2001, 2005; Stevenson, 2006). As mentioned earlier, the concepts of ‘resources’ and ‘management’ ‘imply a human superiority incompatible with the holistic values expressed by many traditional Native people’ (Scott 1989, p. 72; see also Nader & Davis 2005, Stevenson 2006).

Conventional resource management is also guided by a tendency to discount the fact that both prior to and since colonial invasions, Indigenous peoples have altered their physical environment to fulfil specific goals. Menzies (2016), for example, described the Gitxaała’s salmon husbandry, while Gammage (2012) and Pascoe (2014) discussed the extensive transformations of Australian landscapes by Aboriginal groups for land management purposes (see also Langton discussion on wilderness (Langton, 1996)). The large sai (stone fish trap) and agricultural practices of the Merriam Le are other examples (Sharp, 1998, 2002). This tendency of central government agencies has therefore contributed to discounting and rendering invisible Indigenous peoples’ roles in relation to this co-constituted ‘nature’. In recent years, however, there has been a growing recognition, notably in the field of disaster and hazard mitigation and prevention, of the sometimes devastating consequences of dismissing Indigenous knowledge and stewardship practices (Thomassin et al., 2018).

Small scale fisheries and conventional approach to fisheries management

Small-scale fisheries are often managed following the same patterns and rationalities applied to larger scale industrial fisheries; most of their managers having ‘been trained in or influenced by conventional approaches to fisheries management’ (Berkes et al., 2001, p. 6). Drawing on Davis and Ruddle (2012, p. 251), Willmann et al. write, ‘conventional co- management […] options rarely examine the concrete conditions on the ground, and therefore apply a generic or ideological approach that ignores ‘the need for, the requirements of, and the methods by which to empower “voice” so as to achieve real and substantial powers enabling key aspects of the “fit” between local priorities and the attributes of resource governance’ (2017, p. 21). Accordingly, the focus remained on the assessment of fish stocks and control of fishers’ inputs and outputs as a way to address their alleged proclivity to overexploit resources. Maurstad (2000), and Durrenberger (1997) before her, are among scholars who have argued for the need to

38 divert from ‘counting fish, vessels and gear’ and understanding fish behaviours hoping to make fisheries predictable. Policy makers, Maurstad argues, need to pay heed to ethnographic studies which are aimed at ‘understanding the productive logic of fishers’ (2000, p. 45).

The concept of small-scale fisheries encompasses extremely diverse, decentralised, dynamic, innovative and multi-facetted fisheries systems which frequently articulate commercial and subsistence purposes, use a combination of gear and target multiple species (Berkes et al., 2001; Finkbeiner, 2015; Finkbeiner & Basurto, 2015; Donda, 2017; Jentoft et al., 2017). Small- scale fisheries are often associated with ‘developing’ countries, but they also exist formally and informally along the coasts of Europe, North America, Australia, New Zealand, Japan and so on. They are prevalent in tropical and remote areas with limited or disadvantaged access to markets and limited livelihood alternatives (Berkes et al., 2001; Chuenpagdee et al., 2016; Jentoft et al., 2017). Small-scale fisheries can be placed on a spectrum ranging from large-scale industrial- commercial fisheries to small-scale commercial-subsistence fisheries (Berkes et al., 2001). They ‘function outside of highly specialized industrial fleets’ (Finkbeiner & Basurto, 2015), involve low-capitalisation and low technology but can also be highly sophisticated (Berkes et al., 2001). They are usually well adapted to the social, economic and ecological circumstances in which they operate (Jentoft et al., 2017; Pinkerton, 2017) and generate limited by-catch (Pinkerton, 2017).

Small-scale fishers may operate on a full-time, part-time or occasional basis often in conjunction with other sectors of the local or extra local economy (Berkes et al., 2001; Jentoft, 2014; Jentoft et al., 2017). This broad fisheries sector is typically either owner-operated or made up of family enterprises ‘often involving women and children whose roles and interests are not always recognized’ (Jentoft, 2014, p. 3) and usually ‘firmly rooted in local communities, traditions and values’ (FAO, 2015, p. v). From a resilience perspective, their capacity to diversify, using multiple gear and targeting multiple species ‘exemplifies an important method of coping with variability and uncertainty’ (Finkbeiner, 2015, p. 141). Kurien and Willmann (2009, see also Chuenpadgee, 2018) also emphasise that small-scale fisheries often have internal rules and mechanisms which help to prevent overfishing. These mechanisms may include customary marine tenure regimes which, as mentioned above, often comprise rules regarding access and resource use over territories ‘owned’ and controlled by specific group(s), along with rights,

39 responsibilities and obligations. The existence of these internal mechanisms can be partly explained by the importance small-scale fishers and their communities place ‘on these fisheries to provide for monetary, nutritional and cultural needs’ as well as to support their welfare and general quality of life (Langdon, 2015, p. 347; see also Chuenpagdee, 2012).

While flexible and resilient, these fisheries can nevertheless be vulnerable to encroachments by other fishers, especially large scale-operations (Jentoft, 2014; FAO, 2015), and affected by various factors such as the volatility of markets, climate change, pollution, poaching, tourism, aquaculture, inappropriate management measures, and external pressures to increase their fishing efforts. The question of unequal power and political influence between small-scale fishers, large-scale fishers and other sectors (e.g. conservation, tourism, energy, aquaculture, etc.), including unequal power relationships between value chain actors (FAO, 2015; Willmann et al., 2017) that may exist externally, locally or from within the communities (Fabinyi et al., 2015) can also contribute to the marginalisation of small-scale fishing communities (Jentoft, 2014; FAO, 2015).

Johnston, however, warns against both romanticising the small-scale fisheries and portraying small-scale fishers as the victims of external forces (2018). As he aptly notes, such tendencies ‘predispose us to seeing them as static, unable to adapt, or internally homogenous or let it blind us to the ways in which they fall short, such as in their social or economic inequalities, or their use of ecologically destructive fishing methods’ (ibid., p. 8). It can also render invisible small-scale fishers’ agency and the various strategies they deploy in their dealing with external pressures to as well as the challenges and the power dynamics that exist from within (Pers. Comm., Johnson, 2019).

On a global scale, the small-scale fisheries sector accounts for almost half of the fish caught and employs over ‘90 percent of the capture fishers and fish workers about half of whom are women’ (FAO, 2015, p. ix). Yet, the sector has consistently been marginalised and alienated by policy processes (Finkbeiner & Basurto, 2015, p. 433), and ‘overlooked or denigrated by governments and industries’ (Langdon, 2015, p. 347; see also Pinkerton 2015. Pinkerton Davis 2015) Given their importance in terms of economic and cultural well-being, and food security (Jentoft, 2014; FAO, 2015; Langdon, 2015; Jentoft et al., 2017; Johnson et al. 2018), the

40 marginalisation of, and damaging encroachments on, small-scale fisheries worldwide have prompted a large number of researchers from various fields (see for example the network Too Big to Ignore (http://toobigtoignore.net/)) and organisations such as the FAO (2015) to work at securing and raising the profile of small-scale fisheries, ensuring their sustainability and acknowledging their centrality in securing livelihoods, and for the overall wellbeing, social welfare and sustainability of communities (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015; Jentoft et al., 2017; Pinkerton, 2017; Johnson et al., 2018). As Jentoft et al. rightly note, small-scale fisheries are certainly ‘not always “an occupation of last resort” as they are frequently perceived, but provide an attractive livelihood and a meaningful and preferred lifestyle’ (Jentoft et al., 2017, p. 8; see also Johnson, 2018).

Neoliberal forces, anti-politics and resistance

The global push to neoliberalise marine fisheries intensified from the late 1980s (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015). As explained earlier in this chapter, the origin of this ideological ‘turn’ in marine governance largely finds its roots in the 1950s. As Mansfield stresses, it is not the emphasis ‘on property in itself that ties this history into neoliberalism, but […] the particular perspective that links property specifically to market rationality’ (2004, p. 314). Here, privatisation is linked to a particular understanding of ecological and economic efficiency entwined with objectives of profit maximisation and growth (Carothers & Chambers, 2012).

As such, neoliberal forms of fisheries management tend to focus on ‘private property rights, economic efficiency, government cutbacks, and devolution of responsibilities and risks to the private sector’ (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015). This neoliberal ideology also promotes the deregulation of markets and export-driven growth (ibid.) while advocating for the emergence of self-sufficient individuals (Doyon, 2015, p. 334) independent from government subsidies and responsible for their own welfare (Chuenpagdee et al., 2016).

A core tenet of this ideology, private property rights—which take for granted economic rationality centred on individual profit maximisation (Mansfield, 2004)—is constructed as ‘essential to harness greed, selfishness and economic rationality for the greater good’ (ibid.). The process of privatisation, in context, is ‘framed as logical and inevitable’ (ibid.) as well as a catalyst for environmental stewardship (McCormack, 2017b). More than just an economic

41 project, this ideology ‘shapes the constitution of identity’ (e.g. the inherently greedy fishermen discussed above) ‘and the commodification of nature’ (e.g. a specific species redefined as a stock or resource) (Altamirano-Jiménez, 2013, p. 70) as well as its ‘enclosure’, and ‘valuation’. ‘Thus, neoliberalism involves practices, knowledge, and ways of inhabiting the world that emphasize the market, individual rationality, and the responsibility of entrepreneurial subjects’ (ibid.). For Carothers and Chambers, this ‘commodification of fishing rights [associated with neoliberal projects] discursively and materially remakes human-marine relationships across diverse regions’ (2012, p. 40) in ways that accommodate neoliberal wealth maximisation goals and in ways that ‘often inhibit alternative economies and cultural logics’ of fishers and communities (ibid., p. 53). Indeed, as and Davis and Ruddle argue, ‘neoliberalism lacks any semblance of appreciation for the cultural, historical, or social characteristics of the "real world’ (Davis & Ruddle, 2012, p. 246).

Numerous scholars have highlighted the neoliberal trend of devaluing, undervaluing and marginalising small-scale fisheries (see for example Pinkerton, 2015; Pinkerton & Davis, 2015; Jentoft et al., 2017). The argument ‘too many boats chasing too few fish’ (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015, p. 303) has consistently been used against small-scale fishing enterprises. Economically inefficient, according to this ideological perspective, the call is for a reduction of these small- scale fishers and fishing enterprise numbers by ‘strengthening property rights, and downloading new responsibilities and risks onto those who remain’ (ibid. , p. 303). Jentoft et al. point out that a ‘prevalent image of small-scale fisheries is that they are traditional and thus lag behind in the modernization process’ (2017, p. 8). Yet despite evidence that ‘neoliberal fisheries policies have often proven inflexible, maladaptive, and dictatorial’ (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015, p. 309) while failing to create an incentive to conserve (Sumaila, 2010; Acheson et al., 2015; McCormack, 2017b; Pinkerton, 2017) from a neoliberal standpoint, small-scale fisheries are ‘bound to lose out, and become supplanted by more efficient, capital-intensive harvesting technologies of a larger scale […] This is regarded as a natural process, which should be left to run its own course’ (Jentoft et al., 2017, p. 8; see also Pinkerton & Davis, 2015). Drawing on Polanyi, Pinkerton and Davis note the challenges for many within market societies, ‘to imagine that social relations, or human–environment relations for that matter, might be organized differently’ (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015, p. 305). However, as Jentoft et al. argue, ‘it would be erroneous not to consider the

42 economic, social, and political drivers behind it’ ( see also McCormack, 2016b; Jentoft et al., 2017, p. 8). Influenced by perceptions regarding the neutrality of the markets (Carothers & Chambers, 2012) and presented as natural and somewhat inevitable rather than political and historical, despite local resistance, this take on fisheries management frames the (im)possible33 future of small-scale fisheries.

In general, the neoliberalisation of fisheries management systems has been characterised by a push for the adoption of Quota Management Systems (QMS) with a preference for Individual Transferable Quotas (ITQs). McCormack explains that the quota system involves two main processes: ‘configuring biological sustainability through assessments of the [total allowable catch (TAC)]’, […] and generating wealth through the creation of property—that is, quota’ (2016b, p. 177), with the TAC serving to ascertain ‘the amount of fish that can be harvested from a given quota management area’ (ibid.). As management tools, quotas, and ITQs in particular, are enmeshed with a neoliberally defined notion of ‘sustainability’ where, as discussed here, and as suggested by Hardin’s theory, the safeguarding of nature is ensured by its commodification (McAfee & Shapiro, 2010; McCormack, 2016b) and where ITQ holders are conceptualised as ‘natural custodians’ (McCormack, 2016b). As McCormack highlights, when aligned with the ‘neoliberal orthodoxy’, assessments regarding biological sustainability ‘are directed towards economic goals’ and have little to do with aspects of social sustainability, itself ‘measured in terms of equity, distribution and stewardship’ (McCormack, 2017b, p. 44). ITQs are a form of property rights or access rights in fisheries which give their owners exclusive and transferable rights to a set portion of the TAC for a specific commercial stock. By securing a share of the stock for their owners, this quota regime is believed to remove the ‘race for the fish’ associated with open access regimes. ITQs can be transferred between individuals or businesses by selling and buying in an open market. Because of the considerable investment involved, this form of property rights is purported to ‘create an incentive among fishers to regard the fishery resources as assets’, thereby allegedly reducing fishers’ ‘tendencies to overexploit the resources’ (Sumaila, 2010, n.p.).

33 I borrow the idiom from Altamirano-Jiménez (2013). 43

As Minnegal and Dwyer (2011), and McCormack (2016b) note, ITQs (and the quota system more broadly) are abstractions. What is being commodified is not the fish per se, but the ‘the idea of fish’ ITQs are ‘paper’ or ‘virtual’ fish (Minnegal & Dwyer, 2011, p. 200; see also McCormack 2016b) which represent an ‘intangible’— ‘future right to catch a certain quantity of fish species from a certain geographically defined stock’ (McCormack, 2016b, p. 178). They are completely detached from—while redefining—the reality of the fish or fishing (Minnegal & Dwyer, 2011). What is less abstract or disconnected from the fishers’ everyday life on the water, especially when smaller Indigenous fisheries are concerned, is the dispossession, the inequalities, the disruption of livelihoods, local institutions and tenure regimes, the obstruction of cultural or social obligations and impacts on overall well-being that this approach to fisheries management generates. Indeed, ITQs have been described as a form of ‘accumulation by dispossession’ (Said, 2017, p. 222; Harvey, 2003) and are an expression of what Bennett et al. (2015) describe as ‘ocean grabbing’. This quota system is largely incompatible with local indigenous customary marine tenure regimes which, in the process of implementing such systems, are often completely disregarded or overruled. As Howard-Wagner stresses, ‘Aboriginal people are being alienated from Aboriginal communal tenure in the neoliberal pursuit of creating efficiently functioning market based economic and social systems’ (2012, p. 4). Again, this form of ocean management tends to favour large scale producers (or investors), progressively eliminating less ‘efficient’ players (McCormack, 2016b; Pinkerton, 2017). It has the propensity to concentrate quotas in the hands of a few and making them increasingly inaccessible in the process, especially for young fishers desiring to enter a fishery (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015). This tendency is observed even in contexts where quota mechanisms included ‘equity considerations’ to limit negative repercussions on smaller scale fishers and remote communities (Carothers, 2011). Neoliberal approaches to fisheries management and its associated privatisation processes have little regard for questions of inequality or well-being. They tend instead to exacerbate income and class disparities (Carothers, 2011; Pinkerton & Davis, 2015; Pinkerton, 2017) and impact on the livelihood of fishing crew members, processing plant labourers and the life of broader fishing communities (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015).

In many contexts, the neoliberalisation of fisheries occurs alongside broader processes of neoliberalisation. These include the promotion of small government and progressive dismantling

44 or reduction of the welfare state which gradually ‘undermin[es] social safety nets [and] structures of material security (including access to subsistence harvesting, etc.)’ (Chuenpagdee et al., 2016). Deeply embedded in discourses around ‘welfare dependence’ (Pearson, 2000) and neoliberal definitions of success and well-being —measured in terms of individual educational achievement, good health, home ownership and employment and an increased role as consumers and/or entrepreneurs in the market economy (Howard-Wagner, 2012)— neoliberal policies and programs focus largely on individual responsibilisation (Pearson, 2000), effectively shifting responsibilities and risks away from governments. This discourse of responsibilisation is central to Indigenous policies and programs in Australia; one significant example being the encompassing Council of Australian Governments (COAG)’s Closing the Gap34 framework. Entangled with the neoliberal ideology, Indigenous social policies such as Closing the Gap, which Altman described as COAG’s ‘over-arching reform agenda for the improvement of , (Altman, 2009a, p. 3) (re)imposed a particular trajectory on Australian Indigenous nations and individuals where the state continues to ‘[determine] the parametres of Aboriginal community development, organisational operations and service delivery’ (Howard- Wagner, 2012, p. 6). Returning to the questions of small-scale fisheries management and development, Closing the Gap and similar frameworks, alongside reforms of the welfare systems aiming at breaking the ‘cycle of welfare dependence’, exert important pressures towards the ‘professionalisation’ of Indigenous fishers, requiring them to model their practices based on the industrial fisheries sector. It pushes them to adopt the euro-modern project proposed by the state while rejecting the existence of other modernities and ways of being in the world (Blaser, 2013) and dismissing or overlooking existing alternate lifeways and alternative local economic strategies (e.g. Altman, 2001a; Gibson-Graham, 2008).

While these external interventions aim at overcoming often externally defined understandings of Indigenous disadvantage, many scholars have argued that they further disempower and subjugate Indigenous Australians (Altman, 2010), Howard-Wagner (Jordan et

34 The Closing the Gap (CTG) framework was instigated in 2008 by Kevin Rudd’s Government following the National Apology (http://www.australia.gov.au/about-australia/our-country/our-people/apology-to-australias- indigenous-peoples, accessed on 28 August 2017). CTG focuses on specific statistical gaps between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians regarding child mortality, early childhood education, school attendance, students' reading and numeracy, employment, year 12 attainment and the gap in employment outcomes between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. 45 al., 2010; Howard-Wagner, 2018). Howard-Wagner (2012) suggests that we pay attention to the disempowering dimension of the neoliberal definitions of well-being and success embedded in policies like Closing the Gap. These definitions, she writes, ‘limit both Aboriginal peoples’ access to their own symbolic, social, cultural, economic and political capital, as well as their ability to identify and address their own problems in accordance with their own epistemological and ontological notions of success and well-being’ (2012, p. 6). This situation challenges Indigenous peoples’ capacity to define for themselves the fabric of their own ‘contemporaneity’ (Poirier, 2000) at least when it comes to spaces of deeper ‘entanglement’ (see Dussart & Poirier, 2017) such as fisheries co-management structures and policy settings.

Like an ‘anti-politics machine’, the neoliberal ideology, here applied to both small-scale fisheries management and Indigenous policies, ‘depolitici[ses] everything it touches, everywhere whisking political realities out of sight’ converting issues around land, sea, resources, jobs, and so on into ‘technical problems’, themselves ‘responsive to the technical “development” intervention’ (Ferguson, 1994, p. xv). One needs to remember, however, that neoliberalism is not a single, unitary, monolithic entity, pure nor complete process (Mansfield, 2004; Howard- Wagner, 2012; Altamirano-Jiménez, 2013; Pinkerton & Davis, 2015; McCormack, 2016a). Instead, and in Feit’s words, ‘neoliberal visions and practices are diverse, contradictory, chaotic, and not centrally controlled but pervasive and sometimes dominant, they have recurrent and diverse disruptive effects’ (2010, p. 50). Echoing Pratt, to concede ‘autonomy or completeness’ to colonial projects (here taking the form of neoliberal projects) ‘would reaffirm metropolitan authority in its own terms’ (1992, p. 6). As McCormack remarks, the neoliberal ‘philosophy, programme and practice is everywhere moderated by local biophysical environments as well as the economies, communities and social systems with which these engage’ (2017a, p. 48, see also Pinkerton, 2015; Jentoft et al., 2017). Pinkerton and Davis further suggest that ‘[r]ecognizing that the implementation of neoliberal agendas in fisheries is not a fait accompli, but an ever- unfolding struggle allows us to be more sensitive to the agency of diverse groups of actors (both human and non-human) which have either knowingly or unknowingly managed to disrupt the efforts of neoliberal planners’ (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015, p. 308). Hence, forms of resistance to the neoliberalisation of fisheries and broader neoliberalisation projects have emerged from multiple angles; from the fishers and their communities, from academics, but also from state

46 employees, managers and even Ministers (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015; Pinkerton, 2017). Accordingly, and despite intense pressures exerted on them, Indigenous and non-Indigenous small-scale fishers have resisted and maintained forms of agency and ‘relative autonomy’ over their everyday lives (Morphy & Morphy, 2013) while attempting to influence policy directions.

Paradigm ‘shift’: towards co-managed fisheries

As discussed earlier, it became progressively evident, over the 1970s, that centralised scientific-based models of fisheries management were unsuccessful in producing ‘sustainable’ marine industries (Berkes et al., 2001; Hilborn, 2007; Bundy et al., 2008; Mulrennan, 2013). In many cases, such models have failed to prevent overexploitation, depletion or collapse of the stocks while also failing to prevent social conflicts emerging among the actors involved in the fisheries sector (e.g. fishers, fishing communities, scientists, government managers, etc.) (Maurstad, 2000; McGoodwin, 2006; Trimble & Berkes, 2013). Scientific knowledge and associated worldviews have long been heavily challenged by complex ecological systems which they have tended to simplify (Gadgil et al., 1993), let alone complex socioecological ones. Acheson states that the period since the 1950s has been characterised by an increasingly apparent global resources management crisis, largely attributed to widespread institutional failure in a wide range of sectors including the serious depletion of large numbers of marine fisheries (2006, p. 118). The FAO (2016), reported that most of the stocks of the ten most productive fisheries, which account for roughly 27 percent of the world’s marine capture fisheries production, are either fully or overexploited. Crises and uncertainty emerging from fisheries worldwide have increasingly cast doubts regarding the predictability of natural systems and their linear response to human utilisation, and the independence of natural and social systems (Folke et al., 2002). Tools such as maximum sustainable yield (MSY), for example, while still in use today have been found to be ‘a meaningless target’ (Berkes, 2009a, p. 59).

Based on a ‘strong penchant for regulatory uniformity’ (Acheson, 2006, p. 126) top-down management structures imposed on vast areas have simultaneously failed to consider local ecological variations (Acheson 2006) and the role of civil society in the planning of management strategies (Jentoft 2003, 2006; Jentoft & McCay 2003). Government managers’ insufficient understanding of human organisations and local institutions have led to social conflicts over resources, resistance toward government managers, and loss of autonomy and control over land

47 and sea territories (Acheson, 2006).35 Largely disconnected from the people affected by management decisions, centralised models of resource management also often lack the ‘legitimacy at the local level to ensure compliance with regulation measures’ (Verelst, 2013, p. 14). Fisheries are ‘social-ecological systems’ (Berkes & Folke, 1998; Berkes, 2003; Bundy et al., 2008; Huitema et al., 2009) that is, ‘complex systems of humans and nature’ (Berkes, 2009b, p. 59). ‘[U]ltimately’, McGoodwin writes, ‘fisheries are human phenomena. […] to predicate the management of a fishery mainly on the basis of biological, ecological, and state-level economic concerns, while essentially ignoring or discounting fishers’ knowledge, one risked instituting a management policy that might be doomed to fail, and that at the same time would work serious hardships on fishing peoples’ (2006, p. 177, see also Johannes, Freeman, & Hamilton, 2000; Menzies & Butler, 2006).

McGoodwin highlights how ignoring fishers’ knowledge, which is also constitutive as well as inclusive of their ‘cultural heritage’, ‘self-identity’—and going back to the discussion on political ontology, a performance of their ways of being—is likely to generate significant social and economic ills, disrupting ‘customary patterns of work and social organization’ and provoking ‘resistance or non-cooperation with the management regime’ (2006, p. 177). As Spaeder (2005) notes, this colonial disruption has progressively led to protests and contestations over unilateral management and property rights across large land and sea territories. As Acheson remarks, ‘central governments often “frustrate rather than facilitate” the local level or private efforts to provide public goods, including rules to manage resources. […] By making it impossible for local governments to experiment in solving problems, top-down management policies stifle learning and curtail adaptive responses to problem solving’ (2006, p. 126).

Local tensions, initiatives and resistances have contributed to the revision of imposed top-down management strategies, progressively influencing a move towards the elaboration of participatory systems theoretically more oriented toward the needs of populations. From the 1970s onwards, social scientists have advocated for the abandonment of ‘autocratic and paternalistic modes of management’ in favour of collaborative models which include the participation of local fishers, scientists and managers (McGoodwin et al., 2000, p. 264;

35 See for instance the problem of soil erosion in India addressed by Robbins (2004, p. 109). 48

McGoodwin, 2006, p. 191). Direct witnesses of the impacts of large-scale commercial fishing operations on the marine environments and, by extension, on their livelihoods and lifeways, maritime Indigenous peoples have also been steadfast critics of industrial fisheries practices and modern fisheries management approaches.

Indigenous people living on their land and sea territories are nonetheless involved in practices akin to management (Gadgil et al., 1993). Since colonisation, these practices have been entangled with external natural management practices (Agrawal, 2005b) albeit while often embracing more holistic perspectives regarding human-environment and human-human in relation to the environment (Descola, 1996; Dussart & Poirier, 2017). Stevenson (2006) notes that what is likely to be managed by Indigenous peoples is rather their relationships with their land and sea, their resources and each other. Arguably, conventional fisheries management is also about regulating people and not the species (McPhee, 2008). Yet, the type of people being regulated in this context are ‘the users’ in relation to certain commodified target (and affected non-target) species and not people based on their relationships, rights and responsibilities vis-à- vis specific groups, ancestors and areas (Strang, 2009). I elaborate further on this aspect in the section on participation.

The push for a shift towards collaborative forms of natural resource management also emerged as a result of the growing awareness among scholars concerning the value of Indigenous peoples’ traditional ecological knowledge (TEK), also known as Indigenous ecological knowledge (IEK), and the perceived inherent capacity and important role that these knowledge systems can and should play to ‘generate sustainable interventions’ (Sillitoe, 1998, p. 224; see also McGregor, 2014). Towards the late 1980s and early 1990s TEK/IEK also began to be recognised by international agencies (e.g. United Nations Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED) (1992) and Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD) (1992)) (Mulrennan (Mulrennan, 2013). For instance, the IUCN working group on traditional ecological knowledge and the Brundtland Report (1987) underlined the unique and positive contribution that Aboriginal peoples can make to addressing environmental issues and achieving sustainable development36 (McGregor, 2014). While the Brundtland Report did not focus on TEK, it

36 The Brundtland Report then defined sustainable development as ‘the kind of development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs’ (WCED, 1987). 49 nevertheless stated that Indigenous peoples should be given ‘a decisive voice in the decisions about resource use in their area’ (WCED, 1987, p. 115f). Later reiterated in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), this international support for more collaborative forms of development and environmental governance offered opportunities for Indigenous peoples to be involved in the management of environmental challenges (McGregor, 2014).

Despite this recognition of the value of TEK and associated involvement of Indigenous peoples in natural resource management and sustainable development projects, Watene and Yap stress that ‘culture’ with all its layers of complexity or the importance of ‘cultural values’ have largely been overlooked in the sustainable development goals. Culture, they write, ‘is useful merely as a means to achieve sustainable development in its economic, social and environmental dimensions. Culture […] is not valued for its own sake’ (2015, p. 52). Excluding cultures (and the ontological perspectives defining them) from the equation partly explains the discrepancies between Indigenous’ worldviews and aspirations regarding the definitions and directions of sustainable development and those held by international and national entities (ibid.). This selective external understanding of Indigenous knowledge systems has important repercussions in relation to Indigenous peoples’ capacity to influence the management and development of their territories and resources (Nadasdy, 1999, 2003a, 2005a; Whyte, 2013; McGregor, 2014).

This progressive shift of paradigm also occurred during a period when Indigenous peoples in various national contexts increasingly challenged central governments by re-asserting and re-claiming their rights over their land and sea and their right to self-determination; claims that began to receive some support at the international level (Niezen, 2003). Indigenous peoples have, for example, resorted to lengthy legal land and sea claims to gain some forms of recognition. In Australia and Canada, the Mabo (1992) and Delgamuukw (1997) decisions legally recognised the existence and persistence of native titles, in the case of Mabo and Aboriginal rights and Treaty rights for Delgamuukw. The recognition of ownership of fishing rights in tidal waters overlying Aboriginal land at Blue Mud Bay (Northern Territory, Australia) and the recognition of non-exclusive native title rights over the 44,000 square kilometres of sea in the Torres Strait gained through the Akiba decision are other examples. At the international level, the United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Populations (UNWGIP), established in

50

1982, provided an important forum for Indigenous peoples to articulate their concerns and assert their rights (Mulrennan, 2013). While non-legally binding, the UNDRIP also provides support and leverage to Indigenous groups, including those with aspirations to gain back control of marine territories and fisheries.

Defining co-management

Co-management systems have existed formally and informally for decades if not centuries in many fisheries worldwide (Jentoft, 2003; Pomeroy & Viswanathan, 2003; Berkes, 2009a). The term itself was first used in the late 1970s by the western Washington State’s US Treaty Tribes ‘to describe the type of relationships [the Washington State’s tribes] aspired to have with state managers’ (Pinkerton, 2003, p. 62). From the 1980s onwards, co-management has been progressively perceived as a solution to the increasing level of dissatisfaction associated with the failures of established models of resource management, and as a means to counteract the negative ecological, economic and social costs associated with these models (McCay & Jentoft, 1996; Pomeroy & Berkes, 1997; Pomeroy, 2001; Hanna, 2003; Jentoft, 2003; Jentoft & McCay, 2003; Nadasdy, 2003b, 2003a; Natcher et al., 2005; Acheson, 2006; Ross et al., 2011; Trimble & Berkes, 2015). Because it is based on a certain degree of decentralisation and, in principle, a reduction of the bureaucratic apparatus, co-management is also described as a cost-efficient way to manage natural resources (Carlsson and Berkes 2005). Roughly forty years on, the profusion of these structures has come to a point where co-management arrangements progressively became the norm in the field of natural resources and wildlife governance (Nadasdy 2003b).

There is no extensively shared definition of co-management; rather different understandings of the concept are informed by local, national and international settings, different political views, conflicting definitions of property, and power relationships among the groups involved. Thus, this highly contingent, dynamic and adaptable management paradigm (Plummer & Armitage, 2007a, 2007b; Berkes, 2009b, 2009a) ‘often reflects distinct national styles of governance and the specific ecological, social and cultural context within which it set to operate’ (Jentoft, 2003, p. 3). In Australia, one of the official stances on fisheries co-management is summed up by the Fisheries Research and Development Corporation (FRDC) who defines it as,

51

an arrangement in which responsibilities and obligations for sustainable fisheries management are negotiated, shared and delegated between government, fishers, and other interest groups and stakeholders. This definition reflects the increasing recognition among fishers and fisheries managers alike of the need for a cultural change, away from an untrusting, often conflicted ‘them versus us’ approach to one of partnership based on joint responsibility for decision making and implementation in fisheries management (2008, p. 1).

Defined broadly and independently of contextual settings, co-management systems appear to share several fundamental aspects. They involve, in principle, the active ‘participation’ of local users and communities, the sharing of responsibilities and knowledge between ‘users’, managers and scientists. Co-management arrangements are also often explicitly oriented towards the ‘empowerment’ of local populations, resource users and marginalised groups (Borrini et al., 2004; Jentoft, 2004; Goetze, 2005; Huitema et al., 2009; Pieraccini & Cardwell, 2016)37 and the ‘democratisation’ of environmental governance processes (Natcher et al., 2005; Pieraccini & Cardwell, 2016). Jentoft insists however that the ‘“co” in co-management stands for cooperation and not consultation management’ (Jentoft, 2003, p. 4). Co-management should therefore imply at least minimal forms of user participation and power sharing. It also ‘invokes the idea of joint political relationships between indigenous and non-indigenous institutions that work together according to standards of fairness to govern particular areas and resources (sic)’ (Whyte, 2013, p. 9).

Proponents of co-management consider that this approach can ‘lead to an overall improvement in the practice of wildlife management’ (Nadasdy, 2005a, p. 215). Because ‘it allows for the integration of “traditional ecological knowledge” (TEK)’ and scientific knowledge, it is perceived as contributing to ‘increasing the overall stock of knowledge on which strategies are based’ (ibid., p. 216). The cultural diversity and heterogeneity of the groups involved in co-management have been described as a catalyst for innovative and adaptive approaches to problem-solving and management (Natcher et al., 2005; Armitage et al., 2007; Armitage et al., 2008; Armitage et al., 2011) and space for social learning, adaptation and co- production of knowledge (Armitage et al., 2011). As such, co-management should be approached

37 As Nadasdy underlines (Nadasdy, 2003a), the integration of TEK with science within resource management strategies is believed to hold some keys leading to the empowerment of Indigenous peoples who hold this knowledge. 52 as a dynamic and adaptive ‘process of resource management’ based on ‘systematic learning and the progressive accumulation of knowledge’, rather than as a ‘single strategy’ (Pomeroy et al., 2011, p. 115).

Berkes et al. (1991) present co-management as a ‘convergence’ of local38 and state management systems which retains many aspects of both approaches (see also Feit & Spaeder, 2005), systems which ‘ideally combine the strengths and mitigate the weaknesses of each’ (Singleton, 1998, p. 7). The elaboration of co-management strategies should rely on existing institutions (Pomeroy, 2001; Jentoft, 2003; Spaeder, 2005) and, ‘be based on and express forms of pre-existing self-management’ (Feit, 1988, p. 85). Co-management has been described as a form of institutionalisation or formalisation of ‘de facto interdependence’ between local and state institutions (Spaeder, 2005); officialising forms of informal ‘traditional’ or ‘customary co- management’ (Pomeroy, 2001, p. 119) or ‘codifying an existing situation’ (Carlsson & Berkes, 2005, p. 71).

Co-management arrangements are described as decentralised governance systems based on a multi-layered ‘partnership arrangement’ (Pomeroy, 2001; Finkbeiner & Basurto, 2015), which involves the sharing of management responsibilities between state, regional and local- level actors (e.g. different level of government and their numerous departments and agencies, local users and the broader community, along with various external agents such as non- governmental organisations, academics and research institutions) (Pomeroy, 2001, 2003; Hanna 2003; Spaeder & Feit, 2005; Spaeder, 2005; Stevenson, 2006). According to Pomeroy, ‘[t]he goals of both co-management and decentralization are the mobilisation and strengthening of people’s participation in government and more equitable distribution of power and resources to local-level groups of people and communities’ (Pomeroy & Viswanathan, 2003, p. 257). This partnership is said to help build trust (Singleton, 1998; Chuenpagdee & Jentoft, 2007; Fisheries & Development, 2008; Berkes, 2009a) and generate some kind of consensus among the different ‘partners’ concerning how the resources are to be regulated, allocated and used and to improve

38 Based on ‘customary practices, cultural tradition and the local knowledge of land and animals’ (Berkes et al., 1991). 53 the common knowledge about how this will be done following the environmental sustainability principle.

As Natcher et al. highlight ‘co-management has also been endorsed as a potential means by which to resolve longstanding conflicts between Indigenous peoples and state governments’ (2005, p. 242). Along those lines, Spak suggests that co-management structures are implemented either as a response to management crises or as the result of Indigenous land and sea claims39, which she respectively labels as ‘crisis-based co-management agreements’ and ‘land-claims based co-management agreements’ (2005, see also Pomeroy & Viswanathan, 2003; Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; Spaeder, 2005; Chuenpagdee & Jentoft, 2007). These two different, although not mutually exclusive contexts underlying the negotiation of co-management arrangements can have a significant impact on the nature of the partnerships to be built, for they might differ widely in terms of the scale of decentralisation and power devolution involved. As McGoodwin et al. (2000) exemplify, the rhetoric of ‘natural resource crises’ can represent an obstacle for the implementation of Indigenous management practices and reification of the scientific approach. ‘Some expert managers and scientists might argue that this is not the time to chart a new course and to bring on board inexperienced crew-members. They might well question the wisdom of making old and new crew members “find their sea legs” while a storm is raging’ (2000, p. 264). On the other hand, the juridical challenges to national territorial sovereignty embedded in land and sea claims made by various Indigenous nations may lead to ‘considerable redistribution of resource management authority’ (Berkes et al., 1991, p. 12) and have contributed to redefine Indigenous peoples-state relationships (Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; Spak, 2005). The level of Indigenous peoples’ participation in decision-making processes underpinning the management of their territories is largely attributable to successful land and sea claims which translates into

39 Many scholars underline the strong relationship binding the question of land and sea ownership and co- management (Nadasdy, 1999; Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; Nadasdy, 2005b; Jackson & Altman, 2009). Analysing the Australian’s context, Allen (1994, p. 45) shows that, ‘[a] management role, as of right, with determinative powers (rather than the mere opportunity to make thoughtful suggestions) will not be granted to indigenous Australians until they win recognition of their native property rights’. This also depends on how native property rights are defined. The lack of right to exclude as in the Akiba case (see Chapter 5) may limit the decision power of Indigenous owners. Jentoft nevertheless emphasised that ‘[c]o-management is not synonymous with a particular property right system’ (2003, p. 6). Yet, this does not signify that property matters aren’t problematic. 54 strong indigenous property rights and capacity to support or oppose external interventions and projects on their territories (Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; Jackson & Altman, 2009).

Berkes, among others, warned that co-management should not be considered a ‘panacea for legitimacy’ (2009a, p.1692, see also Jentoft 2000, and Mikalsen et al. 2007). The capacity for co-management to adapt to changing situations emphasised by a number of authors has been described as making co-management arrangement a suitable model of fisheries governance (Wilson, 2003; Armitage et al., 2011). Local fishers’ participation in management and decision- making processes is also considered in some case to enhancing their sense of ownership over the management process (Butler, 2005) which in turn has been linked with higher degree of compliance (Berkes et al., 2001; Basurto & Ostrom, 2009; Defeo et al., 2016). Some critics of co-management have nevertheless wondered whether the exercise has not, in fact, become ‘an experiment in social and biological engineering’ (Stevenson, 2006, p. 173). Diver, for instance, highlights the potential that co-management holds for both co-optation and transformation (2016, see also Castro & Nielsen, 2001; Nadasdy 2007; Weir, 2009). Co-management arrangements have indeed at times produced positive environment and social outcomes, contributed to reduced conflicts between stakeholders and have provided a platform to address joint problems. Yet, as Whyte notes, ‘[i]t is often argued that the concept co-management implies that the nation-state’s (e.g., Canada, U.S.) vision for environmental governance is used to evaluate the collaborative efforts between indigenous and non-indigenous institutions’ (2013, p. 9). Framed through bureaucratic structures and a tendency to privilege scientific knowledge systems, several co- management initiatives have failed to shift power relations between the state and Indigenous groups and neglected Indigenous worldviews (Nadasdy, 2007; Weir, 2009; Diver, 2016). In line with this, and referring back to the discussion on neoliberalism, co-management arrangements are developed in a context of altered and often reduced role played by government agency with regard to both fisheries management and economic well-being (Pinkerton & Davis, 2015), with Indigenous communities encouraged to take responsibility for these roles but often in manners that are circumscribed by specific process and regulations.

Conflicts and asymmetric distribution of power among co-management partners have at times impeded rather than upheld the ‘democratisation’ and ‘empowering’ dimensions of this process revealing that participatory management and decentralisation are not synonymous

55

(McCay & Jentoft, 1996; Finkbeiner & Basurto, 2015). Thus, as Carlsson and Berkes advise, ‘one must ask if co-management is necessitated by the fact that management power has been taken away from the local community in the first place. If so, power sharing might as well be an attempt of state authorities to increase the legitimacy of their domination [or] to offload a regulatory function that is proven too expensive to manage’ (Carlsson & Berkes, 2005, p. 71). Similar concerns were raised by Béné et al. (2004) in the light of empirical evidence revealing that co-management, decentralisation, and community participation are not inevitably linked to empowerment of marginalised groups; stating that the process can also strengthen both state control and local elites at the expense of more marginalised sectors of local communities.

On participation and empowerment

The notion of participation is a key paradigm of both the development field and co- management approach. The late 1970s saw what Ojha describes as a worldwide ‘upsurge of decentralised, participatory discourse, policies and practices of natural resource management’ (Ojha, 2006, p. 131). Described by Chambers (1977, referred to in Penderis, 2012) as a new paradigm of development, the participatory approach was regarded as a way to tackle inequalities and empower marginalised groups (women, minorities, Indigenous peoples, etc.), thereby fostering transformation, capacity building and positive social changes (Hickey & Mohan, 2004; Kesby, 2005; Penderis, 2012). According to Kesby, participatory approaches ‘aspire to reduce and circumvent the power relations normally involved in research and development and to take the notion of giving the marginalized a voice to new levels by facilitating their involvement in the design, implementation, and outcomes of programs’ (2005, p. 2037). The dominant discourses about participation propose that development and management practices embracing this paradigm are ‘more likely to meet the interests and needs of primary stakeholder’ (Kothari, 2001, p. 139). Because they draw on local knowledge and experiences, they are ‘more likely to be relevant “home grown” and therefore sustainable’ (ibid.), while contributing to enhancing ‘efficiency and effectiveness of investment and [promoting] processes of democratization and empowerment’ (Cleaver, 2001, p. 36). Participatory development, like co-management, is seen as an ‘attempt to enable those individuals and groups previously excluded by more top-down planning processes, and who are often marginalized by

56 their separation and isolation from the production of knowledge and the formulation of policies and practices, to be included in decisions that affect their lives’ (Kothari, 2001, p. 139).

Participation, however, is an ambiguous term; one widely open to politically motivated interpretations by the different actors involved but also exposed to depoliticising processes. In the mid-1990s, amidst myriad accounts often flaunting uncritically the benefits of participatory approaches, scholars such as Mosse (1994), Cooke and Kothari (2001) and Cleaver (2001), alerted us to the problematic and insidious facets of participation. Mosse suggests that we turn our gaze away from those assumed to be ‘empowered’ by participatory processes to ‘pa[y] attention to the development projects, organizations and professionals that frame and control participation’ (2001, p. 32). Highlighting the depoliticised character of mainstreamed participatory discourses and practices, critics of the participatory paradigm suggest that we investigate the wider structures of inequality and the manners power is constituted and operates (Mosse, 1994) (Kothari, 2001; Hickey & Mohan, 2004). As Penderis suggests, ‘[s]imply creating new participatory institutions, with insufficient consideration and analysis of existing power structures, will not enable the realization of participation as transformation and the exercise of popular agency’ (2012, p. 22). Often used as ‘apolitical’ technical fixes to address issues of inequality (ibid.) or crises in resources management, mainstreamed participatory approaches have also served ‘as a legitimizing device’ (ibid., p. 3) for external techno-bureaucratic interventions and development perspectives rather than as support for locally defined projects and aspirations. In Blaser’s words, ‘[p]articipation provides the new ground to legitimize development [or management] practices that can no longer be justified by appeals to modern knowledge and expertise’ (2009a, p. 444). Hence, as Orbach observes, ‘one does not get a sense, upon exploring the extensive literature on the subject, that the participation paradigm has succeeded in replacing the even more hegemonic paradigm of depoliticised/universalised development’ (Orbach, 2011, p. 197), or management.

Co-management, as a participatory approach, ‘can be looked upon as a continuum from the simple exchange of information to formal partnership’ (Carlsson & Berkes, 2005, p. 66). As various authors highlight, this continuum or spectrum comprises a loose range of possibilities: from ‘receiving information from the government, to fulfilling an advisory role of the government, to being delegated legislative authority, and finally to assuming co-jurisdiction of

57 resources with government’ (Rodon, 1998, p. 120), or, more bluntly, ‘from the tokenism of local participation in government research to local communities retaining substantial self-management power’ (Notzke, 1995, p. 187).

In fisheries co-management contexts, users’ participation is regularly located on the consultative side of the continuum (Degnbol, 2003, p. 31). Accordingly, Indigenous peoples’ participation in co-management arrangements is not inevitably vested with a power-sharing status or any power to decide how territories and resources are defined and regulated, nor does it guarantee that Indigenous laws, worldviews or ways of relating with their environment will be considered. Kothari emphasises that, in some instance, ‘participatory approaches can unearth who gets what, when and where, but not necessarily’ as I discuss in the following section, ‘the processes by which this happens or the ways in which the knowledge produced through participatory techniques is a normalized one that reflects and articulates wider power relations in society’ (2001, p. 141). In many cases, notwithstanding their participation in research projects and cycles of community consultations, ‘little has changed for many indigenous people in terms of participation in the control and regulation of their country’ (Babidge et al., 2007, p. 150). Importantly, it is generally as ‘stakeholders’ that Indigenous peoples are included in co- management partnerships (Fraser et al., 2006; Strang, 2009; von der Porten & de Loë, 2014) rather than as ‘self-determining nations with inherent rights and governance systems that pre- date settler colonial structures’ as proposed in the Indigenous governance literature (see also Strang, 2009; von der Porten & de Loë, 2013, 2014; Reo et al., 2017, p. 58). This situation effectively depoliticises Indigenous peoples’ positions within co-management arrangements (Strang, 2009). Indigenous peoples do not consider themselves simple stakeholders when it comes to making decisions and managing the uses of and access to their territories, especially when such territories have not been ceded (Langton, 1999; Porter, 2006).

Other authors have emphasised the need to address the question of representation in co- management situations. Who gets to participate in this bureaucratic partnership, that is, who gets to represent or speak for local Indigenous ‘communities’, ‘nations’, ‘clans’, ‘families’, or ‘stakeholders’ and who is represented within these groups? Who gets to choose and, most importantly, who decides on the criteria (knowledge, skills, status, economic interests, etc.) framing who become representatives? Are these criteria based on those set by grassroots

58 institutions and do they take local complexities into account? Youdelis (2016), for example, discusses the consequences of selecting local representatives based on a misinformed understanding of Indigenous communities. Drawing on the case of the Stoney Nakoda Nation, she wrote, ‘[t]wo representative slots for three Chiefs does not give equal representation to the bands…’ (Youdelis, 2016, p. 1381). This example highlights the importance of interrogating the assumptions underpinning co-management representative structures concerning the internal homogeneity of communities (Agrawal & Gibson, 1999) and to determine whether these structures are based on technocratic considerations rather than on locally endorsed representative systems, norms, political and social institutions (e.g. council of Elders, local fishers’ association, etc.). In natural resource co-management context, the question of representation is strongly associated with a specific group of actors, the resource users. This focus on an often-simplified understanding of ‘users’ (Carlsson & Berkes, 2005), which also reveals the bio-economic bias of this particular relationship, ‘pays insufficient attention to the way the demos involved in decision making is formed’ (Pieraccini & Cardwell, 2016, p. 746, emphasise in text) and risks undermining local institutions.

Case-studies emerging from North-America and Australia have also demonstrated how Indigenous groups are unevenly represented, in terms of number and power, within co- management committees and advisory boards as opposed to managers and natural scientists (Nadasdy, 1999, 2003a; Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; Nadasdy, 2005a; Spak, 2005). For example, Torres Strait Islanders represent only a minority on the region’s fisheries management advisory boards. Aside from the Chair of the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA), Torres Strait Islanders’ participation on the various consultative committees does not allow them to vote on management issues making it difficult for them to genuinely influence management directions (Mulrennan & Scott, 2005; O'Donnell, 2006).

Blaser argues that the participation paradigm, which has dominated the development and managerial approaches for some time, is an expression of ‘the establishment of an undisputable frame of reference within which a series of activities will be carried out’ (2009a, p. 445). The bio-economic and neoliberal postures dominating fisheries co-management arrangements exemplify such undisputable frame of reference. Framing is an expression of Foucault’s ‘conduct of conduct’ or governmentality. ‘The particularity of framing is that the governing subject lays

59 down undisputed assertions about reality which will serve as the rationale to frame and sort out competing claims being laid down by those being governed’ (Blaser, 2009a, p. 445). Framing, in such context, allows ‘promoting autonomous decision making while guaranteeing that none of those decisions will challenge the predetermined boundaries of that autonomy’ (ibid., Blaser, 2009a, p. 449).

Spak (2005, see also Ellis, 2005) invites us to scrutinise the power relations underpinning co-management board operations, the jargon used by board members as well as the venue selected to hold meetings to show how the technocratic institutional frameworks, usually underpinning co-management processes, circumscribe and often impede Indigenous participation within these institutions. Ross et al. note for example that co-management meetings ‘tend to be arranged on bureaucratic timeframes, with Indigenous resource managers required to travel to central offices’ (Ross et al., 2011, p. 271), while Stevenson (2006) highlights the disproportionate efforts that Indigenous partners in co-management agreements are expected to put in to learn what he refers to as environmental resources management (ERM) ‘speak’ or what Babidge et al. have referred to as ‘management speak’ (2007). Moreover, management failures are often explained by alleged deficits on the Indigenous partners’ side such as difficulties to master the language, concepts, rules, procedures, and approaches of the state bureaucracy. Conversely, and illustrating the power asymmetries underpinning relationships of co- management, while Indigenous representative must learn the ‘whiteman’s way’, a lot less effort has been deployed to educate state managers and scientists to Indigenous ways, management philosophies and practices (Stevenson, 2006, p. 170) beyond, perhaps, superficial cultural awareness training and individual initiatives. Following Kothari, within the paradigm of participatory methodologies, ‘the almost exclusive focus on the micro-level, on people who are considered powerless and marginal, has reproduced the simplistic notion that the sites of social power and control are to be found solely at the macro and central levels. These dichotomies further strengthen the assumption that people who wield power are located at institutional centres’ (2001, p. 140). This is reflected by the way the notion of empowerment is defined in relation to participatory development and management and how the concept is generally used in relations to the disempowered, the vulnerable, the marginalised. Empowerment, Jentoft emphasises, is a ‘way of enhancing people’s possibilities and capabilities to get a better grip on

60 their lives’, it ‘increases the ability of the individual to predict, control and participate in society’, gain mastery or control over their livelihoods and enables communities to ‘take responsibility and act effectively to safeguard or change their environment’ (2005, p. 2). The notion is also entwined with the notion of capacity building (Armitage et al., 2007). As Kothari (2001) and Orbach (2011) have emphasised, empowerment is often described as something given, allowed, or granted by those holding powers to those deemed disempowered, ‘enabling those in power to maintain—consciously or unconsciously—the societal hierarchies and inequalities from which they benefit’ (Orbach, 2011, p. 199). However, as both Foucault and Giddens emphasised, power circulates (Foucault, 1980), and ‘all the power relations, or relations of autonomy and dependence, are reciprocal’ (Giddens 1979, 149 quoted in Bryant, 1992, p. 14). It is therefore necessary to consider how power may have been taken away from Indigenous peoples in the first place while interrogating how the state, state managers, and scientists are themselves empowered through their interactions with Indigenous groups and the knowledge-sharing and integration project.

Referring to Nadasdy’s work, Feit and Spaeder astutely wrote that ‘when empowerment occurs it is often of a specific form, tied to participation in projects of modernity and modern state institutions, and to rules of the bureaucratic “game”’ (2005, p. 151). Thus, co-management is potentially ‘a means of extending the capacity of a nation state to govern lands and peoples and of extending the institutions and means by which lands and peoples are subject to governance’ (ibid., p. 149), that is, as colonisation by other means. In Cooke’s words, ‘vague rhetoric of “empowerment” associated with participation serves to justify the activity […] of outside agencies, ignoring autonomous organization, resistance and self-empowerment’ (Cooke & Kothari, 2001, p. 105) just as if empowerment was always something to be brought by outside agents (e.g. through ‘capacity building’) and cannot emerge from within the groups involved. This rhetoric, Cleaver suggests, is based on a depoliticised conceptualisation of the notion of ‘empowerment’ (ibid., see also Kothari, 2001; Orbach, 2011); one which, working as an ‘anti- politics machine’ (Ferguson, 1994), renders invisible or apolitical its disempowering counterpart; including the continuous dominance of the colonising culture and process of colonisation itself (Howitt et al., 2012, p. 50, see also Butler, 2005). As O’Malley and Veltmeyer argue, ‘[f]rom the perspective of depoliticised development discourse, “empowerment” is attained when people are

61 able to take advantage of the “opportunities available to them” (2006, p. 303). Autonomy, on the other hand, is the creation of one’s own opportunities, accompanied by active questioning of the very limited nature of those opportunities “made available” by the dominant economic, political and societal systems’ (Orbach, 2011, p. 202).

Mulrennan and Scott have highlighted the possibilities that even ‘advisory or consultative arrangements can be developed into something closer to true co-management, whether it is legally recognized or simply the reality of practical procedure’ (2005, p. 207). As they argue, ‘[i]n either case, [empowerment] is not likely to be something offered altruistically by state authorities, but rather something won through political activism’ (ibid., p. 208). This echoes Freire (1970) who suggests that the emancipation of the oppressed or marginalised is unlikely to originate from those who benefit from asymmetric relations of power. Being entangled in often imposed disempowering structures, however, should not be interpreted as Indigenous peoples having no power or agency. As Agrawal illustrates through the experience of Raika shepherds in north India, Indigenous peoples’ rapport with state’s programs or processes is in no way passive. It is therefore important to examine ‘how they used these strategies, for example, to create their own association or to represent themselves as citizens and residents of a democratic polity’(2005b, p. 79). Even in the absence of formal decision-making power in co-management structures, Indigenous people have used different forms of leverage and tactics to either block processes that may disadvantage them or influence decisions. It is therefore at times from outside co-management structures that Indigenous groups fight, elaborate strategies and alliances, and gain political leverage necessary to balance power relationships between themselves, the state and other management ‘partners’ whether through political activism or legal claims (Mulrennan & Scott, 2005). In other words, (self)empowerment is likely, in effect, to be blooming at the periphery of formal governance structures. Hickey and Mohan (2004) also argue that participation can be transformative when the right conditions are present, as when local participation is entwined with radical political projects or, as Orbach (2011) suggests, with re- politicised empowerment and ‘life projects’. The notion of life projects itself refers to encompassing projects embedded in local histories, landscapes and memories which are ‘visions of the world and the future that are distinct from those embodied by projects promoted by state and markets’ and ‘entail[s] a relationship between equals and an end to the subordination of

62

Indigenous peoples’ (Blaser et al., 2004, p. 4). Indigenous peoples’ projects of re-positioning their knowledge systems and rights as management or stewardship, supported in principle by some countries’ legislative framework, may well qualify as one such kind of radical political project (Babidge et al., 2007).

Indigenous ecological knowledge systems and their integration within co-management

The project of integrating Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) has been a central tenet of the co-management paradigm for over 30 years. Countries like Canada, strongly promoted its incorporation in environmental assessment and resource management and policy (Usher, 2000; Mulrennan, 2013). On the international arena, it was the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED) held in Rio in 1992 that first emphasised the need for management and development program to take into account, integrate and protect traditional knowledge (Mulrennan, 2013).

Entwined with the inclusion and participation of local Indigenous peoples (particularly Indigenous hunters and fishers) in management processes, the dominant discourse on co- management considers TEK a tool to improve resource management strategies and decision- making, especially, as (Menzies & Butler, 2006) underline, in contexts of scientist-led resource collapses or management crises; as a ‘way to counteract resource management failures’ (Menzies & Butler, 2007a, p. 458). It worth emphasising from the outset the difficulty of translating the concept of TEK in Indigenous language and worldviews. As McGregor highlights, ‘TEK (as conceptualized in academia) is something I don't relate to easily; in fact, I feel quite alienated from it’ (2005, p. 106). Whyte also adds that ‘TEK, no matter how it is defined, is not adequate for any indigenous community’ (2013, p. 9). These comments should, at the very least, serve as a warning that one must use and approach any such concepts, including the Western concept of ‘resource management’, with extreme caution and humility when attempting to account for someone else’s reality.

As Mulrennan (2013) points out, interest in Indigenous knowledge is not new (see for example Haddon (1901) and Lévi-Strauss (1962)). First coined by western scholars in the early

63

1980s,40 TEK broadly refers to the ‘body of environmental or ecological knowledge that Indigenous people have that has sustained them over thousands of years’ (McGregor, 2005, p. 104). As Menzies and Butler emphasise, ‘TEK is associated with a long history of resource use in a particular area and is thus the cumulative and dynamic product of many generations of experience and practices’ (2007a, pp. 458-459). Since, the recognition of TEK by international institutions and its perceived capacity to ‘contribute to more effective and sustainable approaches to […] natural resource in general’ (Menzies & Butler, 2006, p. 2) and development practices— concepts that are equally difficult to translate—have led to a multiplication of research dedicated to its study in various contexts (Nadasdy, 1999; Nakata, 2003; Agrawal, 2005b) especially with regards to climate change adaptations (see for example, Pearce et al., 2015; Brewster et al., 2016; McMillen et al., 2017; Brown et al., 2018; Hatfield et al., 2018). Nakata also stresses that capitalist interests began around that period to look towards Indigenous knowledge as yet ‘another resource for potential profit’ (Nakata, 2003, p. 21).

Akin to the concepts of co-management or participation, there is no consensual definition of TEK given the considerable divergences underlying Indigenous and non-indigenous41 understandings of the concept. Non-indigenous definitions of TEK have generally focused on the ‘physical’ and ‘functional’ dimensions of this knowledge category (Spak, 2005). Huntington, for instance, describes TEK as ‘the knowledge and insights acquired through extensive observation of an area or a species [which] may include knowledge passed down in an oral tradition, or shared among users of a resource’ (Huntington, 2000, p. 1270). Drawing a parallel with the practice of science as an empirical means to comprehend nature, Huntington states that TEK ‘has an empirical basis and is used to understand and predict environmental events upon which the livelihood or even survival of the individual depends’ (ibid.). Here, TEK is framed as an ethnoscience, that is, a corpus of useful knowledge about nature actualised through subsistence practices; superimposing a particular Western epistemology upon Indigenous knowledge

40 Prior to the 1980s, interest in Indigenous knowledge systems was largely confined to anthropology, sociology, and geography (Nakata, 2007). TEK is an umbrella term often used in relation to, while not limited to, Indigenous knowledge. Understood broadly, the term traditional ecological knowledge or TEK could be used in relation to traditional knowledge of non-Indigenous peoples who have lasting relationship with a specific territory. 41 This Indigenous/non-Indigenous binary is heavily flawed, oversimplifying complex and often deeply troubled relationships while misleadingly creating the impression of these categories’ internal homogeneity. 64 systems. As I will discuss shortly, the integration processes of TEK within co-management structures often follow this pattern (Nadasdy, 2003b, 2003a, 2005a).

More recently, Indigenous and non-indigenous authors, have underlined the inextricable relationship between the physical, relational, ethical and spiritual aspects of TEK or Indigenous knowledge more holistically (LaDuke, 1994; Whap, 2001; McGregor, 2004, 2005; Spak, 2005; Scott, 2006; Houde, 2007; Reo, 2011; Berkes, 2012; Cruikshank, 2012; Reo & Whyte, 2012). LaDuke defines TEK as ‘the culturally and spiritually based way in which indigenous people relate to their ecosystems’ (1994, p. 127). Berkes (2012) has described TEK as an ‘integrated package’ comprising local knowledge, classifications systems, environmental and management systems but also including the social institutions and worldviews providing the rules as well as the ethical underpinnings of these systems (see also Nakata, 2003; Reo & Whyte, 2012). Reo and others have also emphasised that TEK is ‘part knowledge system, part system of practice and part belief system’, these parts being ‘interconnected and inseparable’ (Reo, 2011, p. 1, see also Menzies & Butler, 2006; Nadasdy, 2006; Berkes, 2012; Reo & Whyte, 2012, p. 16). As Torres Strait Islander scholar Georgina Whap writes, ‘Indigenous knowledge lives in the social, political, spiritual, secular and communal daily lives of people’, it is, in other words, ‘a way of being’ (2001, p. 23).

Answering to the strong association between Elders and TEK, revealing a persisting tendency to anchor traditional knowledge in a somewhat undisrupted, more ‘authentic’ past, McGregor emphasises the non-linearity of Indigenous ways of knowing. ‘We learn from the spirit world; we learn from plants, animals, the sun, the moon, and from each other and from our children. […] It is not a simple matter of transferring knowledge from Elder to youth, although this is an important process as well’ (2004, p. 404). McGregor instead describes TEK as dynamic and being the product of multidirectional intergenerational exchanges between Elders, youngsters, adults, and between women and men of different age. This underlines that TEK is constantly (re)negotiated and innovating as it is lived. Nakata (2003) reminds us of Indigenous collective rights and interests in knowledge as well as rules of secrecy and sacredness that can regulate how some knowledge is shared.

65

Menzies (2006) stresses that TEK must also be understood as open systems. Similarly, Dove highlights that ‘[k]nowledge always represents a confluence of local and extra-local experience’ (2000, p. 235), the concept ‘local’ compounding a plurality of voices (Raffles, 2002a). ‘The people who live there are constantly reconfirming and reinventing their own locality in relation to the innumerable elsewhere in which they participate physically, imaginatively, culturally, and through the expansive networks of translocal political and cultural economy’ (ibid., p. 329).

Of great relevance to this thesis is Reo and Whyte’s (2012) critique of the reductionist propensity to associate TEK almost solely with activities of subsistence to the exclusion of historical and contemporary commercial activities; demonstrating confusion regarding what can be understood as subsistence or traditional. They emphasise that ‘the adoption of technologies originating from other cultures has been a topic of controversy due to the general assumption that adopting a foreign technology entails adopting the worldview of the culture that created that technology’ (ibid., p. 16). As part of open systems involving political, economic as well as environmental changes outside the control of Indigenous fishers, hunters and wider communities (Menzies, 2006; Reo & Whyte, 2012), TEK has adapted to ‘meta-scale forces within dynamic socio-economic systems’ (Reo & Whyte, 2012, p. 16) in addition to the fact that ‘commerce has long been an important aspect of subsistence economies’ (ibid.). TEK systems are part of a ‘more encompassing cultural matrix […] interfacing with all spheres of human activity in all society, “not”—to use Sillitoe’s words— “separated from the world,” and including the most sophisticated modern technology’ (Ellen, 1998, p. 238, emphasis by author). In Agrawal’s words, ‘[i]n the face of evidence that suggests contact, variation, transformation, exchange, communication, and learning over the past several centuries, it is difficult to adhere to a view of indigenous and western forms of knowledge being untouched by each other’ (1995, p. 422). This notably underlines the interrelationships and entangled nature—hence, false dichotomy—of scientific, and Indigenous knowledge systems (Agrawal, 1995; Nakata, 2003) and the influence they have upon each other; even if Indigenous knowledge contributions to science are not widely acknowledged (Smith, 1999).

With the realisation that science-led management cannot ensure ecological sustainability by itself (McGregor, 2005), more attention has been put on TEK’s potential to improve the

66 quality of data, assist counter-verifying scientific results and a more holistic understanding of local ecosystems or species. From a western-management perspective, integrating TEK within natural resource management processes is often linked to the dual goal of environmental sustainability (Hill et al., 2012) and empowerment of marginalised peoples (Ellis, 2005). From an Indigenous viewpoint, promoting their knowledge system is a significant, yet controversial, component of self-determination or political sovereignty projects and aspirations for a greater role in environmental decision-making and control over their traditional territories and resources (Menzies & Butler, 2006). Langton and Rhea highlight that ‘the documentation of traditional or Indigenous knowledge is fundamental to the capacity of traditional knowledge holders to promote, protect and facilitate the proper use of their knowledge’ (2005, p. 52). For others, it is associated with a risk of distortion, misappropriation and further loss of control over their knowledge, territories, and lives (Wenzel, 1999; Usher, 2000; McGregor, 2005); exposing themselves and their knowledge to disrespectful treatment (Usher, 2000).

Despite the relatively recent recognition by scientists and modern institutions of the value of Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge to address present environmental challenges (Johannes, 1988; McGregor, 2005; Scott, 2006; Menzies, 2006), the cohabitation of these knowledge systems remains complicated and dominated by inequalities enhanced notably by modern institutions and established governance systems. The relationships between Indigenous knowledge holders, scientists and state managers are characterised by reciprocal scepticism. Kofinas shows for instance that ‘[t]he scepticism of northern traditional hunters about Western scientific knowledge is sometimes expressed as the limited firsthand experience of scientists in the homelands of hunters, with conflicts arising as scientists regard indigenous rationality as “mystical” and “a-rational”’. While doubts concerning the accuracy of either knowledge system are expressed by both sides, TEK is often tested through the filters of science (usually biology) to be recognised as accurate and legitimate in order to be integrated into management strategies (Ellis, 2005; Nadasdy, 2005a). Strengthened by what Descola describes as the ‘epistemological privilege granted to western culture, the only one whose definition of nature serves as the implicit measuring rod for all others’ (1996, p. 85), many scientists and managers trained within the western scientific paradigm have been reluctant and frequently unable ‘to use “non-scientist” or “indigenous knowledge” as data’ (Mercer et al., 2007, p. 246). Hence, in management

67 relationships, TEK is largely subordinated to the scientific way of knowing. Co-management structures constitute a very pertinent setting to examine this challenge.

The question of integrating TEK or IK and science has puzzled many state managers and scientists confronted with the ‘multitude of epistemological, methodological, practical and ethical difficulties’ linked with this project (Nadasdy, 2005a, p. 220). As the institutionalised hierarchy between the two systems of knowledge remains, it is through the scientific structures that TEK is progressively adapted and integrated into management strategies (Agrawal, 1995; Nadasdy, 1999, 2003b, 2003a; Butler, 2005; Nadasdy, 2007). In Spak’s words, there is a tendency to assume that ‘the value of TEK lies in its use by wildlife managers’ rather than seeing its ontological potential and ‘rather than seeing it as knowledge that might be used to re-think the unexamined cultural assumptions of how humans ought to relate to the world around them, which unconsciously forms the basis of scientific wildlife management itself’ (2005, p. 239; Nadasdy, 2003b; Nakata, 2003; Nadasdy, 2005a; Houde, 2007). From the managers’ perspective, TEK—once extirpated from its cultural, relational and spiritual context— is essentially considered as a ‘supplementary body of [empirical] knowledge’ potentially useful to ‘fill the gaps in their database’ (Spak, 2005, p. 239). The focus put on TEK efficiency and relevance is therefore often inscribed in a problem-solving rationale where this body of knowledge is considered a technical means to improve, not redefine, the current bureaucratic structures and modern understandings of and relationship with ‘nature’ which largely remains unchallenged, unquestioned and thus unchanged (Nadasdy, 1999, 2003b, 2003a, 2007). Further ‘the collection and documentation of Indigenous knowledge by the development and scientific communities’ says Nakata, ‘is a very partial enterprise, selecting and privileging some Indigenous knowledge whilst discarding and excluding others’ (2003, p. 23).

Nadasdy shows that ‘the project of “knowledge-integration” effectively extends the networks of scientific resource management into First Nation communities and concentrates power in bureaucratic centres rather than empowering local people’ (Nadasdy, 2005a, p. 224). Attempts to integrate TEK within co-management arrangements have contributed to legitimising state institutions’ and researchers’ actions, allowing them to claim having included Indigenous

68 perspectives and know-how while contributing to ‘bureaucratising’42 the holders of Indigenous knowledge (Nadasdy, 2003a). In other words, the incorporation of Indigenous knowledge systems within co-management arrangements is potentially another disempowering mechanism faced by Indigenous peoples involved in these management relationships (Nadasdy, 2007; Spak, 2005).

Since the mid-1980s, researchers from both natural and social sciences have developed methods and tools to record, categorise, and, scientise the knowledge held by Indigenous resource users often without acknowledging the inherent political and colonial dimensions of this integration project (Agrawal, 2005b; Nadasdy, 2005a). As Nadasdy (Nadasdy, 1999, 2003a, 2005a) points out, the collectors of TEK have contributed to the tendency to compartmentalise, distil and reify this form of knowledge to match existing resource management categories, highlighting that there are about as many categories of TEK as there are animal and plant species (e.g. caribou TEK, beaver TEK, goose TEK, Bêche-de-mer TEK) (see also Vaughan, 2012; Weir, 2012; Diver, 2016). By doing so, western-managers participate in distilling TEK, removing it from its epistemological and ontological foundations and from any other ‘superfluous’ elements which initially allowed it to qualify it as ‘traditional’ or ‘indigenous’ (Spak, 2005); isolating ‘the ecological knowledge [in this case] of fishers from the complicated structures and relations in which it is embedded (Butler, 2005, p. 7).43

As McGregor and others have stressed, the project of integration frequently fails to recognise that TEK is ‘much more than knowledge about how to live sustainably’ (2005, p. 104). In fact, she argues, ‘TEK is weak on Aboriginal perspective, let alone Aboriginal women’s perspective’ sustainably’ (2005, p. 106). Hence, ‘fundamental aspects of Indigenous Knowledge are viewed as religious beliefs that should be separated from the physically observable information they have in mind if they are to believe in the validity and importance of TEK in the

42 As Nadasdy exemplifies, ‘by forcing Kluane people to bureaucratize their society and to spend their days in an office rather than out on the land, these processes serve to undermine the very social relations, practices, beliefs, and values that Kluane people hope to preserve through co-management and land claims in the first place’ (Nadasdy, 2003a, p. 263). 43 Cruikshank notes for example that, ‘scientific studies monitoring environmental change attempt to disentangle natural cycles from anthropogenic causes, whereas oral traditions from this region merge natural histories of landscape with local social histories’ (2012, p. 244).

69 first place’ (Spak, 2005, p. 234, see also Nadasdy, 2007; Cruikshank, 2012). Poirier aptly notes that the classification of certain ways or, in this case, aspects of Indigenous knowledge systems as ‘beliefs’ works ‘as a “neutralizing tool” in our understanding of other people’s worlds’ (2013, p. 59), thereby justifying the dismissal of these elements as ‘cultural difference’ (Thom, 2017). Through this process, TEK or IK is removed from its ontological context and transformed into scientifically intelligible sets of data; ‘translated into a language of expertise, incorporated into and subsumed by the mobile narratives of natural science’ (Raffles, 2002b, p. 327). As Nadasdy argues ‘this kind of epistemological cherry-picking goes on all the time’ (Nadasdy, 2007, p. 37, see also Stevenson, 2006; Ellis, 2005). Further, as Stevenson explains, the environmental resource management ‘“speak” and process […] has rendered traditional Aboriginal ways of relating to their lands and resources virtually invisible in co-management’ (2006, p. 168).

The bureaucratic system, along with the scientific structure of knowledge production, has also the propensity to restrain biologists or other researchers from arguing in favour of Indigenous knowledge and practices if the latter cannot be proven scientifically accurate (Nadasdy, 2003a), even in contexts where the scientific knowledge is limited as in the case of countless marine species. When these species are perceived to be potentially at risk or endangered, the ‘precautionary principle’ is usually called upon (Stevenson, 2006). Because of their interest in the species, the knowledge of ‘resource users’, especially if they question biologists’ assessments, is often dismissed as ‘self-serving or based on wishful thinking’ (Johannes et al., 2000, p. 266; see also Stevenson, 2006). ‘When an orientation towards integrated solution based on the expectation of “no-regret” options backed by policy-orientated scientific knowledge and accommodated by existing institutions is the norm, other orientations that do not comply with these characteristics are less likely to be articulated’ (Buizer & Kurz, 2016, p. 49).44 Accordingly, if local Indigenous knowledge contradicts scientific hypotheses, the latter will usually prevail, often accompanied by restrictions or suspensions of access and use rights which in turn, may limit or entirely prevent peoples’ access to important, and at time vital, food sources while ignoring the complexity, dynamism and role of humans within ecosystems

44 In Australia, for example, in line with Principle 15 of the United Nation Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED 1992), the Intergovernmental Agreement on the Environment (IGAE) stipulates that ‘[w]here there are threats of serious or irreversible environmental damage, lack of full scientific certainty should not be used as a reason for postponing measures to prevent environmental degradation’ (Australia, 1992, n.p.). 70 and interfering with Indigenous people’s relationships with the resources (Stevenson 2006). The case of dugong hunting in the Torres Strait is a striking example of this. Years after suspecting that Islanders’ dugong hunting could be unsustainable, despite Islanders’ claims to the contrary, the researchers involved admitted to an underestimation of the iconic mammal’s population due to the poor monitoring technology available at the time (Marsh et al., 2015). While this saga led to the development of community-based turtle and dugong management plans, it also led to the stigmatisation of some Torres Strait Islanders who faced anger and bad press from some animal welfare advocates and members of the broader public. Science-led western management frameworks (including natural and social sciences) have therefore participated in discrediting and silencing, even if at times indirectly, unwillingly, or unconsciously, other voices and ways of understanding and interrelating with the environment. By incorporating distilled versions of TEK within regional, national and international databases, they have contributed to the erasure of the relations these ‘data’ hold with their producers and contexts of production (including their experiences and knowledge of colonisation and its impacts). Following Stevenson, Spak underlines the dangers underpinning the decontextualisation of Indigenous and traditional ecological knowledge. As she notes, ‘[t]aken out of context and used through the “eyes” of Western scientific knowledge, […] TEK does not only run the risk of being misinterpreted, but it becomes possible to use TEK while excluding the actual holders and interpreters of this knowledge from participating in the decision-making process in any meaningful way’ (2005, p. 239). Once their knowledge is rendered anonymous and allegedly universal (according to technocratic criteria), Indigenous peoples lose their power over it and are therefore dispossessed of their rights and capacity to control its use. Hence, ‘Aboriginal people are often resistant to the idea that TEK can be codified in writing and thus taken away, removed, or separated from the cultural context in which it operates’ (Usher, 2000, p. 191). Aware of this, many Indigenous groups have voiced their concerns regarding researchers’ appropriation (or theft) of their knowledge and the loss of intellectual property (Nadasdy, 2005; Spak, 2005). Most importantly, and as I will demonstrate in Chapter Nine, the distillation process at play in co-management contexts separates TEK from Indigenous institutions, social contracts, ethics, economic rationales, property regimes, laws, politics, and experience of colonisation, thereby preventing these aspects from informing management decisions.

71

Based on what has been said so far, the process of integration of TEK into western management models and decision-making tradition should not be accepted as unproblematic, ahistorical and apolitical; and simply in need of technical fixing and tunning. As Burgess concludes, ‘[i]f researcher and agency interest in indigenous knowledge is concerned with empowering indigenous people with more control over their own environment, economies and societies, creating structures around their knowledge systems (by documenting, recording and archiving) is arguably not the way to do it’ (1999). McGregor’s explanation of ‘TEK’ as living and lived suggests that narrowing down Indigenous knowledge to ecological data is a form of epistemological violence which prevents Indigenous people from framing fisheries management and broader life projects based on their undistilled perspectives and measures of success and well-being. This further suggests that co-management arrangements and processes should be based on a more holistic understanding of TEK such as the one proposed by Berkes which takes into account ‘local knowledge of land and animals’, local knowledge of ‘land and resource management systems’ but also local knowledge of ‘social institutions’, and ‘worldview[s]’ (Berkes, 2012, p. 17). Considering Indigenous knowledge more broadly in fisheries co- management context should also include, as Butler stresses, an ‘emphasis on the political knowledge of fishers and their critiques of, and reactions to, fisheries management’ going beyond the ecological space to achieve ‘a more comprehensive understanding of fisheries [and fisheries management] problems’ (2005, p. 7).

Conclusions

This chapter applies a critical edge to the complex relationship of co-management. It endeavors to defamiliarise fisheries co-management by interrogating its terms of engagement, including its conceptual as well as physical underpinnings. It invites a questioning and repoliticising of the western bio-economic paradigm, privileged property regimes and associated bureaucracy. It examines the ways in which these are ‘world making’ through their framing of the relationship from the outset, limiting the possible trajectories of fisheries management and fisheries practices. My analysis points strongly towards the need to enhance the visibility of subordinated perspectives and of Islander forms of engagements with the seascape, and to the validity of their economy as a valuable alternative. Making visible the politics of knowledge, it also urges us to approach Indigenous knowledge systems as more than folk science and to

72 consider the social, ontological and power-laden dimensions of Indigenous (and non-Indigenous) knowledge systems.

Chuenpagdee and Jentoft suggest that we pay attention to conditions preceding the implementation of co-management arrangements, or what they refer to as ‘step zero in a co- management regime’ (Chuenpagdee & Jentoft, 2007). The next three chapters are devoted to provide such background by historicising Torres Strait Islanders’—and Masig Islanders’ in particular—engagement with their seascape, their entanglement with the colonial state and fishing industry and their determination to maintain and exercise their autonomy and lifeways.

73

Chapter Three: Bipotaim, A glimpse at the Masigalgal and Kulkalgal pre-colonial settlement history45

By paying attention to written historical records and contemporary local knowledge and understandings of the pre- and early-contact eras of the Torres Strait and more specifically of the Kulkalgal and Masigalgal regions, my objective is to depict, how Masig Islanders have historically engaged with and managed their marine estates and related resources in the period Torres Strait Islanders called bipotaim; the time of before. This chapter also highlights aspects of Islanders’ interactions with a range of newcomers, at first mainly Europeans, whose presence in the region increased throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It describes how Torres Strait Islanders have creatively interacted and modified their land and seascapes pre- and post- colonisation and how, in a relatively autonomous manner, they have incorporated new technologies and perspectives about the world through cultural exchanges with their neighbours and increased foreign presence across their maritime estates. It is useful to make this journey to the past to understand how core historical elements of Masig culture continue to have ramifications on present Masig Islanders’ fishing systems and life projects; providing background for the critical analysis of contemporary regional approaches to fisheries management and development I articulate from Chapter Seven to Nine.

As mentioned in Chapter One, the next three chapters rely largely on the literature but privileged Torres Strait Islanders’ perspectives and analysis of their past when possible whether by drawing on Islander authors such as Martin Nakata, or on interviews with collaborators from Masig. The objective of this chapter is not to provide a comprehensive account of the pre- colonial context but to present aspects of Islander pre-colonial customary marine tenure regimes, social organisation, fisheries practices and trade relations.

The period covered here spans from the late sixteenth century46, at the time of Islanders’ first sightings of European vessels, to the mid-nineteenth century, when foreign maritime entrepreneurs began to settle more permanently in the region. The narrative unfolding in this

45 Depending on the circumstances and on the speaker, bipotaim either refers to the time prior to European invasion or prior to the arrival of the London Missionary Society in 1871. 46 The European first incursion in the Torres Strait has been attributed to Portuguese Captain Luís Vaz de Torres who sailed through the region under the Spanish flag in 1606. Haddon claims however that the region appears on various charts from 1571 (Haddon, 1935; see also Singe, 1989 (1979)). 74 chapter draws on some enduring myths, stories and knowledge about this period that have been passed on orally by generations of Islanders—some of which were collected by the 1898 Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to the Torres Straits led by Alfred Cort Haddon (see Haddon, 1890, 1901, 1904, 1912, 1935) and subsequently by Lawrie (1970, 1972), Beckett (1987) and Laade (1971) as well as on number of written records and travel chronicles of Europeans who journeyed across the Torres Strait. The complicated legacy of these seamen, scientists, travellers, castaways and occasional convicts on the run consists of the re-presentation of the ‘otherness’ these foreigners perceived while on the Strait’s waters, beaches and villages. Their stories are fragmented, at times muddled, and shaped by eurocentric, androcentric and evolutionist perspectives of the world. Yet they also contain valuable pieces of information about the peoples they met throughout their voyages and about how these chroniclers, also actors in these stories, positioned themselves in relation to the region’s inhabitants; themselves as the ‘civilised’ and the ‘others’ as noble or not so noble ‘savages’ (Nakata, 1997). As such, these accounts often reveal more about the values and ideas underlying these explorers’ worldviews than they do about the lifeworlds of the people they attempted to portray. Paradoxically, some of these accounts have been instrumental to both Torres Strait’s colonisation and, more than a century later, its ‘decolonisation’ as part of the evidence47 supporting Torres Strait Islanders land and sea claims from the 1980s (see Chapter 5). Today, Islanders also relate to some of these accounts, notably those compiled in Haddon’s Cambridge expedition volumes, to re-construct or re-enlive parts of their cultural identities.

These records give us hints about certain aspects of Islanders’ lifeworlds, seafaring skills and occupation of the territory; aspects which are nevertheless generally purified of their ontological and epistemological foundations. As Beckett suggests (1987) some of these historical narratives, written from the second half of the nineteenth century, resulted from prolonged exchanges with specific Islander informants or communities, enabling particular Islander perspectives to permeate these outsider accounts while other clans’, families’ (and I would add gender) views and experiences have remained invisible. Notwithstanding, the transcriptions of Islanders’ views added local ‘voices’ to historical narratives that would have otherwise been

47 See for instance how the account of Jukes, MacGillivray and Sweatman have been used in the Federal Court Case opposing Masig and Damuth people to the State of Queensland (Commonwealth of Australia, 2000). 75 dominated by outsiders’ interpretations. These voices are nevertheless more like murmurs, especially as Islanders’ stories were submitted (and still are albeit to a lesser degree) to a process of linguistic and cultural translation and distillation. As Nakata (1997) reminds us, the Islanders’ positions and perspectives remain staggeringly absent.

First encounters with Europeans

Archaeological reports resulting from decades of research in various parts of the Torres Strait indicate that at least some regions were settled 7,000 to 8,000 years ago (Wright & Jacobsen, 2013) by Melanesian peoples originating from Op Daudai, known today as Papua New Guinea (Moore, 1972; Beckett, 1987; Carter, 2001; Carter et al., 2004; McNiven, 2006; Rowe, 2007; McNiven, 2008). For thousands of years, Torres Strait Islanders’ ancestors have ‘intentionally manipulated, changed and managed their [land and sea] environments as constructed landscapes to accommodate their specialized maritime lifeway’ (McNiven, 2008, p. 458). Although archaeological research in Kulkalgal territories is sparse, McNiven suggests that the Kulkalgals were likely ‘part of major cultural changes of the last 600-800 years given their key intermediary role in socially and culturally articulating communities of the eastern and western islands’ (2006, p. 12).

From the first European incursion in the Torres Strait by Luís Vaz de Torres in 1606 until the 1770s, European presence in the region was rare48 as were the reported observations covering this period. Following the passage of then Lieutenant James Cook in 1770, the Europeans began to venture more frequently into this treacherous seaway. Cook, Bligh and Flinders figure among those who endeavoured to chart this passage connecting the Pacific and the Indian Oceans, accounting for its coasts, its islands and the myriad reefs and sand banks which make its crossing so perilous and fatal for several foreign navigators. These new charts progressively eased European seamen’s journey through the Strait, although shipwrecks remained frequent. In 1792, Bligh revealed to the foreigners a deep-sea channel (Prince of Wales channel) which contributed to the intensification of the maritime traffic in the region. By 1820, the Torres Strait was already

48 About the earliest European presence in the region Beckett notes, ‘[t]hese were voyages of discovery, without consequences for the Islanders beyond whatever impact the sight of strange vessels and people may have made on their consciousness’ (1987, p. 32). Nonetheless, it must be mentioned that Torres’ men shot two Kulkalgal men and abducted three of their young women. This traumatic event is likely to have been carried through the local oral history for some time. 76 a well-travelled route by foreigners (Mullins, 1992, 1995). Consequently, written descriptions of the region and its people multiplied over this period.

In many of these journals, imbued by the lack of reflexivity characterising this period, Islanders were portrayed as barbaric, cruel, fierce or hostile peoples as well as extraordinarily skilled warriors and seafarers (Duyfhen, 1606; Cook, 1770; Bligh and Portlock, 1792; Lewis, 1836). As Flinders noted: they ‘appeared to be dextrous sailors and formidable warriors; and to be as much at ease in the water, as in their canoes’ (1814, n.p.). The narratives emerging from these voyages also provided detailed descriptions of the local weaponry and canoes, along with the different types of settlements and styles of habitation observed throughout the region. Such descriptions were often complemented by comments about the sighting of human skulls and body parts around these settlements, laying emphasis on the perceived savageness of local populations; a narrative that fed the imagination of the ‘civilised’ back in Europe.

Bligh and Portlock provided the first written records on the Kulkalgals consisting of the description of a violent attack allegedly led by Tudu Islanders against the Providence and the Assistant south of the large reef complex near Tudu which Bligh re-named, respectively, ‘Warrior Reef’ and ‘Warrior Island’ in commemoration of this event. It is therefore the accounts from Bligh, Portlock, Flinders and a few decades later, Lewis, Jukes and MacGillivray, that the Kulkalgals presence on islands such as Tudu, Masig, Damuth, Mauar and Auridh began to be inscribed in the western literature.49 Through his interactions with the people of Masig and Damuth, Jukes also collected the vernacular names for several surrounding islands.

Customary land and marine tenure

In addition to Islanders’ oral accounts, the nineteenth century reports leave no doubt about the existence of property regimes over the islands and seas of the Torres Strait. Wilkin, a member of the Haddon’s expedition, described Islanders as possessing a very well-developed sense of property (Haddon, 1904; Haddon et al., 1908, see Nakata 2007). Although Wilkin’s observations referred essentially to land tenure systems, he also highlighted that reefs, wrecks, and parts of the marine territory may have been the preserve of some groups or clans. Others,

49 Shnukal (2004b) suggests that Koedal and Umaga would also have been inhabited on a semi-permanent basis in the early post-contact era. 77 such as MacGillivray, reported that Islanders ‘had laws regulating the ownership of “every inch of land” over which they roamed’ (quoted in Mullins, 1995, p. 24). As reported through local oral history and contemporary analyses, the Kulkalgals, and Torres Strait Islanders in general, have assertively controlled, patrolled and defended their land and marine territories50 and did not hesitate to protect these territories against intruders despite the use of muskets against them (Singe, 1989 (1979); Mullins, 1995; Shnukal, 2004b). Many lost their lives but these European- Islander altercations also resulted in several severed European heads.

From the pre-colonial era to this day, Torres Strait’s islands, sea, the sky and the various elements they encompass have been connected to and owned by specific peoples (e.g. Masigalgal, Porumagal, Meriam le). Akin to other Melanesian contexts (see for example Johannes, 1981; Hviding, 1996; Aswani, 1999), local customary laws determined who was—and in principle still is—vested with the right to speak and make decisions for certain territories as well as the rules of access for given territories and resources. Protocols existed for those who wanted to enter another group’s waters or visit its islands and death was often the punishment inflicted upon trespassers. As one of my collaborators emphasised: ‘[e]very island had their territory... you pass my territory without my permission... I could kill you. Dem [they] used to send out party gor outside just to check dem zones blo [belonging] to... the area blo where they come from. Pind out ip [find out if] everybody who's passing e gad dat [have that] Murkam tree, [peace tree]’ (Inter., MC26, 2009).

On Masig, parcels of land were and are still owned51 by specific families and their members who generally inherited them. Based on discussions with Masig Elders, the sea and intertidal zone, on the other hand, appear to have been owned amongst Masigalgals and used collectively by their community. For other Islander groups (e.g. Mer, Erub and Ugar), certain sections of the reef attached to home islands have been the property of lineages or sub-lineages who also own adjacent house and garden areas (Scott, 2004). Torres Strait Islanders ownership and control of their respective sea territories influenced their capacity to participate in the region’s expansive trade network (some species being abundant in areas of the Torres Strait

50 Shnukal specifies that the marine estates of the Kulkalgal sub-groups (Masigalgal, Iamalgal, Porumagal, Warraberean) overlapped on some areas (Shnukal, 2004b). 51 Aspects of Masig contemporary tenure regimes will be discussed in chapter Seven and Eight. 78 while absent in others) whether as providers of certain goods and/or as middlemen (see section on trade relationships below). By limiting entry to their respective marine domains, each group thereby limited outsiders’ access to the resources offered by their ecosystems, especially the sedentary marine species, and allowed a form of economic specialisation to take place. Using resources contained in another group’s land and sea territory necessitated that one obtained permission from the local community. I will return to this aspect and further explore contemporary forms of customary marine tenure on Masig in Chapter Seven. In addition, despite the raids and fighting happening between the communities during pre-colonial times, ‘there are no reports of territory being annexed’ (Beckett, 1963, p. 9 see also Beckett, 1972; Shnukal 2004), which appear to suggest strong relationships between these societies and their land and sea territories.

Perspectives on Sociality, Governance and Social Organisation

Details of the life, social institutions and rules that once formally and informally governed the Masigalgal and broader Torres Strait domain prior to colonisation are fragmented. Colonial interventions from the mid-1800s impacted heavily on Islanders’ lifeways, hindering the oral transmission of local knowledge and languages while disrupting the local social fabric by imposing new hierarchies, systems of governance, economic values and religion. As I will discuss here, in this context of growing European encroachments on Islander lifeways and domains and the increasing entanglement between these worlds marking this period, Islanders have maintained their relative autonomy and a significant level of agency in shaping their futures (see Nakata, 2007). As will be discussed further in Chapter Four and later chapters, they did not passively accept the new regime forced upon them but articulated, integrated, adapted, resisted and rebuked elements of this regime. As mentioned in Chapter Two, selectively adopting, embracing or transforming elements brought to their regions by the colonisers, be they new technologies, religions or economic practices, does not necessarily infer the adoption of the cultural values underpinning these elements by Indigenous peoples (Reo & Whyte, 2012).

Historical accounts of Torres Strait Islanders’ pre-colonial political structures commonly report societies without a hereditary chief or centralised form of authority (Jukes, 1847; MacGillivray, 1852; Macfarlane, 1888 in Osborne, 2009). Some European observers, however, wrote about the existence of chieftainship in the region but authors such as MacGillivray argued

79 that these interpretations draw on European biases. Indeed, the local figure of power described in these journals were ‘generally elderly men, who from prowess in war, force of character, or acknowledged sagacity, are allowed to take the lead in everything relating to the tribe’ (1852, p. 27). Haddon and Rivers admitted their difficulties in determining the rules defining the status of Elders (see Nakata, 1997). In his analysis of the Cambridge Expedition, Islander scholar, Martin Nakata argues that Haddon and Rivers failed to understand Islander modes of governance, searching instead for elements of the local social life which corresponded to Western conceptions of authority, law and morality, allowing them to conclude that something analogous to an embryonic democracy existed in the region (1997, see also Beckett, 1963). I would also add here that, with most of the European (except for Barbara Thompson52) accounts having been written by men, it is possible that the political roles of Islander women have been understated, misinterpreted or rendered invisible.

According to Beckett, Torres Strait Islander small societies main political unit was ostensibly the clan53 (in Arthur, 2005a, p. 90). Shnukal stresses there may have been little to no distinction between religious and political leadership which was assumed ‘by a fraternity of senior men, the maidhalgal “magic men”’ (2000, p. 36). Arthur suggests however that political authority may have been event-specific and ‘activated to organise people for group events such as inter-island fighting, trading expeditions, and for ceremonial activities’ (2005a, p. 90). Outside of these special circumstances, Torres Strait Islanders lives appear to have retained what he describes as a ‘significant degree of individualism’ (ibid.). Shnukal’s (2000) analysis underscored the individual autonomy of the pre-colonial Kulkalgals. She highlights, for example, family or clan rights to choose where they would carry out their subsistence activities. She also suggests that the Kulkalgal were ‘traditionally exogamous and patrilocal and clan descent was through the male line’ (2004b, p. 322, see also Beckett, 1963; Arthur, 2005). Kinship rights and obligations likely influenced food and wealth distribution. Osborne emphasises the centrality of reciprocity for Torres Strait societies. ‘[S]haring’ she writes, ‘promoted equality and the

52 Barbara Crawford Thompson, survivor of a shipwreck (in 1844) who was adopted and lived with the Kauraregs of Muralag for five years. 53 Shnukal adds that the “totemic” clans “govern territory, residence patterns, religious ceremony, food taboos, permissible marriage partners, friendship obligations and trading alliances” (2004b, p. 322). With the arrival of the London Missionary Society in 1871, the totem systems progressively faded away although discussions with number of women on Masig as recent as February 2019 show that they are re-emerging today. 80 assurance that no one would go hungry’ (2009, p. 7). The importance of sharing is notably highlighted through a number of Torres Strait myths and legends (Fitzpatrick, 1991) and still presented today as a salient dimension of Masig Islander lives (see Chapter 6 and 7).

Masig Islander Elders with whom I have discussed the matter explain that bipotaim, the kwod was the meeting place where decisions were made by a group of male Elders in the community (Inter., MC9, 2008; Inter., MC1, 2009). Haddon indeed described the kwod as ‘the real centre of the public life of individual communities’ (Haddon, 1904, p. 264). While it is no longer at the centre of Masig’s political and public life, the local kwod is remembered, at least by older members of the community, as a significant place of power; a place holding the memories of their forebears. Similarly, the late Fr. Jack Billy (Pers. Comm., 2009), a Porumagal Elder, during a visit we made to one of Poruma’s kwods54, explained that the Poruma male Elders would meet there to make important decisions.

Despite the predominantly decentralised nature of the Kulkalgal politico-religious life, contemporary Masig Islanders, as well as some authors, have suggested that, through time, a few men have occupied more prominent positions of power (Teske, 1991; Shnukal, 2000). One Masig Elder explained that the role of the chief included responsibilities to distribute the lands and setting up of gardens in order to ‘make sure that nobody would go hungry’ (Inter., MC1, 2009). Masig’s myths collected by Lawrie identify two local mythical figures, Igowa and Iawasu, who are described in the story as ‘headmen’ of Masig. It is difficult to determine if these significant figures had a chief status or whether their authority was shared with other legendary ancestors. Wabu, a Masig man who lived in the late 1800s and who was believed to be ‘a great sorcerer’, was also described as a headman by the late Napoleon Warria (Teske, 1991, pp. 26- 27). Wabu subsequently passed down his knowledge to Mandi who, following the Island’s annexation to Queensland became the local Mamoose55 or chief. During my fieldwork, many Masig Islanders have mentioned the story of Kebisu of Tudu, also known as King Kebisu, who they portrayed as an influential bipotaim Kulkalgal figure recognised for his warrior skills and for being a catalyst for the diffusion of Christianity in the region.

54 The visit was made during a Torres Strait Sea Claims hearing held on Poruma in October 2008. 55 The term mamoose is the equivalent of chief or headman. The name was adopted by the colonial authorities who appointed mamoose as magistrate or in other position of limited power (Beckett, 1963; Arthur, 2005a). 81

It is widely accepted by Torres Strait Islanders56 and several scholars that, at the time of contact, the various groups inhabiting the Torres Strait, ancestors of the current inhabitants, were politically and socially autonomous societies57 despite the interactions prevailing between some of these groups (Beckett, 1963; Schug, 1995; Shnukal, 2000; Arthur, 2005a). Discussing Torres Strait peoples’ great mobility, Beckett notes that ‘[t]hose most widely separated had only mediated contact, while those nearest one or other of the two landmasses saw as much of them as they did of other islands’ (1972, p. 308). Nakata stresses that the region was home for a ‘complex and diverse heterogeneous group of people with differing needs’ (Nakata, 1990, p. 5) and, according to Beckett, Torres Strait Islanders groups were ‘neither politically unified nor culturally homogenous’ (1972, p. 308, see also Shnukal, 2000). This seems to have also applied to cultural clusters. The Kulkalgals, for example, ‘[did] not appear to have united as a single nation to defend their vast sea territory’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 36). Yet, despite the ostensive absence of regional political unity, ‘potentially unifying themes’ connected these groups as ‘[p]eople from different islands intermarried […] fought and traded’ (Arthur, 2005a, p. 91). As exemplified by Maino58, strong connections also existed between Masig Islanders and the Eastern groups. The Masigalgal language reflects these connections, being a mixture of Kala Lagaw Ya and Meriam Mir (Haddon, 1890, p. 93).

The myths and legends belonging to discrete groups are tales of both distinctiveness and alliances extending to groups across what is now known as Cape York and the Western Province of Papua New Guinea. In central Torres Strait, the storyline relating the journey of the ‘Four Brothers’ explains the arrival and connections of the Iamalgals, Porumalgals, Warraberalgals, Masigalgals and Meriam Le with their respective islands and with their seascape. The story emphasises the kinship shared among the Kulkalgals, but also shared between the Kulkalgals and the people of Mer where Malo, one of the brothers, settled. As the story goes, the four brothers ‘took counsel amongst themselves one day at Utu and reached a decision of great importance

56 The insistence by Torres Strait Islanders across the region that one group cannot talk for the other or that one Island lifeways does not necessarily represent them all support statements of general political and social autonomy of Islander groups. 57 MacGillivray was convinced that the Torres Strait was inhabited by discrete, independent groups, notably describing the ‘Massilegas’ (Masigalgal) as a distinct people with a distinct language (MacGillivray, 1852). 58 Born on Daru (PNG) around 1861, Maino is the son of Kebisu of Tudu and Mogor of Masig and was one of Haddon’s main informants. 82

[…] They would now part, each going to a different island. In this way they would spread their influence over a far greater domain, for they and the people who followed their rule would be united by the common bond of brotherhood’ (Lawrie, 1970, pp. 252-253). Pondering this story, one Masig Elder explains ‘that’s how today life blo we [our life], nearly all our culture today, nearly identical from Mer to Masig, , Poruma and Warraber’ (Inter., MC1, 2009). Similar alliances existed elsewhere in the region (Haddon, 1890, p. 301). Haddon saw Kulkalgal peoples as allies although he also wrote that the Kulkalgal people of ‘Aurid [Auridh] used to suffer a good deal from the raids of the Tutu [Tudu] men’ (Haddon, 1935, p. 88); implying that alliances and hostilities were possibly circumstantial and that some relationships may have hovered between cooperation and warfare. As I have mentioned earlier, the Masigalgal self- identify as Kulkalgal and recognise and are recognised as such by the people of Iama, Poruma, Warraber and the former people of Naghir.59 Despite associations within this regional cluster, each constituent retains somewhat of a distinct identity; something that has been repeatedly expressed to me by many Masigalgals and Porumalgals as well as by other Islanders I have met since I began this project.

A lifeworld based on movement

What the historical accounts tell us, in concert with some of the myths such as the stories of the ‘Four Brothers’ and ‘Igowa’, is that the life of the Kulkalgal who lived during this period was punctuated by intermittent warfare, island hopping, and cycles of long sea voyages undertaken for fishing, hunting, trading and social visits. Shnukal describes the Kulkalgals as ‘the most mobile of the Islanders, moved camp with the seasons, and spent extended periods of time on hunting expeditions and visiting neighbours to their east, west, north and south’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 35 see also 2004; Beckett, 1987). Given the smallness and relative soil poverty of their islands, the Kulkalgals orientated their livelihood towards the sea (Beckett, 1963). While Western and Eastern Islanders have typically focused on hunting and horticulture respectively, the Kulkalgals’ livelihood was based on fishing and trading (Shnukal, 2000, 2004b; Arthur, 2005a). They established camps on certain islands which they used as bases from which to access more distant fishing and hunting grounds. They momentarily visited other islands or sand banks to hunt birds, collect eggs (of turtle and birds) and fish on their reefs. The length of

59 The people of Auridh and Damuth progressively relocated to Masig between 1870 and 1900. 83 their stay in a specific location seems to have been dictated by food availability, seasonal cycles and, when visiting people from other groups, by the rules set by the host community.

Masig’s legend of Igowa told by the late Ned Mosby underlines that ‘[s]ometimes the people of Masig used to walk across to the neighbouring cay, Kadal [Keodal], to fish, and camp there for several days’ (quoted in Lawrie, 1970). Lewis, who retraced the misadventure of the Charles Eaton shipwreck’s victims60, reported that the escapees made their fatal encounter with the Auridh people on Boydong Island where, as Singe (1989 (1979)) points out, nobody actually lived but where men from Auridh fished. MacGillivray reported that at times a large proportion of the Masig or Auridh population would spend weeks on remote sand-banks hunting turtles, collecting their eggs and fishing (quoted in Haddon, 1890, p. 353). He mentioned that the ‘Massilegas’ (Masigalgals) visited Aboriginal groups of Cape York Peninsula with whom they appeared to be at ease; ‘often extending their voyage far to the southward, visiting the various sandy islets in search of turtle and remaining away for a month or more’ (1852, p. 3). There are suggestions that hunting and fishing parties would have gone as far south as Cape Grenville, Pascoe River and the Forbes Islands group on Cape York east coast (Haddon, 1935; Beckett, 1972; Shnukal, 2000).

Aspects of bipotaim Kulkalgal fishing activities and preservation of sea products

Kulkalgal fisheries targeted multiple species and an assortment of techniques and gear (e.g. handlines, turtle-shell hooks, single and multiple-pronged spears, etc.) were used during hunting and fishing activities. These subsistence activities were practiced from the beach, in the water (free diving) and on board the much-prized double-outrigger canoes. Men and women also scouted the shores, the sand and small lagoons of the intertidal zone and the exposed reefs looking for turtle eggs, crustaceans and shellfish. Diving was used to access deeper species such

60 Based on stories from Erub, Scott writes: ‘according to tradition, to lose harmony with the sea was tantamount to a loss of mind and human status. Individuals were frequently rendered insane by such an ordeal and survivors might be considered as good as dead. Shipwrecked individuals, sarup, were regarded with fear, as no longer fit for society’ (Scott, 2004, p. 263). While there were many exceptions, people who shipwrecked were susceptible to being executed (ibid.). This was the faith of the Charles Eaton survivors, with the exception of two boys (Singe, 1989 (1979)). In 1836, in retaliation for their killing, Europeans destroyed the village and gardens of Auridh. As Shnukal mentioned, in 1860, a new village had replaced the old one (Shnukal, 2004b). 84 as giant clams, mother-of-pearl, and baler shells which appear to have been important trading items (Beckett, 1972).

Discussing observations emerging from Lewis’s 1836 search for the Charles Eaton shipwreck survivors, Jack highlighted that Central Islanders ‘had specialised in navigation and fishing, roaming from island to island in their canoes, fishing and turtle-hunting here and there at what their observation of winds, rains and currents had taught them were seasonable times for their pursuits’ (1921, p. 659). Narratives of Lewis’s voyage through the Torres Strait also contained observations on Central Islanders marine resource management practices. As reported by Logan Jack, they ‘worked the islands and fishing and hunting grounds on a carefully thought out plan, comparable to a scientific rotation of crops’ (ibid.). Reports on Lewis’s expedition also suggests that the region’s fishing and hunting ground were healthy (ibid.).

Historical records of stone fish traps at Tudu, Koedal and Damuth (Shnukal, 2004b) are recorded. These crescent shaped stone structures, while an important feature of the volcanic islands of Mer, Erub, and Ugar, are uncommon in this part of the Strait partly because of the absence of stones on these sand cays. It is also unclear how the material to build these traps came to be there. This fishing method allowed for the capture of fish and other sea animals which were ensnared as the water recedes on the ebb tide. The fish traps are one illustration of the ways the Masigalgal and other Islanders have altered their marine environment to meet their needs. This fishing technique would have been particularly useful when rough or murky sea conditions prevented fishers from accessing other resources (Inter., MC9, 2009). With the changes in technology through the nineteenth century onwards, these traps have been progressively abandoned and reclaimed by the ocean.

Consistent with what can be observed today, turtle—and dugong when available—along with a great variety of reef fish, represented the main staples for the Kulkalgals. The observations made on different by Haddon, his colleagues, and informants suggest that fish or shell-fish were eaten almost daily while turtle and dugong were consumed less frequently (Haddon, 1912).61 As Beckett (1972) emphasises, green turtles (like dugongs), are

61 There is no mentioned that turtle and dugong meat was consume exclusively on special occasion (feast, funerals or else). 85 large animals and one specimen feeds many individuals. To take advantage of this, Islanders across the region developed sophisticated hunting techniques62, which include various ritual practices (Haddon, 1935, p. 353), and preservation methods for that species. One of Haddon’s informants, a Kaurareg man from Muralug (Prince of Wales), asserted that porpoises (bidu) were hunted and consumed by the Masigalgal. ‘Me fellow no kaikai [eat] him, he too fat; Masig, Pourma (Parema) and mainland (Australia) man kaikai him, ‘cause he no savvy spear dungal (dugong)’ (Haddon, 1890, p. 309; 1912, p. 137). This comment somewhat belittles Masig people, suggesting that a lack of dugong hunting skills led them to hunt and eat this ‘less desirable’ species. It also overlooks the rarity of dugongs within Masig territory and Eastern-Central Strait more generally. This statement is nevertheless revealing of the status of dugong hunters and the social significance of this species, at least for the Kaurareg people but also for the Western Torres Strait Islanders, the Kiwai (Fly River Delta region, PNG) and other Papuan coastal communities while giving an insight into how the various groups perceived and distinguished themselves from others. During his visit to Damuth, Jukes noticed a ‘wall of dugong’s skulls’ (1847, p. 152), showing that this species was consumed by the people of this island. Some animals might have been caught within their sea territory as still happens now and again; the rest would have been obtained through trade. As for the hunting of porpoises, from the information gathered through my fieldwork, this species is not targeted today.

Haddon (1890), relying heavily on MacGillivray, gives a general description of food preparation and preservation methods. Except for most fruits, food was cooked in earth ovens (amai or kupmari), roasted, sun and fire dried or smoked. Bamboo and shells were used as containers, cookware and utensils, and dried fish were threaded on twine (signé) to be carried on the long hunting journeys (Shnukal, 2004b). Turtle fat, which was and still is considered a delicacy, was stored in the turtle bladders or bamboo (Haddon, 1890, p. 310). Preserved food was either kept for local consumption, notably used while travelling or during periods of scarcity, or reserved to be traded. Some forms of food prohibition, such as the interdiction for individuals to eat their personal totem animal, have been reported by MacGillivray (1852).

62 Beckett (1972) mentions the occasional use of harnessed remoras (gapu) to catch green sea turtle in the Western Strait and Kulkalgal territories. 86

Trading relationships Extensive trading networks

The involvement of the Islanders in the dynamic trade network that prevailed within the wider Torres Strait region until it was restricted by Queensland legislation (notably with the establishment of the reserve regime in 1912) has been reported time and again in the historical records and addressed in many of the contemporary analysis of the former (see for example Lawrence, 1998; Lawrence & Lawrence, 2004). Despite what external observers could perceive as physical isolation and relative political autonomy, Islander communities were connected to each other, although often indirectly, through elaborate customary internal and external trade networks. As late Edward Koiki Mabo explained ‘[t]he Strait is criss-crossed with trade routes and some of our items such as shells found their way deep into the interior of New Guinea and into Cape York Peninsula. We had strict territoriality but exchange through trade was highly refined’ (quoted in Griffin, 1976, p. 34). These networks linked the islands of the Torres Strait and extended to the populations of Cape York to the south and those of Papua New Guinea to the north. The prominence of this extensive exchange system and the complex socio-religious relations embedded within it illustrate, among other things, the economic and social interdependency of these small Islander, Aboriginal and Papuan societies.

Lawrence and Lawrence argue that Torres Strait Islander ‘societies were characterised by the creation of artificial interdependencies by means of ritual and exchange which drew groups into intermittent cooperation where otherwise only interrupted warfare and hostilities occurred’ (2004, p. 21). The interdependency existing in the wider Torres Strait region was notably based on heterogeneous but complementing economic activities and a customary land and marine tenure system which restricted access to certain resources and territories to particular groups. As Arthur highlights, there were ‘no region-wide activities’ (2005a, p. 92). The specialisation of each group or community in terms of labour, goods and services, which appears to have been a salient aspect of the trading societies of the Torres Strait region, was influenced in part by the ecological variations that determined each group’s particular emphasis on fishing, hunting, collecting, gardening and trading activities (Beckett, 1963, 1972). Each community exploited specific resources available across its land and sea territories through various gender-based subsistence activities while also engaging in the production of food surplus and diverse goods

87

(such as ornaments, mats, spears, or canoes) as well as in the collection of shells which were essentially destined to be exchanged in the trade network (Beckett, 1963). Through the exchange networks, the Masigalgal, and Islanders in general, accessed material and immaterial resources from the broader regional ecosystems and beyond, enabling them to thrive on a day-to-day basis and to respond to their religious and social needs and obligations (Beckett, 1972; Mullins, 1995).

The main material items that were traded across the region included surplus fish, dugong and turtle meat (fresh or smoked-dry), human heads, a variety of shells (pearlshells, cone shells, baler shells, signal trumpets), turtle shell and mother-of-pearl armlets, necklaces and shell chest pendants, which were brought into the exchange system by the Islanders (Lawrence, 1994; Shnukal, 2000, 2004b; Vanderwal, 2004). The canoes and canoe hulls, feathers (cassowary and bird of paradise), bamboo, woven pandanus or palm-leaf mats, drums, weapons (clubs, spears, bows and arrows), food items (sago and yam) and medicine were obtained from the Kiwai people and other coastal Papuan communities while red ochre, spears and spear throwers, stone headed clubs and red gum (used as a medicine) entered the network through the southern mainland’s Aboriginal communities. A significant portion of the items traded were marine products or apparatus and spiritual material used for marine-based activities and/or as objects for complex rituals and ceremonies. Immaterial items such as songs, dances, stories, ceremonies and rituals were also part of the exchange (Shnukal, 2000, p. 45).

Commenting on the circulation of goods within the region-wide trade system, Vanderwal argues that the islands’ wealth was mainly based on their shell products, especially the shell armlets and necklaces, which appeared ‘to have formed the final instalment for a canoe’ (2004, p. 266, see also Mullins, 1995). Less valuable shell artefacts, would also ‘have accompanied the canoe traffic and may have served as gifts to intermediaries’ (Vanderwal, 2004, p. 266).

It has been suggested that the Kulkalgals were central to the region’s trading network in which they played the role of middlemen (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 325). As Shnukal writes, ‘by virtue of their central location between east and west, the Central Islanders derived resources by mediating trade and intercourse between the peoples of the two mainlands and eastern and western Torres Strait’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 11). For instance, Auridh, Masig and Warraber-Poruma are also described as being the main connections with the people along the coast and islands of

88

Cape York. Red ochre and stone headed clubs were among the main material items obtained through these connections; items which were subsequently traded to other Kulkalgal and so on (Haddon, 1935; Lawrence, 1994; Mullins, 1995; Lawrence, 1998; McNiven, 1998; Shnukal, 2000, 2004b).

Travelling onboard their double-outrigger sailing canoes, the Masigalgal trading and social visits were largely influenced by the seasonal winds. The south-easterly trade winds season (sager) enabled them to undertake long sea voyages which were carried as far south as the Forbes (Wuthara) and Sir Charles Hardy Islands where they used to reside, fish, hunt and trade for a few months at the time. Shnukal writes that the northwest monsoon season (kuki) was also a time when coastal Papuans would travel south to visit the Kulkalgal islands. The Kulkalgals made reciprocal visits to the coast of PNG during the sager season. In addition, and as suggested by the story of the Four Brothers mentioned above, the Masigalgals nourished trading relationships with the Eastern Torres Strait Islanders with whom they occasionally intermarried (Haddon, 1935; Beckett, 1991; Shnukal, 2004b).

While there is no doubt of the significance of the Masigalgal and other Kulkalgal participation within the extended customary trade network, Lawrence (1998) states that each group, including Cape York Aborigines and coastal Papuans, played an essential part within these networks as they all contributed specific goods and services needed by others. Among the most important items of trade were the canoes63 and canoe hulls. As suggested by Mullins, the canoes ‘not only enabled the Islanders to exploit the rich marine resources of the region efficiently, but more importantly it allowed them to be part of a wider community’ (Mullins, 1995, p. 10). The canoes were indeed crucial to the survival of Islander groups across the region (Beckett, 1972, see also Mullins 1994).

Traditional owners of the territories located at the mouth of the Fly River, the Kiwai people played the salient role of middlemen within the canoes and canoe hulls course of exchanges (Lawrence, 1991); their strategic position enabling them to dominate the ‘principal

63 The larger canoes, were used for long trading and hunting voyages and transport the community from one island to another (Lawrence, 2010). The smaller canoes were mostly used for fishing activities taking place on the nearby reefs and are said to have been used by women and men alike. Hollowed out from a single tree, they could reach up to 20 to 25 metres and carry up to 25 to 30 persons (ibid.). 89 lines of interaction which went from the coast to the central islands of the Torres Strait’ (ibid, p. 373). The canoes were purchased through of a long chain of interactions which involved multiple intermediaries and, as was the case with other valued items, the performance of formal ceremonial practices. The payments were made through instalments which could take years to complete (Haddon, 1904; Haddon et al., 1908; Mullins, 1992). The acquisition of canoes was also ostensibly a community affair. While a main purchaser was making the payments, friends and relatives added various gifts and food items which were destined for the middlemen involved in the transaction. Following Mullins, ‘it was important to the whole community to keep the channels of trade open, and if for some reasons the purchaser could not meet the payments his friends and relatives might come to his assistance’ (Mullins, 1995, p. 14). Haddon explained that this credit aspect of the canoe transaction was based on a ‘high standard of commercial honesty’ (1901, p. 186). In sum, the purchase of this item so essential to the reproduction of the Islanders’ seafaring communities was built on a realm of relationships which had to be nurtured to sustain these exchange channels.

The exchange networks allowed the material, social and spiritual reproduction of Torres Strait small-scale seafaring societies. Mullins (1995) suggests that the arrival of trading parties at one location would invariably disrupt the community routine and was the occasion of gift exchange, ceremonies and courtship. Because of the centrality of trading activities in the Masigalgal and Islanders’ lifeworld, each community is said to have possessed a public place where ‘male visitors were brought to trade’ (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 324).

Based on the existing written records and as pointed out by Shnukal, it is not possible to give much detail on these socio-commercial visits. ‘We cannot know how circumscribed this cyclical visiting was, how long it could last, what rules of etiquette prevailed nor what constituted breaches and appropriate punishment’ (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 326). Local memories of trading voyages suggest that many visitations were prolonged and relaxed as exemplified by the relationship that Erub had with people from Parema on the PNG coast (Scott, Pers. Comm., 2012), although in some cases, these visits could also be tense (Mullins, 1995, p. 15, see also Moore 1979).While the trading and hunting expeditions have been described as ‘all-male affairs’, Torres Strait Islanders ‘also sailed in family groups to visit friends and relatives’ (Mullins, 1995, p. 12).

90

There are significant limitations to producing accurate reconstructions of the socio- economic dynamics underlying the pre-colonial trade networks. Among these limits Lawrence stresses the almost exclusive focus on the movement of goods which were being transacted and what was accepted in return, reflecting European perceptions and understanding of ‘trade’, ‘commerce’ and Islanders’ relationship with these dimensions (Lawrence, 1994), while neglecting the deeper social relationships and cultural and religious imperatives that made these transactions possible. As Mullins puts it, ‘the inter-island and external trade networks intertwined to create complex systems of personal obligations which loosely bound the communities together’ (1994, p. 14). Elements of this system are still in place today and, as I will argue in a later section chapter, continue to influence how the Masigalgal engage with the different sectors of their economy.

Another critique brought by Lawrence regarding the historical descriptions of the Torres Strait trade network was that those descriptions have essentially portrayed this flexible and organic system of exchange in a rather fixed manner. The flexible and adaptive nature of this trade system becomes manifest when looking at the then emerging trading relationships between Islanders and Europeans that occurs mainly from the late 1700s.

Trading with the newcommers

While cordial encounters between Islanders and Europeans have been reported on various occasions, violent altercations were frequent, triggered among other things by European intrusion on Islanders’ territories and several fatal cultural misunderstandings. As the European presence intensified from the late 1700s, trade became a dominant aspect of the relationship between foreigners and Islander communities. European sailors and their crew wanted food, water and exotic goods (which at one stage included human skulls), while Islanders were interested in obtaining iron64, axes, knives, tobacco, glass and various other items as the exchanges matured. These foreign goods progressively penetrated the customary exchange routes to reach some of the remote coastal and inland communities of Papua New Guinea and Cape York.

64 Iron, axes and glass were known to Islanders prior the beginning of their trade exchanges with the Europeans. These items, recovered from shipwrecks, were incorporated and adapted to Islanders’ own technologies and needs (Mullins, 1995). 91

Flinders provides details of Bligh’s exchange with the people he met while approaching Damuth; details that echo accounts provided by Jukes and Macgillivray: ‘they came out upon the beach; waving green branches and clapping upon their heads, in token of friendship. Boats were afterwards sent to them, and were amicably received [...] They eagerly asked for toore-tooree [iron]; and gave in exchange some ornaments of shells, and a kind of plum’ (Flinders, 1814, p. xxiv). In line with other reports on Europeans-Islanders barter, this short passage reveals aspects of a Islanders’ protocol—in this case using the branch of a specific tree to signal their peaceful intention when entering someone else’s waters—which was deployed when attempting to engage in trading with another group or entering this group’s territory and which was a recognition of the host group’s ownership of the area. One of my collaborators mentioned this custom during an interview: ‘e gad one tree... Murkam tree, [you] shake leaves. You wandeh go por another ailan. You wave that leaf and they know you come in peace. You don't come to fight’ (Inter., MC26, 2009). It also suggests that Islanders were quite in control of the exchange processes by being assertive in regard to what they wanted and what they accepted to give in exchange. Indeed, in their transactions with Europeans, Islanders have been portrayed as tough negotiators with a sharp commercial sense. They had precise ideas regarding the local value of the goods being traded (customary goods and European novelties alike) and would negotiate until they obtained what they recognised as a fair deal. Mullins wrote that the Torres Strait Islanders considered themselves to be ‘the equal of their trading partners’ (1995, p. 26) and, as such, did not accept unjust payments.

In the late 1700s, the routes recommended by Flinders and Bligh to ensure a safe passage through the Strait (avoiding the peril contained in its waters and the possibility of violent altercations with its inhabitants) seemed to have shifted the trading advantages in favour of the Eastern Islands which became somewhat of a first port of contact and entrance for European goods (see Mullins, 1995).

As was the case within the traditional exchange networks, the incorporation of Europeans as trade partners stimulated the progressive acquisition of English vocabulary by Islanders. Within a few years, some members of the Kulkalgal communities acted as cultural and linguistic interpreters, pilots and guides for the Europeans; roles that can be interpreted as an extension of their role of middlemen within the regional trade network (Shnukal, 2000, 2004b).

92

The development of these trading relationships appears to have normalised the European presence in the region. In its early stages, this presence was only punctual and temporary. It nevertheless provided an opportunity to these foreigners to assess the commercial potential of Torres Strait’s seabeds and waters which led to the establishment of fisheries stations from mid- 1800s, which was another step towards the actual colonisation of the region that began a few years later.

Exploration and appropriation: making Torres Strait a terra and mare nullius

As Osborne highlights, the early European visits through the Torres Strait were voyages of ‘exploration rather than acquisition’ (2009, p. 8). Yet, the knowledge acquired by European navigators eventually enabled Captain William Bligh to take possession of most of the Torres Strait Islands on the behalf of the British Crown in 1792. This process of appropriation of Torres Strait territories was conducted with typical imperial disregard of the local populations’ tenure regimes and customary rights over their respective territories. The islands and sea of the Torres Strait (like the rest of Australia’s lands and waters) were considered terra and mare nullius; that is, either lands and seas that belonged to no one or territories inhabited by what the invaders regarded as archaic societies. Bligh symbolised the Crown’s appropriation of the Torres Strait by re-naming several islands; assigning them European names65, thereby inscribing European hegemony over the region. This insidious act of dispossession remained nonetheless invisible to Islanders and Aborigines groups who continued to live off their maritime domains, unaware that this illegal (in their own terms) acquisition of their land and sea territories had even taken place; at least for the century or so to come. As portrayed in some of the historical narratives discussed above and as recognised by the High Court of Australia since 1992 (see Chapter 5), far from being terra and mare nullius, Torres Strait lands and waters were and still are independently (from Torres Strait Islanders’ standpoint) owned by distinct groups of Islanders. From the appropriator’s perspective however, Torres Strait was now a British territory and the exploitation of its marine resources was now open to European entrepreneurs. A colonial administrative post was eventually established in Somerset (1863) on Cape York to control the region. The post was later relocated to Thursday Island (1877).

65 Bligh re-named Masig Yorke Island; Damudh, Darlrymple Island; Mauar, Rennel Island; Igab, Marsden Island while Umaga became Keiths Island. 93

Conclusions

The reports and analysis I have explored in this chapter convey a sense of the forms of engagements pre-colonial Masigalgal and wider Torres Strait societies had with their marine environment and inform us of the various ways they have managed their land and sea resources. The Masigalgals, who have inhabited their areas for hundreds, if not thousands of years, succeeded in living within the constraints of their maritime environment by exploiting a variety of resources mainly obtained from the sea and through their adoption of a highly mobile lifestyle. The information produced on Torres Strait’s pre-colonial period, whether archaeological, historical or anthropological, shows that the Torres Strait Islanders have creatively transformed and interacted with their environment to accommodate their needs and maintain their lifeworlds (Shnukal, 2004b). Their prolonged relationship with their marine environment led them, in conjunction with their neighbours, to develop complex fishing, hunting and navigating techniques and technologies which were complemented by a detailed knowledge of the sea, seasonal wind, current and tidal patterns, species migration cycles and position of the stars. Many aspects of their knowledge systems and protocols continue to inform Masig Islanders’ contemporary engagement with the sea. Their knowledge systems and relational interactions with their seascape guided and were guided by complex rituals as well as sophisticated protocols on access to territories and fishing, hunting and harvesting practices including seasonal and spatial rotations of fishing, hunting and harvesting grounds, and forms of food prohibition (e.g. as part of the totemic system in place at the time).

At the regional level, they developed a dynamic economy based on a range of subsistence activities and trade. The exploitation of a selection of the resources available on their marine estate was both influenced by their physical and spiritual needs and by the needs of communities sometimes located many hundreds of kilometres away. Their engagement within the internal and external trade networks demonstrates their entrepreneurship and commercial inclinations. The historical records and their analysis also provide information on how these commercial transactions were anchored in a realm of relationships based on a system of obligations and reciprocity but also characterised by vivid tensions and intermittent acts of violence. These transactions happened between relatively independent peoples and were based on a regional specialisation of labour which can be partly explained by ecological circumstances and by the

94 existence of a customary marine tenure system which limited and controlled access to territories and resources.

95

Chapter Four: Colonial encounters and articulation of Masigalgal contemporaneity

Ours is a story of infiltration and the closely supervised imposition of a new order [...] of intrusive surveillance, of confinement and suppression, of boundaries and restrictions and of deprivations and diminishment. It is the story of Islanders whose lifeworld was encircled in the intersections of administrative regulation by the state, moral regulation by the church and economic exploitation of them and their marine resources for global markets and commercial profit.

(Nakata, 2007, p. 130) The first wave of European seamen to venture into the Torres Strait was composed essentially of temporary visitors who interacted rather minimally with the local populations. In contrast, the second wave of outsiders, who arrived principally during the latter half of the 19th century, driven by concurrent commercial interests, evangelisation projects and aspirations to control this strategic waterway, often chose to settle on various islands. During the 1860s, the establishment of bêche-de-mer and pearl-shell stations across this extensive seaway marked the beginning of an era of profound transformations for the Islanders, Aborigines and Papuans inhabiting the region. The rapid development of the marine industry, the arrival of the London Missionary Society (LMS) in 1871 and annexation of Islanders’ territories to the new colony of Queensland in the 1870s brought substantial and enduring changes in every sphere of Islanders’ lives. Far from occupying a vacuum, these changes were adopted through and modulated by Islanders’ lifeworlds, with variations across the region. The articulation of imported techniques and aspirations with elements of Islanders’ customary systems has shaped lifeways of Torres Strait Islanders historically and to the present day.

This chapter addresses some of the major changes that have influenced Masig Islanders’ dynamic institutions, fisheries systems, economies and broader lifeways. I will explore how the various dimensions of the colonial occupation of Torres Strait impacted on Islanders’ level of autonomy, use and ownership of their marine territories and resources and on their fisheries practices while exploring Torres Strait Islanders’ responses to accelerating colonial interferences and technological changes. I will address these dimensions in part by looking at the emerging complex relationships between Torres Strait’s Indigenous populations, foreign marine entrepreneurs, missionaries and state representatives.

96

By exploring this troubled period in Torres Strait’s colonial history, my goal is to draw attention to the distinctive characteristics of and entanglements between colonial settlers’ and Islanders’ fisheries and fisheries management practices and economic rationales. This period is largely characterised by the tightening of colonial administrative control over Islanders’ lives; an attitude which in turn resulted in growing frustrations for many Islanders. These frustrations eventually culminated into the birth of a pan-Islander identity and concerted political actions which focused on the attainment of full citizenship for all Islanders (Shnukal, 2004a), and on regaining self-determination rights and recognition of some forms of property rights over maritime estates (see Chapter 5). I will demonstrate in the later chapters of this thesis how the misunderstandings, neglect and abnegation of Islanders’ economic rationality and tenure systems from the outset of colonisation have led to the development of measures, programs and policies that have failed consistently to meet Islanders’, not to mention and Australian governmental departments’, aspirations for fisheries management and economic development in the region.

Yet, what Shnukal has coined the ‘trifecta of fisheries, Christian missions and colonial government’ (2000, p. 102) opened new realms of possibility for Islander communities and individuals while simultaneously restricting their freedom of action in various ways. The colonial authorities have oscillated between what Beckett (1987), Mullins (1997) and Sharp (1982) have in turn described as ‘an easy going brand paternalism’, ‘benevolent despotism’ and ‘indirect rule’—which allowed a certain degree of autonomy for Islander communities— and repressive, paternalistic protectionist approaches which encouraged greater racial segregation, denied Islander self-determination, controlled their labour, quarantined their incomes and restricted their mobility. Neither the colonial institutions and their representatives nor Islander communities should be considered homogeneous units and, as will become clear throughout this thesis, different groups of people or individuals have reacted and adapted differently to the new circumstances generated by the colonial context. On each side could be found more and less accommodating people.

While my thesis focuses more specifically on Masig in the Kulkalgal region, this chapter refers to the Torres Strait more broadly. One of the reasons for this regional orientation is that the

97

European-led exploitation of Torres Strait marine resources did not generally distinguish between groups of Islanders, nor did it take into account local customary marine tenure systems and, thus, deployed labourers from across the Strait into other groups’ territorial waters. Many aspects of colonial history are therefore shared by Islanders communities across the region even though the impacts of the colonial regime haven’t been felt uniformly. Despite this regional approach, I use the case of Masig as an example whenever appropriate. Again, more could be said about this period but the objective here is to show how Torres Strait Islanders’ perspectives shaped their participations in the marine industry and broader economy and how they united politically to address common grievances and bring about change.

Repercussions and responses to the advancement of the colonial frontier A portrait of the marine industry

Emerging during the mid-1860s66, the Torres Strait marine industry has been described as an extension of the colonial trading activities already occurring in the wider South Pacific region.67 The stations and vessel owners operating in Islanders’ waters were predominantly European68, Sydney-based and accompanied by large experienced indentured Pacific Islander crews (Beckett, 1987; Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004). Reproducing patterns across the South Pacific, Torres Strait Islanders’ participation in commercial harvesting of bêche-de-mer and pearl-shells was frequently coerced. Throughout the Pacific, and with a greater intensity in Melanesian waters, local Indigenous people were enticed into the industry by false promises of benefits. Many were blackbirded (kidnapped) for their labour by foreign maritime entrepreneurs (Scott & Mulrennan, 1999; Sillitoe, 2000). As Nakata writes, ‘Islanders were kidnapped; children, some as young as six, were put to work; women were sexually exploited and sometimes abandoned on island reefs or sandbanks; and workers were sometimes defrauded of the money

66 According to Ganter, ‘the first known bêche-de-mer station was established the region in 1862 by Charles Edwards, on …’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 19). MacGillivray’s (1852) accounts suggests however that a few Sydney-based boats targeting bêche-de-mer and tortoiseshell were present in the Torres Strait in 1848. 67 The Pacific traders shifted their focus to the Torres Strait following the collapse of the sandalwood industry due to overexploitation (Mullins, 1995). Ganter observed that the ‘resource-raiding’ strategy adopted at the colonial frontier ‘rel[ied] on territorial expansion for its continuation’ (1994, p. 152). When the sandalwood became less accessible, these traders turned to turtle shell, coconut oil and bêche-de-mer, notably in the Torres Strait region (Mullins, 1995). 68 Ganter illustrates that ‘[t]hese fishing stations formed a network of co-operation and ownership at the centre of which were four large Sydney companies’ (1994, p. 23). The Japanese divers became dominant as in the Torres Strait pearling industry circa 1890 (Ganter, 1994). 98 wages due to them’ (2004, p. 156, see also Beckett 1987; Ganter, 1994). As one of Masig’s Elders explains, recalling what his forebears told him, ‘[these fishermen] were not only fishing for fish, they were also fishing for women’ (Inter., MC1, 2009). The presence of these foreign fishermen in the island’s waters was thus associated with fear for many in the community.

From the beginning, the growth of this specialised industry was accompanied by a large influx of seamen and labourers of diverse nationalities,69 attracted by the extensive and lucrative pearl-shell fields and the prospects of quick profit, and giving little consideration to the local peoples and their environment (Ganter, 1994; Mullins, 1995). According to Shnukal (2004a), the small size of Kulkalgal communities made them more vulnerable to outsiders.70 As Mullins explains, the intimidating western Pacific trading vessel crews ‘generally consisted of between twenty and 60 fit men, some of whom certainly would be armed when first landing at a lightly contacted island’ (1995, p. 77). However, Mullins underlines that the newcomers’ use of violence in their recruitment of Islander workers was unnecessary as many Islanders were already ‘keen traders and awake to the advantages that could result from cultivating a trading master’ (ibid.). Despite the violence perpetrated by some of the vessels’ masters and crews, several Islanders freely embarked in this new commercial endeavour which, while being somewhat novel, constituted an extension of their seafaring past (Beckett, 1987; Johannes & MacFarlane, 1991; Scott & Mulrennan, 1999; Shnukal, 2000). ‘For the next hundred years’, writes Beckett, ‘almost every able-bodied male experienced periods of boat work, particularly during his younger years, and some went on to become renowned skippers’ (Beckett, 1991, p. 350). Beckett argues that, ‘[t]hese all-male groups, might be seen as replacing the all-male war or trading parties and initiations’ (1991, p. 350; Fuary, 1991). Singe nevertheless notes that women were also employed on the pearling boats as swimming or free divers (1989 (1979)). Mullins

69 Crew members came from around the world as far as Mexico, Jamaica and the USA and included a large proportion of South Sea Islanders (e.g. Tana, New Hebrides, New Caledonia, Rotuma, Lifu, etc.) (Ganter, 1994; Mullins, 1995; Arthur, 2005a). As Mullins emphasised, ‘Many of the Pacific Islanders who arrived in Torres Strait were missionary-educated and could read English’ (1995, p. 70). In 1896, the Torres Strait population is composed of approximately 1354 foreigners who represent a significant proportion of the regional population (Martínez, 2011). 70 In 1879, Pennefather, while touring the islands to announce their annexation to the colony of Queensland, counted 69 inhabitants on Masig and described the community as composed essentially of older men, women and children (Shnukal, 2000). The absence of young adult men on the island may be explained by involvement in commercial fisheries and participation in trading trips. The Central Islands population size may have also been affected by waves of measles epidemics. 99

(1995) highlights that many Islanders quickly adapted to the new lifestyle, adopting a variety of foreign goods and foreign food while gradually espousing the use of money as a new means to obtain these products. Several authors nevertheless nuanced Islanders’ eagerness for the new industry highlighting the unwillingness of many to spend long stretches of time at sea away from their home-islands in spite of the likelihood of making a profit (Beckett, 1977; Nakata, 2004; Osborne, 2009). This aspect will be discussed in more detail shortly.

Because women were generally free to choose their partners71 —at least prior to the arrival of the LMS— the sudden presence of wealthy foreign men (especially the South Pacific Islanders), who rapidly began to marry into Islanders’ communities, is said to have spurred Islander men to join the station and vessel crews as this new situation increased the pressure on them to acquire the wealth and status associated with the new industry (Beckett, 1977; Mullins, 1995; Martínez, 2011). Across the region, many of these foreign pearl-shellers, trepangers and, a few years later, missionaries found their way into the local kinship networks and reciprocity and obligation systems by marrying Islander women with whom they founded families; transforming the Torres Strait into a multi-ethnic region, or what Shnukal conceptualised as a ‘hybrid zone’ (Shnukal, 2004b). The multi-ethnic72 or multi-cultural character of the Torres Strait has not only marked its peoples; it brought deep transformation to the region’s land and seascapes, its economy, its harvesting practices and its spirituality.

Racial stratification of the fisheries and emergence of a ‘hybrid zone’

In the eyes of the marine entrepreneurs, the labour provided by Islanders and their Aboriginal and Papuan neighbours represented a significant asset (Beckett, 1977; Ganter, 1994). In this unregulated73 and racially stratified industry these Indigenous workers were placed at the

71 It is very likely that the arrival of these predominantly male foreigners brought significant changes in terms of gender relations and women’s roles and involvement in customary activities such as fishing. The presence of the missionaries and government teachers would have especially contributed to a reconfiguration of gender roles. For instance, with the arrival of the missionaries, women lost their rights to choose their partner and to propose marriage (Beckett, 1963; Mullins, 1995; Osborne, 2009). 72 The pearl-shell industry was exempted from the Immigration Restriction Act 1901 (known as the White Australia Policy). The industry was permitted to import Asian workers on yearly Certificates of Exemption (Martínez, 2011). 73 The commercial harvesting activities occurring in a large part of the Torres Strait remained outside Queensland jurisdiction until 1879. Mullins describes the Torres Strait of this period as an ‘administrative no-man’s-land’ (1995, p. 76). It is not until 1885 that Queensland began to exercise a certain control over the Torres Strait fisheries (Beckett, 1978 quoted in Shnukal, 2000, p. 56). Arthur (2005a) suggests that this early division of the Strait may have influenced the current administrative divisions between the Inner Islands and Outer Islands (see Chapter 1). 100 lowest levels of the workforce hierarchy (Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004) and from the first phase of this industry, the Kulkalgal and other Torres Strait communities provided a ‘cheap and tractable workforce’ (Osborne, 2009, p. 12); primarily as skin divers and deckhands (Beckett 1977, 1987, 1991). As noted by Nakata, ‘Islanders were limited in the type of work we could perform by our lowly position in a hierarchical structure of labour’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 158). Similarly, Ganter explains that the introduction of Asian dress-divers (predominantly Japanese) in the late 1870s74, ‘meant that the indigenous workers already employed did not progress to positions of responsibility in the industry, and until after World War II Aborigines, Torres Strait Islanders, and New Guineans were recruited only for swimming-diving’ (1994, p. 31) except on rare occasions .

Their introduction into a larger system of mediated production of commodities suddenly connected their communities to processes happening thousands of kilometres away (e.g. China) and over which they (and the industry’s masters) had virtually no control. With the fluctuation of the marine stocks, market demands and availability of workers, the need for Islanders’ labour was variable and depended on erratic circumstances. Islanders were often treated as a ‘supplementary workforce’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 155); yet the industry relied on the accessibility of these local workers to thrive in the region (Beckett, 1977, p. 83). Shnukal notes that from the early days of the Torres Strait marine industry, ‘[v]essels, disappointed in not finding labourers in the nearby Pacific, began to ship people from Masig, Puruma [Poruma] and the eastern islands to join the fisheries’ (2000, p. 107). Mullins explains that South Sea Islanders’ prior knowledge of the industry and English proficiency, eventually combined with the need for the maritime employers to compete with the salaries offered in the emerging sugar-cane industry in north Queensland, led to an increased demand for Torres Strait Islanders labourers. They were known as eager divers with intimate knowledge of the region’s waters, while being inexpensive workers (Mullins, 1995).

In the early days of the commercial fisheries, Pacific Islanders and most divers of other nationalities received wages while Torres Strait Islanders were generally paid in trade goods (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 328). When Islanders were paid wages in return for their labour, the income

74 The air pumps and diving breathing apparatus appeared in the industry during the 1870s, allowing the divers to reach deeper pearl-shell beds as the shallow beds became depleted. 101 gained was often insufficient to meet the needs of their family and community. Singe (1989 (1979), p. 150) reports that Indigenous swimming divers and crewmen received a mere £1 a month (divers had an eight months season while the crewmen could work for the whole year). In comparison, a European diver could earn about £50 a month (Edward Mosby in Mackay et al., 1908). Without sufficient income, Islander workers often acquired merchandise on credit from master boats’ ‘slop chest’ from which many incurred important debts. Mullins described the slop chest as a strategy deployed by unscrupulous masters to keep their workers in debt and thereby tied to work for them. ‘[T]he “slop” system’, Mullins writes, ‘was wide open to abuse; a manager simply encouraged his men to take as much as they wanted on credit. [...] Itemised accounts were rarely kept, so it was difficult for men to dispute the value of the goods they had drawn, and it was common enough for some to end the season in debt to the station’ (1995, p. 150). As mentioned above, Islanders’ involvement with the commercial fisheries industry was sporadic and uncertain. The problems associated with the unreliability of employment on the master boats and stations were exacerbated during the northwest winds season (kuki tonar or monsoon) when the sea is often rough and unworkable (Beckett, 1977). Hence, Islanders’ participation in this sector did not lead to the abandonment of their customary subsistence activities. Further, Islanders’ participation in this mixed economy played an important role for the industry’s very existence. Beckett argues that the lack of competitive employment alternatives in the region constrained the Islanders to work for small wages; ‘this they could only do as long as they could supplement their earnings with sea food and garden produce. They were thus anchored to their communities, which became part of the industry’s support structure’ (1977, p. 77; 2010). I would add, however, that this may only be part of the story. Islanders had already an economy prior to colonisation. Reducing their involvement in a mixed economy to a response to lack of reliable full-time employment denies Islanders’ agency and their likely preferences for maintaining aspects of their customary practices. As most of the able-bodied men were working on the master boats, women, children and older men continued to work their home reefs and gardens while engaging in the commercial harvesting of the shells and bêche-de-mer75 that could be accessed from their home-island

75 In Osborne, ‘the women gathered trochus and bêche-de-mer from around the home reefs and sold small quantities to the stores’ (1997, p. 7). 102

(McFarlane quoted in Osborne, 1997, p. 4). On Masig, women Elders in their mid-70s recalled their mothers, grand-mothers and aunties participating in small-scale commercial trochus harvesting and their own participation in the industry (Inter., MC3, 2008; MC11, 2009). As pointed out by Osborne, ‘women continued to be the major food producers’ (1997, p. 4) as the main subsistence fishers and as gardeners and food gatherers. The women were strong swimmers. They used to fabricate their fishing gear from bush and marine materials (e.g. ‘manila’ (agave) rope for the fishing lines (Inter., MC3. 2009)) and utilised a variety of methods to exploit various ecosystems (beach, reefs, lagoons, etc.). Whereas the participation of Islanders within the marine industry did not interrupt the subsistence harvesting of local resources, the industry’s monopolisation of a large proportion of the men reduced the capacity for local food production; thereby increasing Islander families’ reliance upon expensive imported food (Johannes & MacFarlane, 1991; Mulrennan, 1994). Consequently, many Islander families faced situations where their local food reserves were insufficient to subsist through the north-westerlies, while the earnings they gained as wage- labourers were insufficient to buy enough imported food to fulfil their needs, let alone other obligations (Beckett, 1977, p. 86).

Establishment of bêche-de-mer and pearling Stations across the Kulkalgal region

According to Mullins, ‘[t]he pattern of occupation varied from island to island, and was largely in function of the attitude of each group of Torres Strait Islanders towards the stations and vessel owners, and the personality, experience and means of the master involved’ (1995, p. 77). For instance, in the late 1860s, William Banner is reported to have used force to take possession76 of the northwest side of Tudu where he established a bêche-de-mer station (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 334) and, soon after, a pearl-shell station which employed local labour alongside South-Sea Islanders and Masigalgals (Ganter, 1994; Mullins, 1995; Shnukal, 2004b). According to Ganter (Ganter, 1994, p. 20), the ‘discovery’ of pearl-shell beds in the waters neighbouring Tudu (Warrior Reefs) is attributed to the relationships between Tongatapu Joe from Tonga (David et al., 2015), one of Banner’s crew members, and the local community. Married to a Tudu woman, Tongatapu Joe accessed part of the Tudugals’ intimate knowledge of the local reefs and was told the location of the valuable shell beds. This event appears to be at the

76 Based on Chester 1870 (quoted in Shnukal 2000, p 55). 103 origins of the ‘pearlrush’ (Shnukal, 2000) which continued with variable intensity for the subsequent hundred years or so. Within a few years of that ‘discovery’, numerous marine entrepreneurs also installed their operations in the Kulkalgal region. Among them, Colin Thompson, Jack Walker, George Fraser, William Walton and the American Edward Mosby directed operations in Masig waters (Shnukal, 2000, p. 107) with two fishing stations located on Masig territory; namely on Bourke Island (Koei Dhadhathiyam) and Masig itself, with additional ‘stations or occupation licenses’ for Auridh and Damuth (Ganter, 1994; Shnukal, 2000, 2004b).

As told by Masig Elders and as discussed by Shnukal (2000, 2004b), the Masigalgals initially responded vehemently to the outsiders’ incursion on their territories and intrusion in their lives. Yet, within a few years they began to exchange their skill and labour for the goods imported by the Europeans (flour, sugar, tobacco, etc.). The elusive Edward Mosby77, known throughout the Strait as ‘Yankee Ned’, is believed to have settled on Masig between 1869 and 1878 where he and Jack Walker established a fishing station78. One of the island’s Elders explains that in the early years of his presence on the island ‘[t]he only thing e make people work for him was his Colt 45’ (Inter., MC1, 2009). However, the American rapidly developed close ties with the Masigalgals. Based on what his grand-father told him, the same Elder discussed how negotiation between Mandi (then the island’s chief or mamoose) and Edward Mosby brought the chief to allow the seaman to use part of the land located on the northern side of the island, away from the main villages. According to Shnukal (2004b), Mandi’s allocation of land parcels to Yankee Ned symbolised the demarcation between the foreigner and the Masigalgal population. Mosby’s station was ‘spatially othered’ from the very beginning. On that land the seaman built a house and an iron-shed to dry the bêche-de-mer and used part of the land to plant a large quantity of coconut palms for the copra market (Shnukal, 2004b). According to Shnukal (2000), Mandi encouraged Yankee Ned to marry one of the island’s single women, possibly to create what she describes as ‘roads’ or ties between his family and the foreigner (porena, kole men, kole people). Edward Mosby married Kudin (a.k.a. Queenie) and a second wife Ikasa, founding a politically influential family. In mid-1880s, Mosby had ‘about fifty Islanders fishing for him’ on his bêche-de-mer station’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 108) including some Aboriginal crew

77 Edward Mosby is said to have set foot in the Torres Strait in 1871 onboard of the Three Brothers, a Sydney-based schooner on which he was second mate (Lawrie, 1983). 78 First with Jack Walker who later on established his station on Damuth where he died. 104 members from the mainland (Milman, 1886 in Shnukal, 2000). Edward Mosby stayed on Masig until his passing in 1911.

Co-existence of two property regimes

Yankee Ned’s story reveals, among other things, the coexistence of two parallel tenure systems on the island; mutually oblivious or dismissive toward the other. The narrative of Mandi bringing Edward Mosby into the realm of Masigalgal relationships and his allocation of a parcel of land shows that Masig Islanders owned and controlled their island territory. As Shnukal highlights, ‘[t]he first [maritime] entrepreneurs […] ignored not only the traditional borders but also traditional land ownership, which was, in any case, [il]legally annulled by the annexation of the islands’ (2004b, p. 334). From the vantage point of the colonial government, Edward Mosby’s and, for some time, Jack Walker’s rights to live and have their established bêche-de- mer stations within the Masigalgal domain stemmed from ‘Occupation Licenses’ issued by the new colony of Queensland. The annexation of Masig territories by the colony of Queensland in 1879 was announced by Pennefather who visited the Outer Islands that year to inform their inhabitants that they were now under the colony’s jurisdiction and ‘amendable to the laws of the white man’ (Queensland State Archives COL/A288 quoted in Sharp, 1993, p. 130). From the early 1880s, fisheries activities occurring within Masig’s domain fell under the colony’s management and became subjected to The Pearl-Shell and Bêche-de-mer Fishery Act of 1881.

Despite this insidious annexation of their territories, the Masigalgals, like other Torres Strait Islander groups, maintained their customary land and sea tenure regime. The ownership and distribution of lands, the sea and the resources they encompassed continued to be regulated according to customary laws. Based on discussions I have had with Masig Elders and drawing from Shnukal’s analysis of the Kulkalgal responses to outsiders’ incursions on their maritime domain, the co-existence of these two systems can be at least partially explained by the flexibility of Masigalgal’s sociality, notably the ‘incorporative strategies’ they have deployed from the pre-contact period to control ‘external circumstances’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 65) through the creation of ‘alliances and exchange networks among potentially hostile neighbouring people’ (ibid., p. 69). Shnukal suggests that ‘[w]hen it became obvious that the outsiders could not be repelled and might indeed provide benefits of various kinds, the Kulkalgal began warily to employ similar incorporative strategies, which resulted in the formerly marginal or peripheral

105 outsiders becoming valued core members of the newly-created central island communities’ (ibid., p. 71). In other words, several outsiders like Edward Mosby and Tongatapu Joe entered the Kulkalgal’s kinship networks either through adoption, marriage or tebud (adopted kin) relationships (ibid, p. 116) which bound them to local families. As is still the case today and as exemplified above, Masig’s property regime allowed customary owners to lend or give land parcels to these outsiders for their personal use (Inter., MC9, 2008). Depending on the nature of their relationships with Masigalgal families, a number of these outsiders, whether Islanders from other islands, Papuans, Aborigines, Europeans, Americans, or South Sea Islanders, gained enduring access to some of the island’s land and sea resources79 or limited access to these resources upon being granted the authorisation by a Masigalgal entitled to do so. In terms of access to marine territories, Masig’s marine estate, similar to other Islanders’ estates, was regulated by a flexible yet exclusive common property regime which limited the entry of non- authorised people.

Commenting on this enduring system during a Sea Claim hearing on Poruma (Oct 2008), another of Masig Elders explained: ‘[t]he sea no blo [belong] one person in particular. Blo people of Masig; zone blo Masigalgal. Area blo Masig, only Masig people use em but if people from outside aks we let em go’ (Inter., MC11, 2008).80 Although in the eyes of the colonial government and, very likely in those of most marine entrepreneurs, Torres Strait’s lands, waters, natural resources and peoples were under the jurisdiction and control of Queensland, Masigalgals’ perspective was that they were still owners of their land, sea, and resources. From this perspective, outsiders’ usage of their land and marine resources was the outcome of negotiation between the entrepreneurs and local owners. Mosby’s station was, Shnukal writes, ‘as far as they were concerned, the outcome of negotiations between the occupant and the landowner Mandi. When the station was established, Mosby directed the operations but the Masigalgal, one suspects, conceived of it as their own, a further elaboration of the island’s pre- contact role as a trade centre’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 114). The Masigalgal, in other words, continued to perform their customary laws, as owners of the territories never ceded.

79 Property rights did not only apply to the land but also to the fruit trees and other features of the land and seascape and the sea itself (Inter., MC9, 2008; Teske, 1991; Shnukal, 2000). 80 The sea doesn’t belong to anyone in particular. It belongs to the people of Masig; This is Masig’s zone. Area of Masig, only Masig people use them but if people from outside asks we let him go” (Poruma Hearing, ADK, 2008). 106

I have mentioned previously that one of the Masigalgal and wider Kulkalgal responses to outsiders’ incursions in their marine estate has been the incorporation of these outsiders within their kinship networks. This incorporation is nevertheless associated with customary obligation of reciprocity, an aspect that may not have been understood by all outsiders. Edward Mosby appeared to have respected this social contract, at least to some extent. For instance, he employed his in-laws, and paid for a European teacher to teach the Masig children81 (Lawrie, 1983; Shnukal, 2000) and stood up for the preservation of the island’s forest notably by lobbying to ban the cutting of wongai (island plum tree), a highly important tree species for the Masigalgals which was being cleared by other maritime entrepreneurs (Lawrie, 1983; Shnukal, 2004b).82 Shnukal highlights that Mosby’s station provided fishing boats that were also used for transportation and trade (Shnukal, 2000). This example illustrates that at least some relationships between Torres Strait Islander custodians and marine entrepreneurs were negotiated.

Colonial construction of Islanders and Islanders’ responses: the LMS and Queensland Government London Missionary Society (LMS)

Within less than a decade of the establishment of the first commercial fishing stations in the region, the Torres Strait became host to migrants of a different kind. This time, it was Islanders’ souls and those of their northern neighbours that were coveted. Commonly known as the Coming of the Light or Zulai Wan (July 1, 1871), the arrival of the missionaries of the LMS brought significant changes to Islanders’ lifeworlds and their created environment. The event itself is of such significance that it came to symbolise the point of rupture between the old and new order, between what the Islanders call bipotaim, the time of before, and their contemporary history. Zulai wan is celebrated every year and can be described as Torres Strait national day.

Like the fishing industry, the LMS was well established in the South Pacific region before it ventured into the Melanesian worlds (Ganter, 1994). Hence, the evangelisation of the region’s inhabitants was mainly the work of Pacific Islander missionaries recruited by the

81 Like many other Torres Strait Islander communities, Masig Islanders were open for their children to receive formal education (Ganter, 1994). 82 On Masig, both Edward Mosby and the LMS cut and used wongai trees in the pursuit of their activities; the LMS for its steamer and Mosby to build his cutter and slipway (Shnukal, 2004b). However, Walton appears to have been largely responsible for the Masigalgal islands’ deforestation (Shnukal, 2004b). 107

Society. Again, at first, the local populations appeared to have been reluctant to see the missionaries settling directly on their home islands but promises of protection from foreign marauders and coerced recruitment on the boats (Beckett, 1977; Arthur, 2005a)soon convinced the local populations to accept their presence on their soils (Shnukal, 2000).83 There was also a general sense of curiosity growing among Torres Strait Islanders towards the outside world and, as Shnukal (2000) highlights, many communities, Masig included, requested to host missionaries and schools. For the Masigalgals and other Islanders, this protection and access to the new world offered by the missionaries inevitably came with conversion to the foreign religion.84 By the 1880s most Islanders had adopted Christianity (Beckett, 1963).

As Nakata (2007) emphasises, the missionaries failed to recognise the complexity and evolving nature of Torres Strait and New Guinea societies. MacFarlane pictured Islander and Papuan cultures in a rather fixed manner; as ‘noble savages’, as people living in a ‘primitive state of innocence’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 21), ‘uncontaminated by the evil of civilised worlds’ (ibid., p. 22) living in a utopian ‘pristine wilderness’ in a ‘childlike simplicity’ (ibid., p. 23). With this mindset governing their actions, the missionaries’ role was to evangelise the Islanders and ‘guide them back towards the ideal state’ (ibid.). Nakata explains: ‘[n]ot realising what they were subjugating, the missionaries regarded this as a justifiable act. With no understanding of “native” structures, they imposed remedies and reforms that they saw as universal’ (ibid.).

The establishment of the London Missionary Society on several of the region’s inhabited islands had a profound impact on Islanders’ group distribution; the missionaries inciting them to relocate near the newly erected chapels and churches (Beckett, 1987; Lawrence, 1998). Islanders from smaller island communities such as Auridh, Mawar and Damuth were strongly encouraged by the LMS, and later by the local Protector, to move to the larger community (in this case Masig) (Shnukal, 2004b).85 As noted by Nakata, ‘the missionaries built their churches close to

83 Sharp underlines that the LMS has been credited for what she called a ‘three-way “peace”’, that is the ‘ending of warfare and raids’ which used to occur in the region; the protection of Islanders from immoral pearl-shellers and pirates; and the pacification of Islanders (1993, p. 111). 84 The ‘salvation’ of their souls commanded the destruction of their sacred objects and the rejection of those among their customary practices (such as polygamy, infanticide, traditional ceremonies, dances, songs, the use of drums, the use of magic and the clan system) which were perceived as contrary to the Christian values carried by the LMS’s missionaries (Shnukal, 2000, 2004b). 85 Masig’s central location is said to have attracted the missionaries. It was the first of the Kulkalgal islands to host missionaries permanently (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 327). 108 the beaches and established villages around them, allowing them to scrutinise closely and interfere with the daily lives of the Islanders’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 156). On the other hand, the church provided the local men with an ‘avenue of influence’ (Arthur, 2005b, p. 95) as they were given access to positions of power within the church hierarchy (as deacons and pastors) (Beckett, 1963; Arthur, 2005a).

In addition to modifying the spatial distribution of the villages and local social landscapes, the presence of the missionaries contributed to transforming the islands’ physical environment more generally. To recreate familiar landscapes, the South Sea Islander missionaries imported ornamental plants (frangipani, hibiscus), fruit trees (bananas, pawpaw and apples), vegetables (sweet potatoes) and animals (fowls and pigs) from their part of the Pacific; giving the Kulkalgal islands their typical Polynesian appearance (Shnukal, 2004b).

From the missionaries’ standpoint, most of the marine entrepreneurs operating in the region represented a ‘bad influence’ or a source of corruption from which the Islanders needed to be preserved as much as possible (Beckett, 1977). In their view, there was a ‘need to insulate them from any encroachment from the civilised worlds which could prove pernicious’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 20); partaking in the cash economy could well transform the Islanders into greedy individuals. Paradoxically, while, in principle, the LMS believed that the salvation of Islanders was threatened by their involvement in the marine industry, in practice, they needed Islanders’ cash donations to sustain their own activities in the region. The importation of the concept of shame by the missionaries, which is accompanied by the need for European style of clothing to cover their bodies, also prompted the need for money. Henceforth, limited Islanders’ involvement in the commercial fisheries, overseen by the missionary, was considered necessary as ‘money was required to support the life style they were introducing’ (Beckett, 1977, p. 85). As discussed by Ganter, the ‘missionary teachers also formed business alliances with the pearl- shellers and were able to withhold or supply local labour to pearl-shell and bêche-de-mer stations’ (1994, p. 26).

Critically summarising the impact of the LMS on Islanders’ lifeworld, Nakata writes:

The Islanders’ culture was replaced with the fundamental accoutrements of Western culture; Christianity replaced their religion; English apparel and taboos replaced Islander ideas about

109

clothing the body; English-style buildings replaced the Islanders’ homes; English concepts of law, education and work replaced the complex evolutions of the Islanders’ social, political and economic structures; the customs and structures of the English lifeworld began to influence that of the Islanders (2007, p. 24).

Driven by their desire to salvage Islanders’ souls and influenced by the paternalistic, even if perhaps well-intended, conviction that they knew best ‘[w]hat should be done for them to enrich their lives in recognisable and validated ways’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 24), the missionaries’ interventions in Islanders lives marked the beginning of a recurrent trend of external intrusions in Islanders’ affairs for the sake of their own protection. I will discuss further the involvement of the LMS in the pearl and trepang industry in a later section looking at the Papuan Industries Ltd and Company Boats Scheme.

Colonial administration of the region

Sharp ("Culture Clash in the Torres Strait Islands: The Maritime Strike of 1936," 1982, p. 130) describes the colonial history of the Torres Strait as the overlapping of three administrative styles. From a form of ‘indirect rule’ (1880 to 1904), it shifted into a ‘paternalist exclusion’ mode (1904 to 1980) combined with ‘controlled integration’ strategies after World War II until well into the 1980s. The intensity of the application of these styles has nevertheless varied across the region, once again, according to the communities’ attitudes and the personalities and proclivities of government superintendents, teachers and protectors.

In 1879 the colonial government voted in the Queensland Coast Islands Act which finalised the annexation of the Torres Strait islands initiated in 1872.86 Torres Strait Islands’ annexation is largely linked to the acknowledged value of the region’s fishery (Ganter, 1994, p. 234). From 1872 onwards, the Queensland Government began to put in place a series of legislative acts and amendments aimed at regulating the activities of the marine industry, at gaining revenues from its operators through the introduction of exploitation licenses (Pearl-shell and Bêche-de-mer Fisheries Act 1881)87 and at gradually regulating the lives of Islanders through the institution of successive measures for ‘protecting’ them from malevolent marine

86 Daru, while physically located in the Torres Strait waters, remained a British New Guinea territory. 87 Under this act, the local Police Magistrate could grant Occupation Licenses to marine entrepreneurs and ‘remove unsuitable residents’ (Shnukal, 2000, p. 74). 110 entrepreneurs (Pacific Islanders Protection Act 1872 [1880], Native Labourers’ Protection Act 1884 and Aborigines Protection and Prevention of the Sale of Opium 1897 [1901]). Lacking the necessary resources to assert its authority over the entire region, the administration of the inhabited Outer Islands remained mainly in the hands of the LMS until the mid-1880s (Beckett, 1987).

In 1877, a government representative was permanently established on Thursday Island, replacing Somerset as the regional administrative centre. The following year Chester, in consultation with Chalmers and MacFarlane (LMS), decided upon the institution of a ‘system of limited local government’ on the north-eastern islands which consisted of the appointment of local chiefs or mamooses selected among the Elders of each island community (Beckett, 1963; Sharp, 1993; Mullins, 1995; Shnukal, 2004b; Arthur, 2005a). These Chiefs, who acted as local Police Magistrate and Governor, appointed and commanded the native police and were answerable to the Governor Resident on Thursday Island. They had the responsibility to deal with minor offenses committed in their community and were accountable for the behaviour of its inhabitants and the cleanliness of their village. Although this system represented the return of a certain degree of autonomy to the hands of the Islanders or a relative ‘Islanderisation'88 of the local administration, both the government and the LMS continued to exert considerable influence over the islands’ affairs (Arthur, 2005a). The power of the mamooses and later, of the island Councillors, was circumscribed by British conceptions of law and order. Yet, despite these limitations this local government system appeared to have allowed the maintenance of certain customary practices notably in terms of land tenure and inheritance (Beckett, 1963, p. 85).

In 1886 the Government of Queensland appointed John Douglas as Government Resident on Thursday Island. Douglas was impressed by the assimilation work accomplished on various Islands by the LMS and considered that the Torres Strait Islanders were ‘capable of exercising all the rights of British citizens, and ought to be regarded as such’ (Douglas 1899- 1900 quoted in Beckett, 1987, p. 45). Because of the confidence he vested in Islanders’ aptitudes and intelligence, but also probably because the Queensland Government lacked the resources to control the whole region, Douglas’ administration interfered only minimally in Islanders affairs.

88 Term borrowed from Arthur (2005a, p. 95). 111

While he replaced the mamooses with Queensland Government’s European ‘teacher supervisors’ at the top of the Island’s government and made education in island schools compulsory89, he also contributed to the Islanders’ greater political autonomy by establishing a system of elected local councils to support both the mamooses and the teacher supervisors90 (Beckett, 1963; Arthur, 2005a). Parry-Okeden, then Commissioner of Police on Thursday Island, described Douglas’ innovative elected local government as the ‘only attempt to govern native by the means of native that has been known in Australia’ (quoted in Mullins, 1997, n.p.). Many years later, Sharp (1993), Ganter (1994) and Nakata (2007) depict this ‘kind of self-government’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 65) as a form of indirect rule. Sharp explains that ‘in 1886 a code was drawn up delegating power to mamus, or head-man that chose assistants or “police”’ (1993, p. 130). Yet, as mentioned above, the mamooses and councillors were ‘directly responsible to the Government Resident at Thursday Island”’ and, on their own island, they ‘were overshadowed by the government teacher-magistrates’ (ibid.) who had a great influence on local policies on individual islands (see also Ganter, 1994). As Nakata emphasises, this system provided the government with ‘a direct avenue for influencing and directing Islanders (in the absence of enough personnel) that sat alongside and, when need be, could override the considerable authority of the [LMS] in the supervision of daily life’ (2007, p. 131).

Overall, it appears that numerous Islanders were satisfied with the local government system and ‘asked for more powers to be passed to them’ (Beckett, 1963, p. 86). However, Nakata explains that while this system gave the Islanders ‘a nominal mechanism for making representations to government’, their influence to ‘work in their own interests was close to zero’ (2007, p. 131). Elsewhere he suggests that, being accountable to the government on Thursday Island, ‘Islander councillors were agents of Western, colonial administration, not agents of their own societies’ (2004, p. 165). Moreover, Arthur shows that although Islanders were given greater authority in some domains, the colonial government was also limiting their autonomy and freedom at other levels. They were, for example, ‘not autonomous as regards their ability to leave the Strait’ (Arthur, 2005a, p. 123) and were thereby prevented from finding work or

89 It must be noted that Masig Islanders wanted to be educated and that many communities demanded to host teachers. 90 In the early days of its inception, the elected councillors were to assist the local mamoose appointed by the government resident on Thursday Island. As time passed, the councillors came to entirely replace the appointed chiefs (Beckett, 1963, p. 84). 112 pursuing their customary trading activities on the mainland. They were also forbidden to stay overnight on Thursday Island (Arthur, 2005a; Osborne, 2009).91 These limitations on Islanders’ mobility may be explained by the need for the marine industry to keep local labour at hand in a context where the mainland sugarcane industry was seeking workers to replace the South Sea Islanders who had to leave the country following the implementation of the White Australia Policy (Immigration Restriction Act 1901) which put a stop to Pacific Islander employment.

At the turn of the century the foundations for further limitations on Islanders’ autonomy were put in place. In 1897 the Queensland Government introduced the Aborigines Protection and Prevention of the Sale of Opium Act following a report written by Meston highlighting the abuses perpetrated within the pearl-shelling and trepanging industries against Aboriginal labours. Apart from prohibiting sale or payment to Aboriginal workers of addictive substances, the Act (and its 1901 amendment) imposed important limitations on their participation in commercial fisheries. It implemented a minimum monthly wage for Aborigines, prohibited the employment of women and children on the boats, prevented Aborigines from leaving Queensland waters to work bêche-de-mer on the Great Barrier Reef, and put in place the foundations of the reserve system which would be implemented fifteen years later (Ganter, 1994).92 Although some of the elements of the Act may have had positive outcomes for some local populations, the Protection Act generally stripped Aboriginal peoples of their ‘liberty to negotiate the terms of their own employment’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 41). Most importantly, the Act denied Aboriginal people’s capacity to manage their own money—if not their lives in general— as the Protector took over the role of managing their income on their behalf (Osborne, 2009, p. 24).

Again, Douglas is said to have had faith in Torres Strait Islanders’ sophistication and capacities to look after themselves (Mullins, 1997) and his influence appears to have momentarily prevented the Islanders from being drawn under the Protection Act (Ganter

91 Arthur highlights that the racial segregation prevailing on Thursday Island ‘increased the distinction between the Inner Islands and the Outer Islands and creating the notion that these were separate non-Islander and Islander domains respectively’ (Arthur, 2005a, p. 96). 92 In 1912, the outer islands of the Torres Strait became native reserves and were now inaccessible to non-authorised outsiders. 113

(1994).93 However, as stressed by Ganter (1994) and Nakata (2004), the pearl-shellers had a significant influence over the government of that period and the industry needs for Islander labourers may have played a considerable role in the temporary exemption of Torres Strait Islanders from the Act. As Ganter writes, the Act ‘was intended to place further restrictions on the employment of indigenes in the fishing industry, but the officials concerned with the pearl- shell industry quickly moved to protect the pearl-shellers’ access to labour by emphasising the distinction between mainland Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders’ (1994, p. 40). Nonetheless, the final draft of the Protection Act 1897 contained no mention of the employment of Indigenous workers in the marine industry, an outcome that Nakata describes as ‘another significant victory for the pearl-shellers’ (2004, p. 157).

Islanders’ exemption from the Act was short-lived. The relative self-governing power which they enjoyed from the 1870s dissipated over the first decade of the 1900s. Milman, who replaced Douglas after his death in 1904, maintained a similar ‘non-interventionist’ approach towards the Islander communities until his own demise in 1911 (Mullins, 1997). The Protector who replaced Milman, William Lee-Bryce, adopted an approach which contrasted greatly with that of his predecessors by fully activating the paternalist exclusionist phase of Torres Strait’s colonial administration. From capable and intelligent Melanesians who should be granted the status of British citizens, Islanders were demoted to a people who had: ‘not yet reached the state when they are competent to think and provide for themselves’ and therefore ‘can best be managed for their own welfare, as a prudent parent would discipline his family’ (Protectors Report 1915 quoted in Beckett, 1987, p. 49; see also Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004). By 1911, the powers once held by Island Councils were fully entrusted to the government-teacher residing on each outer island (Sharp, 1993; Osborne, 2009), a move that represented an important step back in terms of Islander-government relationships (Nakata, 2004, p. 159). While over the 1870s Islanders’ movement was not restricted and some travelled as far as Sydney (Beckett, 1987), the Act now largely confined them to their respective islands and they were required to seek

93 Mullins (1997 no pagination) also adds that, at the turn of the century, it was uncertain that the Torres Strait would remain Australian territory or be handed over to the British New Guinea. That context, suggests Mullins, may have restrained Queensland from reforming the region administrative structure. 114 permission from the government teacher posted in their community to visit other islands (Osborne, 2009). 94

As early as 1904, a minimum wage of 2s 6d per week was introduced for Islander labourers. This minimum weekly wage was increased to 11s by 1911 (Ganter, 1994). From the time Islanders were drawn into the Act, they hardly ever saw the colour of their money as their salary was directly paid to the Protectors who also authorised their purchases. In 1912, Islanders’ incomes started to be managed by local protectorates through a passbook and government stores system which lasted until the 1960s. The stores were an efficient means to control Islanders’ earnings. As Beckett explains, they were put in place to ‘protect them against the dangers of consumerism by carrying only the barest necessities’ (Beckett, 1987, p. 49). or more precisely by carrying the goods that were considered necessities by Europeans (ibid.). The management of Islanders’ income was apparently justified by the need to ‘ensure that their charges were paid’ and to prevent them from misspending their money (ibid.). In Bleakley’s words, ‘the natives were not always very provident in their spending’ (1961, p. 270).

The same year, an Island Fund supervised by the Protectors was established and every Islander labourer had to contribute a percentage of his earnings towards it.95 The aim of the fund was to enhance Islanders’ ‘spirit of independence ... and generally make provision for the welfare of their relatives and villages without asking monetary assistance from the Government’ (Chief Protector of Aboriginals report for 1913 quoted in Osbourne, 2009, p. 25). As Osborne crucially argues, ‘was a blatant denial of [Islanders’] system of reciprocity’ (2009, p. 25), and lifeways more generally.

The Act left very few aspects of Islanders’ lives unsupervised. The government teachers could report anything from what they cooked, to their personal hygiene, their relationship with the opposite sex and the quality of their participation in the workforce (Nakata, 2004). After

94 Additional rules were also put in place to control the Islanders’ bodies such as the imposition of a curfew and of a foreign moral code to control the relationships between unmarried men and women. Public humiliation was often the price to pay for those who contravened the morality rules. Interracial relationships were also prohibited and severely sanctioned. 95 At first a twenty per cent deduction was imposed; later these deductions topped at 50 per cent of Islanders’ earnings (Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004). Eventually, doubts were raised about the fund as it was impossible for the community members to know how much money it held, how this money was used and if it was used and managed honestly (Nakata, 2007, p. 136). 115

1904, the Protectors became responsible for the islands’ schools and despite the communities’ eagerness to receive a good education, the teaching standard declined considerably during this period. It was deemed unnecessary for Islanders to achieve a high level of education because, according to government representatives such as Bleakley (Chief Protector from 1914 to 1939), ‘[t]he simple village life of the natives did not call for a standard of education required in schools for white people’ (1961, p. 289 cited in Osborne, 2009, p. 26). In addition, there was no incentive for qualified teachers to join the Torres Strait schools. However, some islands were more fortunate than others.96 This aspect of the protection period increasingly frustrated the Islanders who insisted on their right to receive a ‘proper’ education (Osborne, 2009, p. 26).

While losing a significant level of autonomy by being dragged into the Protection Act, new opportunities opened to the Islanders with the emergence of an Islander lugger scheme which I will now address.

The emergence of an Islander-specific alternative; the company boats

Ngoi-gar naki para-ngu K-C-Ria-e, Zay-an kai karka aimnu gar e, Lagia ina ngai, Wapangu singi utem-a.

All spread on the sea—Kay, See, Ria, the South-west wind has scattered us here, now for home our course we pick, all in a line like fish on a stick.97

Song by the late Napoleon Warria, Masig The year 1904 saw the onset of an Islander-specific section of the marine industry which continued until the collapse of the pearl-shell industry in the 1960s. Commonly known as the ‘company boats’ and emerging from an initiative developed by Reverend F. Walker following Islanders’ demand for assistance to achieve boat ownership (Bleakley, 1961, p. 265), this lugger scheme was originally designed to provide Islanders with an alternative to working on European privately-owned ‘masters’ boats. The scheme provided Islanders opportunities to buy their own luggers on credit and thereby work for themselves and their community (Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004). Inspired by the project, the government in place implemented a concurrent program

96 See for example Sharp (1993) about Mer. 97 Kesmit, Nancy and Maria were the boats (two cutters and one lugger) owned by Mosby families on Masig. 116 which came into being a few months before the official establishment of Walker’s Papuan Industries Limited (PIL).

Both initiatives, namely the PIL and what came to be known as the DNA boats98, shared a comparable modus operandi. Luggers were sold by either institution to discrete Islander communities who collectively owned them. The communities then progressively repaid their boats, with interest99, using a percentage of the earnings from a combination of pearl-shelling, including trochus shell from 1915, and bêche-de-mer fishing (Ganter, 1994, p. 70). The company boats got rapidly involved in the trochus shell industry. This activity was more adapted to Islander owned vessels as it did not require specialised diving equipment. Trochus shell (kabar in Kala Lagaw Ya) became an important species for the island communities, especially in the Kulkalgal area. The shell was more accessible from the island communities’ shallow waters and could be collected by swimming-divers. Contrary to the pearl-shell industry, the trochus industry developed as an Islander specific sector. While trochus attracted a lower price, most community members including women could collect them (Inter., Masig Elders, 2008-2009; see also Arthur, 2005a). The species therefore played an important role in supporting Islander autonomy (Arthur, 2005a, p. 98). To supplement commercial fishing activities, both institutions also encouraged Islanders to partake in the copra trade by helping to establish coconut tree plantations on their islands (Nakata, 2004, p. 161). In the mid-late 1920s, the PIL also provided boat building training to young Islanders and Papuans. This practice, however, abruptly stopped with the Great Depression of 1929 (Austin, 1977).

Despite their involvement in these lugger schemes Islanders were not given access to the free-market either to sell their products or buy goods because, in the eyes of Walker and the Protectors, they were likely to be taken advantage of by dishonest traders (Nakata, 2004, p. 160). Thus, the entire product generated by the company boats was to be sold to the PIL or DNA depending on their affiliation. The profits realised were distributed among the community members resting on a communal approach with little differentiation between divers and non- divers (Walker in Chief Protector of Aboriginals, 1908, p. 206; Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004). Pecuniary considerations aside, social prestige was an important reward associated with being a

98 Department of Native Affairs boats. 99 PIL charged 5 per cent interest while Queensland charged 10 per cent. 117 pearl diver (Pers. Comm., Scott, 2012). As part of the scheme, Islanders also had to spend their earnings in the local PIL or DNA store where manufactured and imported goods were available to them at a relatively fair price (Beckett, 1987; Ganter, 1994; Mullins, 1997).

While they were following a similar operative pattern, the PIL and DNA were governed by rather antagonistic philosophies and perceptions about Islanders (Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2007). Walker’s PIL was a kind of philanthropic enterprise. The former missionary100 created the PIL in response to Islanders’ grievances concerning the hurdles they faced when attempting to acquire boats and to fight what he regarded as ‘Islanders’ idleness’. By creating an opportunity for the Islanders to become owner-operators, his aim was not profit driven but the promotion of ‘the material, moral and spiritual welfare of the Papuans [including Islanders]’ (Austin, 1977, p. 66). The company’s mission was to encourage ‘industriousness and economic independence among the Torres Strait Islanders’ to enable them to become autonomous entrepreneurs and foster a ‘new sense of self-regulation’ (Osborne, 2009, p. 19; Beckett, 1977). In Walker’s words, the PIL’s objective was ‘to help the natives to develop industries on their own account’ (Chief Protector of Aboriginals, 1908, p. 206) without necessarily encouraging them to participate in the commercial fisheries on a full-time basis. From Walker’s perspective, Islanders held property rights over their luggers.

The Queensland Government boat strategy was, on the other hand, nourished by a mass production paradigm despite initially espousing values resembling those of the PIL. Akin to the PIL, the inception of the government lugger scheme was a response to reported mistreatment of Islanders (particularly from Mabuiag and Saibai) by European marine entrepreneurs and a way to avert famine in the communities during harder times (Ganter, 1994). At the beginning of the scheme, local Protectors Bennett (1897-1904) and O’Brien (1905-07), who were enthusiastic about the company boats, were ‘not insistent on Indigenous participation in “shelling”’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 161). However, in 1907 the appointment of Costin as Chief Protector shipping master and pearl-shell inspector resulted in a general hardening of the government’s attitude towards

100 The London Missionary Society to which Walker belonged did not support his vision to help Islanders become owner-operators of commercial bêche-de-mer and pearl-shell boats partly because they associated money-making with greed and avarice but also because they feared the negative financial outcomes of being in competition with Burns Philp who was a major Australian merchant in the South Pacific region. Walker had to resign his position within the LMS to realise his project (Ganter, 1994). 118

Islanders. For Costin, the company boats needed to become an Indigenous version of the privately-owned master boats model and he believed — like Joseph Mitchell, manager for one of the major pearl-shellers — that Islanders were better off working for wages on these boats under the command of Europeans than working for themselves unsupervised on their own luggers. Consequently, the supervisors of the government’s boat scheme quickly adopted a more restrictive line than the PIL regarding Islanders’ autonomy and property rights. As Ganter mentions, as far as the Queensland Government was concerned, Islanders were ‘wards of the state’ and ‘had no land rights, no rights to their labour, no rights of property [that is, over both their boats and products]’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 77).

While operating as separate entities for some time the two institutions gradually merged. In 1930 the office of the Chief Protector of Aborigines completely absorbed the PIL and from 1934, the amalgamated company was officially renamed ‘Aboriginal Industries Board’.101 Over the same period government stores were established on every inhabited Island. As Nakata argues, with the progressive disappearance of the PIL, ‘[t]he alternate possibility for Islanders to independently engage in the new economy, as had been envisioned by the PIL, was gone’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 135).

A space for Islanders’ agency

The company boats were only equipped with the simplest technology. They consisted of main sailing vessels accompanied by a few rowing dinghies and were essentially fitted to accommodate swimming-divers102 working the region’s shallow waters. Without air pump, diving apparatus or engine, the company boats could not effectively compete with the private sector of the fishing industry103 (Beckett, 1963; Ganter, 1994). However, in contrast to the master boats which were dedicated solely to commercial activities, these boats offered great versatility and enabled the communities to partake in multiple commercial fisheries (pearl-shell, bêche-de- mer, trochus-shell, etc.), and in subsistence hunting and fishing activities, while providing them

101 Under the Torres Strait Islanders Act of 1939, the Aboriginal Industries Board was renamed Island Industries Board. 102 Swimming divers are free divers. They did not use diving suits nor breathing apparatus. Islander divers often made their own diving goggles (Ganter, 1994). 103 Arthur argues that the scheme created a ‘two-part industry’ with, on one side ‘low-tech’ Islander owned and operated boats and, on the other, ‘high-tech’ master boats that could exploit great depth (Arthur, 2005a, p. 99). 119 with an inter-island mode of transportation (Ganter, 1994). Since these boats kept to the shallows and remained relatively close to the island community who owned them, they offered relatively safe conditions for the divers104 and provided work to Islander men who would not have otherwise participated in the pearl-shelling industry because of their older age or family commitments (Beckett, 1987). The company boats appeared to have occasionally welcomed women as divers and crew members, notably as helpers for their husbands (Sharp 1984, Osborne, 1997) and were also involved in handling the produce (salting, smoking, packaging, etc.) (Osborne, 1997). Many women on Masig recall their mothers accompanying their fathers to collect trochus shells, as they themselves have (Inter., MC11, 2009; MC3, 2008; 2019).

According to Haddon, ‘[i]n the early days of the pearl-shelling industry the women had to help and they were considered better divers than the men... men who were fishing for shell to pay for boats or canoes generally tried to get women friends to help them’ (Haddon, 1935, p. 112). In harder times, when the cost of gear and repair material was too high, Islanders creatively adjusted to the circumstances by buying dinghies which women and Elders could use to gather commercial marine products while using their luggers solely for the transportation of these products (Ganter, 1994, p. 84).

The company boat scheme was therefore associated with an increased Torres Strait Islander involvement in the commercial fisheries (including the processing of the produce). Islanders’ enthusiasm for the scheme is still discussed today by descendants of these fishers and has also been reported by many authors (Raven-Hart, 1949; Beckett, 1963; Ganter, 1994; Nakata, 2004, 2007). On Masig as elsewhere, the ownership of luggers was a source of pride and prestige. Island communities eagerly embraced the opportunity offered by the lugger scheme and worked resolutely to repay their boats rapidly. In 1905-06, seventeen luggers were in operation across the Strait and employed approximately 170 Islanders (Ganter, 1994). Nine of these luggers were completely reimbursed with interest by 1907 (Chief Protector of Aboriginals, 1909, p. 8).

104 Unlike divers on the master boats, the company boats’ divers were not exposed to the danger of the bends (decompression sickness). Conversely, they had to negotiate with sharks. When resources became scarcer full-dress divers would drop grease on the shallow sea to attract sharks and keep the swimming-divers out of the water. The later would purposely make the water murky to make the work of the dressed-divers harder. 120

Emergence of an Islander model of economic participation

While, as I have mentioned earlier, the scheme is associated with the birth of an Islander- specific section of Torres Strait’s marine industry, I would argue that it also opened a space that Islanders have exploited to articulate their own models of economic participation. The relative autonomy gained from boat ownership enabled them to adjust their working pace and involvement in various economic segments (i.e. cash economy, subsistence fishing and gardening, and gift exchange) in accordance with their lifeways, needs, aspirations and market fluctuations. A school teacher posted on Masig during those years described the multiple usages the Masigalgal made of their boats: ‘[t]hey get pearl-shell when they can, and, of course, [the boats] help them to get food. They catch a large amount of dugong and turtle. They get all kinds of marine produce when they can get it’ (cited in Ganter, 1994, p. 73). As Nakata emphasises, ‘[h]aving become owners they preferred to use their boats as they wished, for travel and communication, for fishing and other community uses and, when they needed cash, for commercial purposes. They were inclined to work if prices and conditions were good but did not feel compelled to respond to constant market demands’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 161).

In other words, and for a relatively short period, the scheme gave Islanders a certain degree of freedom and economic independence and some flexibility in managing their own affairs (Ganter, 1994). By regaining some control over their labour, they also regained relative control of their own bodies (Nakata, 2007). They used this freedom to develop flexible mixed- economies, which provided them with means to obtain the store goods they wanted while momentarily keeping a relative independence from the colonial institutions and respecting their customary system of reciprocal obligations. As Ganter writes, the company boats ‘were co- operatively organised and reaffirmed traditional kinship structures and traditional claims to land, sea, and resources” (1994, p. 97)

Like Nakata, I interpret this period of Islanders’ involvement in commercial fisheries as a demonstration of Islanders’ agency in the colonial context. Indeed, this period illustrates their appropriation and adaptation of selected imported values and aspirations which they articulated with their own and adjusted to their circumstances. As Sharp writes, ‘although they worked for money and things, their cultural purposes were different to those of the industrial-capitalist society — frequently they shared their gains with family and friends, or used their cutters for

121 hunting. For Islanders, special occasions like marriage [...] had priority over money-making’ (1982, p. 121).

Islanders’ partial adoption of capitalist values and development of mixed-economic models cannot be explained exclusively in terms of external forces. Instead, it appears to have been, at least to an extent, the outcome of their decisions, external interventions and a combination of local, historical and cultural circumstances. As a result, the level of participation on the company boats varied across the Strait with, for instance, the Kulkalgals, who were customarily fishers and traders, allegedly more eager to use their boats for commercial fishing than the Eastern Islanders who could rely on agriculture for their subsistence and felt less inclined to participate in the pearling industry.

As mentioned above, the designers of the company boats scheme aimed to give Islanders a place in the marine industry by making boat ownership possible. When Islanders, as owner- operators, began to adjust their level of involvement in commercial activities in function of their lifeways, the colonial government interpreted this lack of emphasis on capital accumulation as ‘managerial shortsightedness’ on the part of Islanders (Ganter, 1994, p. 96). Even though Walker regarded the PIL as achieving his vision of social progress (Ganter, 1994) by increasing Islanders’ ‘self worth and business skills in the industry’ (Arthur, 2005a, p. 100 see also Ganter, 1994), the lugger scheme was financially unprofitable.

Recasting Islanders initiatives as Islander failures: biopolitics in action

In the view of the colonial administration of Queensland, the company boat scheme was a failure and the ‘nature’ of the Islanders was to blame. At the time, Costin stated, ‘the predominating characteristic of the aboriginal race asserts itself, and immediately they know the vessel is no longer in debt, all incentive to work is gone, the catch of the fish decreases, and the vessel is neglected’ (Chief Protector of Aboriginals, 1909, p. 8). Islanders’ ‘incomplete acculturation into the capitalist work ethic’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 75) was considered a demonstration of ‘the native psychology of indolence, laziness and unreliability rather than a different approach to material wants and needs’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 161 see also Sharp 1993). To borrow Sharp’s words, ‘[f]or men with fixed ideas about the superiority of the capitalist work ethic Islanders were like quicksilver’ (Sharp, 1993, p. 163).

122

Anchored in its specific regime of truth framing what constituted a successful fishing industry (i.e. efficiency and profit) and social advancement (i.e. Western modernity), the administration saw little value in Islanders’ alternative models of economic involvement. Paradoxically, and as addressed above, because of market fluctuations and stock variability, the government and the industry depended on Islanders’ capacity to alternate between subsistence and cash economies, something the company boat system facilitated.105 Yet, the government reserved for itself the right to regulate the articulation of this ‘fluid space’ linking market and subsistence economies, thereby controlling Islanders’ capacity to be independent from the colonial administration (Nakata, 2007). As Nakata explains,

[i]n its desire to access the lucrative profits of pearl-shelling as a means to underwrite government administration expenses, the government refused to concede that Islanders’ continuity with subsistence practices would enable a continuing degree of independence from government support. Rather they chose to pursue the economic opportunity within the shell industry as a means for Islanders to obtain the cash to fund the cost of their administration. Within this reasoning, Islanders’ ability to be self-sufficient could only be achieved if others managed for them’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 136).

The colonial construction of Islanders as an unreasonable, indolent and child-like population, served to justify further racist and paternalistic interference in their lives and communities’ affairs. Frustrated by what they framed as Islanders’ lack of cooperation, the Queensland Government progressively implemented a series of mechanisms to encourage and coerce local working-age men to work on the company or master boats, ordering them back to their islands or to their gardens when needed. In addition to the panoply of restrictive rules associated with the Protection Act 1897 discussed earlier, a passbook system to ‘manage’, that is control, Islanders’ income was introduced by Brisbane. Part of their income was diverted to the Island Fund which served to finance the very regime which aimed at controlling them. Completely oblivious to Islanders’ relational economies (informed by sharing practices and reciprocity obligations), Bleakley (1961) saw the Island Fund as a good thing for Islanders as it was apparently saving them from themselves and teaching them that it is normal to use a ‘little’

105 For example, when the pearl-shell market closed at the start of World War I, Islanders on their company boats shifted their focus from shell diving to bêche-de-mer fishing in addition to subsistence fishing and hunting (Ganter, 1994). 123 percentage of your income for the greater common good. This ‘greater good’ was of course not defined by Islanders.

This series of intrusive measures largely contributed to isolate Islander groups from each other and, with the exception of government and church representatives, from most non- Islanders. This isolation, sometimes presented as a means to protect the island populations, conveniently prevented them from becoming aware of what was happening outside the Strait, thus precluding them from comparing their conditions with those lived by others (Nakata, 2007).

While the lugger scheme initially contained provisions opening a relative space for Islander self-determination106 and for island communities to become ‘self-supporting and provident’ (Chief Protector of Aboriginals, 1909, p. 8), the rigid and paternalistic control exerted by successive Protectors from 1907 produced quite opposite outcomes. As Ganter suggests ‘[t]he Protectors were more intent on controlling than emancipating Torres Strait Islanders’ (1994, p. 97). Along those lines Sharp (1993) explains that the independence acquired by Islanders through boat ownership was perceived as a threat by the government of the time. Limiting Islanders’ agency by ‘disciplining’ them and their children (Nakata, 2007) was therefore a way to regain control over the local populations.

Instead of encouraging emergent local initiatives, the transformed scheme fostered Islanders’ growing economic dependence upon the state. As Nakata demonstrates, this was achieved ‘by reducing their traditional independence’ and ‘by denying them the chance to develop the necessary skills to operate independently and understand the financial systems of the cash economy’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 137). In like manner, the education system established in the Torres Strait served to discipline Islanders’ bodies and souls, inculcating ‘work habits without giving the young Islanders “ideas above their station”’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 83). This context ignited frustrations across the island communities where an increasing number of fishers began to resist and refused to abide by government-teachers’ directives. Some fishers objected to working the company boats, preferring instead to either remain on or return to wages boats (Mullins, 1995). A teacher then posted on Erub stated that ‘[n]othing, it seems will move these people—not even

106 As Beckett suggests, ‘[i]t is hard to tell how far indigenous entrepreneurship would have gone if the government had not taken over’ (1977, p. 87). 124 fines and imprisonment—to look after their boats and go to work’ (quoted in Ganter, 1994). Beckett (1987) and Ganter (1994) report that, in some cases, the Protector had threatened to confiscate fully reimbursed boats as a tactic to get people back onto the sea and maintain their vessel in good condition.

The 1936 Torres Strait maritime strike: first concerted attempt to shift Islanders/Government power relationship

The present trouble is not of recent origin. The natives have made their complaints over some time and have not been heard. No sympathetic effort has been or is being made to remedy any of the complaints; and so great has become the resentful feeling of the natives that—though naturally as between island they are not sympathetically disposed toward each other — they have ‘solidified’ on the matter of their treatment by the Protector Department.

(Brisbane Telegraph 1936 in Sharp) Over the 1920s and 30s, Islanders were subjected to an escalating effort by Queensland to discipline them. When Cornelius O’Leary was appointed as local Protector in 1922, he took it upon himself to transform the company boats into an efficient and prolific enterprise well anchored in a mass production paradigm. O’Leary’s opinion was that the ‘natives’ needed ‘persistent driving power’ to thrive in the industry (Ganter, 1994). He used his knowledge of the various markets to direct the island luggers towards the most lucrative species. Islanders’ control over their labour and the company boats thereby suffered further alienation. However, as the scheme went through consecutive successful years (from 1924 to 1927) — due to a boom in the trochus industry (Beckett, 1987)107 — the Protector’s Department considered O’Leary’s initiative positively. On the Outer Islands, the standard of living was improving, and many Islanders were reasonably satisfied with the situation (Nakata, 2004). This was until Torres Strait fisheries entered their third crisis (1930-32), this time engendered by the market collapse resulting from the Great Depression (Ganter, 1994, p. 155).

The relationship between Islanders and the Queensland Government worsened with the arrival of McLean in 1932. His disrespectful ‘dictatorial’ style inflamed the communities’ resentment toward the colonial administration. With the tightening of the Protection Act, which

107 Prior to WWII, the trochus collected in the Torres Strait were essentially destined for the Japanese markets. 125 was amended in 1934 to include individuals of mixed ethnicity or ‘half caste’, and the establishment of DNA stores on every inhabited Outer Island, Islanders found allies amid the South Sea Islanders’ descendants (now deemed Aboriginal) and Thursday Island’s storekeepers and traders whose businesses were negatively affected by the restrictions imposed on Islanders’ spending. The Anglican Church108, which took over from the LMS in late 1914, was also overtly critical of Queensland’s management of Torres Strait Islander populations. Across the region there was a growing belief that if Islanders refused to work on the company boats for an extended period, the Federal government would have to take over the administration of the Strait (Wetherell, 2004) .

In 1935, Islanders’ dissatisfaction towards Queensland reached its pinnacle. United by their common grievances and understanding that ‘the government was the singular source of their predicament’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 138), the Outer Island communities succeeded in orchestrating a general strike despite the inter-island communication channels being obstructed by Queensland’s imposed restrictions on Islanders’ movements. As Sharp (1993) describes it, Islanders’ common front against the administration was organised at sea. Several Masig Elders indeed told me how their forefathers left written messages to each other on coral heads located on the reefs where they harvested shell. At the start of the shelling season of January 1936, McLean toured the islands to recruit crew members for the company boats109 but everywhere the response was the same; the men refused to sign up for the boats. They were on strike (Sharp, 1982, 1993). The strike is said to have encompassed ‘70 per cent of Islander workforce’ (Sharp, 1982, p. 107).

At the time of the strike, the Islanders had lived through almost eighty years of co- habitation with European administrators and marine entrepreneurs, years during which they acquired an intimate knowledge of the outsiders (Sharp, 1982, 1993; Wetherell, 2004; Nakata, 2007). Their involvement within the marine industry made them aware of the living standards and rights of other ‘racial’ groups and of labour movements and strike actions. They knew, as

108 Stephen Davies (Bishop of Carpentaria from 1922–1949) was among those who condemned McLean’s despotic methods. Davis suggested that Torres Strait Islanders would be better off under Commonwealth jurisdiction (Sharp, 1993). 109 In late 1935 there were 25 boats in operation in the region with approximately 400 men working on them (Sharp, 1993). 126

Sharp notes, ‘the principles of labour organisation and solidarity. The best crews could read and the news of the International Seamen’s Strike had reached them...’ (Sharp, 1993, p. 208). Thus, before they instigated their industrial actions in 1936, they had surreptitiously accumulated enough food and necessary commodities to undergo a long period of unemployment and isolation (Sharp, 1993, p. 186).110

The press was largely sympathetic towards Islanders. Initially the newspapers reported that the maritime strike stemmed from Islanders’ dissatisfaction regarding their wages. The coverage was very critical of Queensland’s treatment of Torres Strait Islanders. Embarrassed by this bad publicity, Brisbane charged O’Leary with the mission of getting Islanders back on the boats and of inquiring into the causes of the unrest.

O’Leary, who found the region in a profound state of mismanagement, rapidly perceived that the strike was not merely a demand for better wages but a pan-Islander movement against Queensland’s intense disciplinary control over their lives; their first concerted effort to confront the administration (Sharp, 1982, 1993). Islanders’ requests were numerous and included: the abolition of the Protection Act; better services for each island community; the right to participate in commercial fisheries on their own terms; the right to handle their incomes and the right to seek employment on the mainland. There was also a general distrust regarding the government’s management of the Island Fund. In mid-1935, Islanders were self-sufficient and ‘performing a useful economic role and making no demands on the taxpayer’ (Beckett, 1987, p. 59). Some surplus money from the Island Fund was even used to help the mainland Aboriginal reserves which were suffering hardship (Beckett, 1987; Ganter, 1994). As part of their claims, Islanders demanded to self-manage the Fund. In short, they wanted to be freed of the ‘cloak of protection’ (Sharp, 1993) and demanded the same rights and freedoms enjoyed by Euro-Australians.

The strike, which lasted approximately four months111, and the ensuing inaugural Councillor Conference112 are pivotal moments of Torres Strait history. An immediate outcome of

110 As Beckett points out, ‘[o]nce the strike started, each community was on its own, cut off from communication with the rest because the boats were no longer moving’ (1987, p. 54). 111 On most islands, the strike lasted approximately four months. Variations in local circumstances brought some island men back on the Company boats faster than others. The Meriam did not return to their boats (Sharp, 1982; Wetherell, 2004). 112 On August 23, 1937 Masig held the first meeting that gathered the all of Torres Strait Councillors. Thirty-four Islander representatives sat down together on that day to express their views on the future of the region. It is a 127 the maritime strike was the abolition of measures embedded in the Protection Act. Soon after the end of the conflict, curfews and limitations on inter-island journeys were abolished thereby improving Islanders’ freedom of movement. McLean was also removed from his position of local Protector of Aboriginals and replaced by O’Leary.

From mid-1936, important administrative transformations took place even though expectations that the Commonwealth would take over the management of the region were not met. While Torres Strait remained under Queensland’s jurisdiction, O’Leary initiated a major reconfiguration of the regional administrative strategy by re-establishing an indirect rule regime with the formalisation (through the Torres Strait Islanders Act of 1939) of Island Councils as official local government bodies (Cordell & Fitzpatrick, 1987; Sharp, 1993; Osborne, 2009). With the ‘New Law’, the regulatory powers once bestowed upon the government appointed teacher-supervisors were reassigned to the elected local Councils.113 Each island Chairman and Councillor thus regained a degree of autonomy or self-determination enabling them to manage most local affairs, including the local police and courts (Beckett, 1987; Osborne, 2009). As Beckett agues, ‘[u]nder the new regime island custom reached its full flowering’ (1987, p. 56). Significantly, this return of a relative degree of autonomy gave Island Councils the opportunity to partly base their management decisions on Islanders’ institutions such as systems of land and sea tenure — including their prescriptions related to territorial inheritance and resource use — while preserving customary models of wealth distribution and multi-sectoral economic engagement.

Important gains were realised in terms of fisheries management. The Island Councils notably increased their control over the company boats by acquiring the responsibility of recruiting their crew members and skippers. Buyers of Islander produces were now required to provide island boats’ skippers with receipts which gave more transparency to these transactions. It was also recommended during the Councillors conference that Islanders should receive higher

significant date for the Masig Islanders who take pride in having hosted the event. August 23 is commemorated each year on Masig, as it is elsewhere in the region. 113 In those days voting rights were limited to men. 128 wages on master boats and be offered dress-diving training to give them access to this segment of the industry (Sharp, 1993).114

Perhaps the most significant gain in relation to the fisheries was the reservation of delimited marine zones for the sole usage of Islander commercial swimming-divers (see Torres Strait Islander Act 1939, p.17804). Notwithstanding this, for the State, these exclusive access rights had nothing to do with the recognition of customary land and sea ownership rights. As Cordell and Fitzpatrick stress, the Torres Strait Islanders Act of 1939 ‘stipulates that Islanders have no traditional homeland or sea rights; rather they are allowed to inhabit the area under the supervision of Protectors...’ (1987, n.p.).

The strike forced the government in place to hear and address a number of Islanders’ grievances. Yet many of their demands were largely overlooked. Under Queensland’s indirect rule regime, Island Councils remained answerable to the Protectors (now called Managers) on Thursday Island who ultimately had the authority to override any of the Councils’ decisions. The company boats (re-labelled DNA boats) were still controlled by the Department. In fact, as Ganter underlines, ‘there was no longer a pretence that the company boats belonged to kinship groups on the islands. They were reallocated at the discretion of the Island Industries Board (IIB) manager according to the performance of crews in order to maximise efficiency’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 86). While the compulsory production of receipts gave more transparency to commercial transactions, the administration retained most of its control over the sale of Islanders’ marine produce and the allocation of the profits through the Island Fund (Bleakley, 1961). Islanders’ wages continued to be deposited into passbooks as credit to be used in the IIB stores, thereby maintaining the Department’s grip over Islanders’ consumption.

As Sharp explains, O’Leary’s governance strategy was ‘one which continued the two- way relationship of close paternalist interdependence in combination with manipulative methods which sought to influence the choices of individual Islanders in electing Island Councils’ (Sharp, 1993, p. 217). Various techniques were used to ensure the Department’s definitive, although often indirect, control over the Islanders and Island Councils. By developing its knowledge of

114 Islanders would become increasingly involved as dress-divers following the Pacific War with the departure of the Japanese from the pearl-shell. 129

Islander families, notably by means of the newly installed two-way radio systems, the Department attempted to better discipline the local populations and influence people’s decisions and perceptions. A ‘system of unequal rewards’ was put in place, favouring those more inclined to follow the administration’s line (Sharp, 1993, p. 217). Education continued to be a tool to influence the mentality of individuals. As Sharp argues, ‘[s]urveillance under the guise of informality became the key to a new disciplinary control’ (Sharp, 1993, p. 217). The indirect rule style of management established by O’Leary and maintained by his successor, Pat Killoran, characterised Queensland’s management approach until well into the 1970s (Nakata, 2007).

Yet, regardless of the negative aspects of the ‘new law’, Islanders’ involvement in Island Councils allowed many of them to acquire direct knowledge and experience of Western style politico-legal and bureaucratic processes; knowledge which gave them strategic advantages over time in their negotiations with and contestation of government agencies and other group of outsiders (Beckett, 1987). Nakata also suggests that ‘[e]ven though the Protector still had the powers of intervention, these mechanisms [...] opened an avenue for consultation with the Minister with responsibility for the Department of Native Affairs that now administered us’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 168).

The birth of a pan-Islander identity

Another outcome of the 1930s events which is essential to address in the context of this thesis is the birth and formal recognition115 of the ‘Torres Strait Islanders’ as a cultural and political identity. Sharp (1982) and Shnukal (2004) identified the strike as a ‘defining moment in the formation of Torres Strait unity and common identity […] the first united political action taken by Islanders in defence of common interests…’ (Shnukal, 2004b, p. 114). In Nakata’s words, ‘Islanders, who commonly lived in spatially separate communities linked by intense rivalries, united in their collective grievance against increasingly harsh regulations over their lives’ (Nakata, 2004, p. 167). Facing common grievances and sharing similar turbulent colonial experience, Islanders came to perceive themselves as a ‘separate and unified people’ (Shnukal, 2004a, p. 113) ultimately different, both culturally and historically, from the kole men (Euro-

115 The Torres Strait Islanders Act of 1939 was the first legal document to officially recognise the Torres Strait Islanders as distinct from the Australian Aboriginal peoples (Shnukal, 2004a). Flowing from this recognition, the Department for Aboriginal Affairs was renamed the Department for Native Affairs. 130

Australians), mainland Aborigines and Papuans. The circumstances leading to the Maritime Strike brought them to seek association with each in order to strengthen their voices, an overlay on historical inter-clan and inter-island alliances and antagonisms.

As Nakata stresses ‘[o]nly at points of crisis did Torres Strait Islanders really solidify around a unitary collective political position’ (Nakata, 2007, p. 132). Embracing this new pan- Islander identity did not, however, transform the Islanders into an overly cohesive group. Politically, each island community continued to operate independently and to valorise their specificities (language variations, cultural practices, myths, stories, songs, etc.). To this day, they continue to primarily identify and defend their positions as Masigalgal, Porumagal, Saibaigal, Meriam le, Erubam le and so on. In other words, Islanders’ unity is a complex alliance and this characteristic is significant in terms of representation and who and how Islanders can be represented. Their new macro-level identity is one that is often activated to represent themselves in relation to non-Islanders. The importance of acknowledging these superimposed identities will become evident in Chapter Eight.

After the Strike: amitaim116 and the quest for citizenship

The war that broke out in the Pacific in the early 1940s represented a new opportunity for Islanders to ‘challenge colonial constraints’ (Nakata, 2004). The men of the Strait saw a possible involvement in the war effort as a means of proving their value as Australians and thereby achieving full legal citizenship (Beckett, 1987; Shnukal, 2004a). Although at first Islanders were prevented from enlisting, the Japanese attacks on Darwin in 1942 shifted the Commonwealth position, subsequently allowing the formation of the Torres Strait Defence Force which included, among others, the Torres Strait Light Infantry Battalion. As part of their involvement in the war, Islander soldiers earned the respect of Australian officers who recognised their discipline, their work ethic and skills, and the value of their intimate knowledge of the sea, the reefs, climate and seasonal variations (Nakata, 2004).

Amitaim enabled Islanders to experience the ‘freedom’ enjoyed by Australian citizens, since they were treated in the ranks as white men (Singe, 1989 (1979)). Outside the Strait, the state government exercised no control over their income and privacy. Through this passage in the

116 Torres Strait Creole: Army time. 131 army, the Torres Strait Islanders also discovered the possibility of negotiating directly with the federal government to advance their claims. As Nakata emphasis ‘[t]he military experience for Islander men would bring renewed hope and confidence for them in the form of new skills and knowledge from the outside’ (2004, p. 169).

When Torres Strait Islanders returned to their respective islands at the end of the war, Australia had not granted them the legal citizenship they aspired to.117 Back in their communities, they were once again subjected to the Act of 1939. On the mainland, the shortage of labourers for the construction of railways and the sugarcane industry led the Queensland Government to allow Eastern Strait Islanders who were not employed by the IIB to migrate south. This permission was later extended to every island community except for Badu where the fisheries remained lucrative. On the continent, wages were low, but they were the same for all regardless of the workers’ origins. Moreover, wages were not controlled by the government. The children of Torres Strait migrants could also go to high school, an option not available in the Torres Strait (Lawrence & Lawrence, 2004).

In the Torres Strait, Islanders began to occupy the places left vacant by Japanese divers who were deported during the war, leading to some improvement in their wage conditions.118 The army experience, the economic transformations engendered by the decline of fisheries, and work opportunities on the continent progressively eroded Queensland's grip over the region.

Over the 1940s, the Australian Communist Party, including member Gerald Peel, demonstrated a strong sympathy for Torres Strait Islanders’ aspirations for autonomy. Peel suggested that the Torres Strait becomes an ‘autonomous region within the Commonwealth of Australia, with sovereign internal rights for the people of that region, including the right to secede from the Commonwealth at any time, if they might so desire’; foreseeing that Islanders may wish to do so in the event of Papua New Guinea’s declaration of independence (Peel, 1947, p. 129). Peel proposed a genuine transfer of power to Torres Strait Island Councils and advocated for ‘all pearling, fishing and other rights of the seas […]’ to be ‘reserved exclusively

117 For a more detailed discussion of the issue of citizenship and Australian Aboriginal peoples see Dodson (2012). 118 The pearling industry has been exempted by the White Australia policy implemented in 1907. Hence, the Japanese divers were able to remain in the Torres Strait until WWII. Rare were the white men keen to take up this dangerous job for a salary 132 for the use of Islanders’ (Peel, 1947, p. 130). This idea of the formation of an autonomous government, or even of total independence from the Australian nation, would recur over the second half of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries (see Chapter 5).

Following the war, Torres Strait fisheries went through a short-lived period of prosperity. The pearling industry reached its peak in 1951, providing employment for ‘almost all able- bodied men’ (Beckett, 1987). By 1961, a third of the men were still in the industry. As plastic replaced the mother-of-pearl as preferred material for the fabrication of buttons in Chinese factories located thousands of kilometres away, the demand for pearlshell suddenly sank, resulting in a significant increase in unemployment rate (Beckett, 1987; see also Osborne, 2009). Some employment opportunities in the sector remained in pearl farming industry until 1970 when the farms were affected by a disease affecting production. The oil spill resulting from the wreckage of the Oceanic Grandeur inflicted another important blow to the industry (Beckett, 1987).

The 1960s and 1970s saw considerable gains in the arena of Indigenous rights across Australia. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples were finally granted the right to vote by the Federal Government in 1961 and by Queensland in 1964. In 1967, following an historical referendum, the federal government became responsible for Indigenous affairs and set up a Department of Native Affairs (DNA) office on Thursday Island (Arthur 1998). Queensland resisted, however, forfeiting to the Commonwealth jurisdiction for Indigenous affairs. With Killoran at its helm, the Queensland DNA (renamed Department of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs (DAIA)) was determined to pursue its paternalistic protectionist agenda. Yet, with the Commonwealth as a new player, Islanders were now in a better position to negotiate their aspirations to self-determine (Beckett, 1987; Osborne, 2009).

In the late 1960s early 1970s, as the bêche-de-mer and pearlshell industries crumbled, Torres Strait Islanders were granted the same rights as all Australian citizens, including rights to social assistance measures (Beckett, 1987; Arthur, 1998; Arthur & Davis, 2004). Due to the difficult situation afflicting the region’s fisheries ‘[b]y the early 1970s, most Islanders, and the region as a whole, were heavily dependent on government transfers and on money sent home by employed relatives on the mainland’ (Arthur, 1998, p. 27). It is important to emphasise here that

133

Torres Strait Islanders, unlike Australian citizens on the mainland, only accessed social assistance measures belatedly. This is despite their long-term—yet largely underpaid and exploitative—participation in the labour market with the marine industry. A Masig Elder emphasized that they were not asking for charity, they had paid their fair share of taxes (Inter., MC9, 2008). As Torres Strait leader the late Getano Lui Snr also pointed out, ‘it is only our right that we get social services because we have paid our taxes to the Australian Government and, as Australians, we are entitled to a fair return’ (quoted in Griffin , 1976, p. 32). It can also be argued that from the outset of colonisation, foreign maritime entrepreneurs and successive governments alike have benefited from extracting fisheries resources from Islanders’ unceded territories without compensation while controlling Islanders’ income, effectively dispossessing and disempowering Torres Strait owners, appropriating their territories, resources and wages, and preventing them from prospering from the industry.

While living conditions gradually improved in the Torres Strait in the decades following World War II, the socio-economic development of this region was not reaching the sparsely populated coasts of Papua New Guinea, thus exacerbating the disparities between the populations of these two regions (Arthur & Davis, 2004). As mentioned by Beckett, ‘[n]o one could describe the communities as prosperous, but conditions are sufficiently attractive for some mainland Islanders to return to live. They are extremely attractive to the people living in the Western District of Papua New Guinea, which is one of the poorest and least developed parts of that country’ (Beckett, 2004, p. 11).

Conclusions

Since the 1870s, Torres Strait Islanders have been subjected to successive modes of governance imposed by the colonial administration. The colonial regime has been characterised by different phases, oscillating between local governments ‘led’ by Indigenous local elites under the close supervision of the colonial authorities (i.e. a form of indirect rule) and more restrictive Euro-Australian administration focusing on segregation and the denial of Islander ‘liberty to negotiate the terms of their own employment’ (Ganter, 1994, p. 41), and increased control of Islanders’ income and actions. The racism and paternalism sustained by successive colonial administrations towards Torres Strait communities, the interference of local protectors in their domestic, social, economic and political affairs, the use of segregation as a tool of ‘protection’,

134 and the weak wage levels and often-poor working conditions prevailing in the fishing industry all contributed, in reaction, to the emergence of a pan-Islander identity and Islander mobilisation to claim their rights.

Most importantly, this recent period of Torres Strait history highlights Islanders’ agency, and the centrality of the sea, marine work, and politics in the shared historical memory which emerged into the regional identity of Torres Strait Islanders. This chapter demonstrates how Torres Strait Islanders did not passively accept a new reality that was imposed on them. As the company boat experience exemplifies, and despite the limitations described here, Islanders from across the region found ways to adapt their participation in the industry in ways that also responded to their own perspectives and aspirations. The maritime strike of 1936 illustrates the determination of Torres Strait Islanders to unit and fight for their rights. Hence, this chapter and the next demonstrate that Torres Strait Islanders’ agency, resilience and strategic negotiation of opportunities is as much a part of this story as their repression and dispossession.

135

Chapter Five: The post-lugger era: re-inventing Torres Strait fisheries and Islanders- Government relations

Perhaps, indeed, independence was our tradition.

Martin Nakata (2007, p. 7) The period following the collapse of the pearling industry, which roughly coincides with a momentary hiatus in Australia’s ‘protection’ approach to Indigenous Affairs119, generated new opportunities and challenges for Torres Strait Islanders across the region. The late 1930s onwards were characterised by the emergence of a pan-Islander political voice (Chapter 4) which strengthened over the second half of the 20th and into the early 21st century. Drawing notably on their maritime strike, Island Councils, and army experiences, Torres Strait Islander leaders and community members gradually articulated their autonomy and self-determination projects and the place they wished to occupy within Australia. Their enduring and regularly challenging dealings with the Queensland Government (and Commonwealth Government to a lesser extent) also enhanced their familiarity with the bureaucratic and political fields.

Photos courtesy of Dan Mosby, preparation of trochus shell and bêche-de-mer for the buyers. The decline of the pearling industry in the 1960s, induced significant transformation of the region’s economy and reorientation of Torres Strait Islander and non-Islander fisheries. For the Islanders, the lugger model, which had prevailed over the last 100 years, was replaced by the current small-boat multi-species owner-operated model (see Chapter 6). Islander fishers largely refocussed their effort towards new species and markets (namely the tropical rock lobster, mackerel, coral trout and other reef fish barramundi and mud crab), varying according to the

119 From the mid-1960s to the mid-1990s (Altman, 2013). A new iteration of protection-like colonialism or neo- paternalism re-emerged from the mid-1990s following the election of the Howard neo-conservative government. 136 prevalence of these species within each group’s marine territories. Many Kulkalgals remained involved in the trochus shell and bêche-de-mer fisheries, albeit on a much smaller scale, responding to fluctuating market demand and prices.

This transition towards new fisheries did not, however, happen overnight. Initially, Islanders ‘did not have the boats and the freezers to make commercial fishing viable’ (Osborne, 2009, p. 53). The socio-economic changes prompted by the decline of the pearling industry provoked important demographic changes in the region. Having recently regained their freedom of movement,120 numerous Torres Strait Islanders moved to Thursday Island or migrated to the mainland to seek better work and education opportunities (see Nakata, 2007; Lui-Chivizhe, 2011). By 1985, around 75 per cent of the Torres Strait Islander population lived on the mainland (Lui-Chivizhe, 2011).

Over the same period, emerging fishery sectors (e.g. tropical rock lobster, mackerel and coral trout) attracted new non-Islander operators in the region. In the 1970s, the discovery of productive prawn fishing grounds, especially in Masig waters, prompted the development of the region’s prawn-trawling industry.121 From the 1980s onwards, this industry became the region’s most intensive and, until the 2010s, the most lucrative fishery. Because of the unselective nature of this sector, the prawn industry generated major concerns among Islanders.122 The industry was, and arguably still is on a lesser scale, interfering with Masig Islanders’ and other Islander groups’ commercial and subsistence fishing activities; reaping significant economic benefits from their waters while ‘ravaging’123 the seabeds, disrupting species migrations, generating marine waste and social conflicts. These issues will be addressed further in upcoming chapters.

120 It is only from 1947 that Queensland began to authorise Torres Strait Islanders to travel to the mainland to seek work opportunities (Lui-Chivizhe, 2011). 121 Prior to the ratification of the Torres Strait Treaty in 1985, the Torres Strait prawn fishery was part of the Queensland East Coast fishery. Every boat registered in this fishery (about 1,200 at the time) were entitled to fish in the Torres Strait although, at first, the distance was a disincentive for most to make the journey north ((Australia Fisheries Management Authority, 2007). In the mid-1980s, the PZJA removed part of the effort to address the problem of overcapitalisation of this particular fishery while setting ‘aside an opportunity for Islanders to trawl for prawns in the future’ (Elmer & Coles, 1990, p. 289). 122 For example, tropical rock lobsters were a prized by-product of the trawling operations until 1984 when the practice was banned (Haines, 1986; Ye & Dennis, 2009). 123 Word chosen by Getano Lui Jrn to describe the damages caused by the trawlers reported by (Smyth, 1994, p. 68). 137

The post-lugger period brought about another wave of profound and rapid changes for Islanders’ everyday lives. In the 1960s, the Queensland Government expanded the level of services and its bureaucratic apparatus in the region. This expansion phase generated significant employment opportunities across the Outer Island communities—although with lower wages than their European counterparts—within various state government departments (e.g. Indigenous affairs, health, education, general administration and so forth) (Arthur, 2004). In the late 1980s, airstrips124 were built across the archipelago, improving the connections between communities, and between the islands and the mainland (Inter., AJBM, 2008). Some islands, like Masig, were equipped with commercial freezers and processing plants (funded by the Queensland Government) which aimed to increase Islanders’ participation in commercial fisheries (especially in the tropical rock lobster sector) and fisheries related work (see Beckett, 1987). The electrification of the communities, in the early 1980s, brought power to every house.125 This development enabled Masig’s households to buy domestic refrigerators and freezers, which, in turn, led to changes in local fishing and preserving practices (Inter., MC3, 2008). On the flipside, the multiplication of domestic refrigerators and freezers altered, to some extent, the local sharing ethic, with sharing practices re-centred towards more direct family members and close neighbours (Inter., MC10, 2009).

Across the region, fishing practices were also significantly transformed by the Islanders’ acquisition of small aluminium dinghies and outboard motors. Masig Elder, Dan Mosby, brought the first outboard motor (4 horse power) to the Island. Before this, people navigated Masig’s waters aboard sailing dinghies or rowing dinghies with effort. Access to motorised boats of increasing strength made local fishers’ participation in the mackerel trolling fishery possible while facilitating access to reefs and fishing grounds more broadly, easing catch transportation, and allowing inter-island travel. This new small-boat owner-operated model also enhanced individual Torres Strait fishers’ level of independence; the model allowing them to be flexible and adjust their fishing effort (whether commercial or not) to the needs of themselves and their families. Duncan (1974) also noted that, in 1972, fishing was especially popular on Masig

124 On Masig, the land where the airstrip is located used to be a garden area (Inter., MC3, 2008; MC9, 2008). 125 Until then, only some houses were powered by noisy generators. Robyn White, a long-serving nurse on Masig, recalls how the Island suddenly became quiet with voices replacing the rumbling engines (Pers. Comm., 2009). 138

(compared to Murray, Badu, and Saibai), and about 84% of all subsistence work-time was devoted to this activity.

These rapid changes marking Torres Strait Islanders’ quotidian occurred against a background of significant paradigm shifts in Australia and abroad concerning environmental and Indigenous rights. I have already addressed in Chapter Two how such changes were impetus to substitute co-management strategies for top-down centralised natural resource management approaches. Over this period, reports such as Our Common Future (the Brundtland Report), which promulgated the term ‘sustainable development’, put human beings back into the Earth system (and western management practices) and stressed that Indigenous peoples’ ‘traditional rights should be recognized’ and ‘be given a decisive voice in formulating policies about resource development in their areas’(WCED, 1987, p. 12).

In Australia, the period was characterised by an ideological shift regarding Indigenous Affairs, leaning towards Indigenous self-determination after decades of disempowering and destructive paternalistic and assimilationist policies.126 The Federal Government passed the Aboriginal Land Right (Northern Territory) Act (1974) making it the first Australian polity to recognise Aboriginal ownership over part of the territory. Half a decade later, the late Koiki ‘Eddie’ Mabo (with Reverend David Passi, Celuia Mapoo Salee, Sam Passi and James Rice) brought the State of Queensland before the High Court of Australia in a colossal effort to gain back legal ownership over their territories and erase the fiction of Australia as terra nullius.127 Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal peoples had also gained the right to vote in 1962 and access to social security (including pensions and unemployment benefits). For Beckett (1987, see also Arthur 2004), access to social security payment contributed to a certain level of Islander disengagement with the commercial fisheries which, at the time, yielded smaller returns than unemployment benefits. Similar comments made by Masig Islanders suggest that the Community

126 In 1965, the Aborigines and Torres Strait Islander Affairs Act: An Act to Promote the Well-being and Progressive Development of the Aboriginal Inhabitants of the State and of the Torres Strait Islanders (Act no.27/1965) established the Department of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs (DAIA) to replace the Queensland Department of Native Affairs. The new Act removed the restrictive clauses under the Torres Strait Islanders Act 1939 including the right to travel to the mainland (Shnukal, 2001). 127 Although the British acknowledged the presence of Indigenous people in Australia and the Torres Strait, they deemed them too primitive to have developed the concept of ownership. The British colonisers therefore claimed the territories that composed Australia drawing on the principle of that these lands were terra nullius (lands without owners). 139

Development Employment Projects (CDEP)128 scheme, introduced to the Island in 1985, may, in some cases, have impacted Masig fishers’ level of participation in commercial fisheries (Inter., MC4, 2009). However, as discussed in the following chapters, the scheme was also recognised to have helped support the cash inputs needed to maintain local fisheries.

A referendum in 1967 empowered the Commonwealth Government to legislate for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, a power which, until then, was reserved for the States. In 1972, the Whitlam government established the federal Department of Aboriginal Affairs (DAA) and opened an office on Waiben/Thursday Island the following year (Beckett 1987). This generated opportunities for Islanders to negotiate directly with the Federal Government and increased their political leverage. As Nakata notes, ‘[t]hey were able to gain leverage by playing the federal and state governments against each other’ (2004, p. 171).

This chapter does not attempt to provide a comprehensive account of the post-lugger era. It rather examines the transformations of Torres Strait Islander-government relations and the unremitting tug of war which occurred between these entities over this period. It focuses mainly on aspects that have influenced the development and management of contemporary Torres Strait fisheries and associated self-determination aspirations. I pay attention to the border disputes, the Torres Strait Treaty and their ramifications, and to Torres Strait Islanders’ enduring fight for the recognition of their rights, their land and sea ownership and the realisation of their autonomy aspirations. Finally, I examine Islander-led initiatives and strategies for the management and control of their fisheries and marine territories.

128 The CDEP scheme was a complex program through which members of participating Indigenous communities worked part-time in community-led projects for slightly more than regular welfare entitlements. The participants had the possibility of supplementing their income through extra work on these projects for ‘top up’ pay, or through other sources of employment. CDEP projects are mostly land-based. After 2013, CDEP, which was set to end on 30 June 2015, was gradually replaced by the Remote Jobs and Communities Program (RJCP) and was set to end on 30 June 2015. The RJCP programs were eventually replaced by the Community Development Program (CDP), a work-for- the-dole scheme that demands that recipients work 25 hours per week. 140

Caught in between: Papua New Guinea’s independence, border issues and Torres Strait Treaty

In the 1970s Papua New Guinea (PNG) began a movement to realise its independence after 70 years of Australian administrative control.129 As Islanders adjusted to the socio- economic reality of the post-lugger time, they were suddenly caught amidst Australia-PNG’s bitter border negotiations (1973-1978) regarding whether their Islands and waters would remain Australian or be absorbed in an independent PNG.130 As Mwodfo and Tsamenyi (1993) highlight, the negotiations were a nation to nation affair, and Islanders (and their Papuan neighbours) 131, their territories, their way of life, and future, were, at least for a time, being discussed without them.

Initially, Australia’s Whitlam Government proposed to establish the border along the tenth parallel, partitioning the Strait at its centre; relinquishing nine island communities (including Masig) to PNG in the process.132 Interested by the region’s marine wealth, prospective oil fields and minerals, PNG’s preferred option was this proposed arrangement 133 (see Griffin, 1976).

The border change proposal sparked major outrage among Torres Strait Islanders. The territorial and cultural integrity of the Strait was at stake, families were at risk of being separated and thousands of Islanders who live(d) north of the tenth parallel were to be stripped of their Australian citizenship (Griffin, 1976; Beckett, 1987; Sharp, 1993; Arthur, 2001; Kehoe-Forutan, 2004; Shnukal, 2004a). ‘We have not even been approached by the Federal Government’ voiced

129 Papua, formally known as British New Guinea, became an Australian colony in 1906 through the Commonwealth of Australia/Papua Act. The German colony of New Guinea became Australia’s responsibility from 1914. Australia administered Papua New Guinea as a single territory from 1945 (Kaye, 2001). PNG gained its self-governing status in 1973. 130 Before PNG’s independence, the border passed between Boigu and Saibai islands and the southern coast of Western Province. This frontier was established when all of Torres Strait Islanders (except for Daru and Parema peoples) were annexed by the colony of Queensland in 1879 (see Mullins, 1995; Arthur, 2006). 131 During the border negotiations, Islanders’ and PNG coastal villagers’ relationship remained amicable (Griffin, 1976). 132 The other Island communities concerned were Mabuaig, Boigu, Dauan, Saibai, Iama, Ugar, Erub, and Mer. 133 Australia-PNG border negotiations are too complex to be discussed in detail here. For insights on the position of the actors involved see Griffin (1976) and for a detailed chronology of the events leading to the Torres Strait Treaty see O’Donnell (2006, pp. 77-129). 141 late Erubam Le statesman George Mye ‘and yet they are giving us away’ (inaugural Aboriginal and Islander Advisory Council conference 1972 cited in O’Donnell, 2006, p. 101).

In response to this partition threat, Islanders mobilised once again and formed the Border Action Committee to lobby for their rights. As Sharp reports, ‘Islanders saw themselves as indivisible; they spoke almost with one voice through a Border Action Committee, as a sea people, inseparable from the total milieu of the Torres Strait’ (Sharp, 1993, p. 227). Their message was clear. In the Getano Lui Snr’s words, ‘[w]e will never agree to give away one grain of sand or one cup of water. Our islands and our seas were given up to us by our ancestors’ (in Griffin, 1976, p. xxv). Islanders were generally angered by the Australian Government’s willingness to let them go so easily regardless of their contributions to the Australian nation from the outset of colonisation. As the late George Mye recalled, ‘[w]e can't let Australia go. They owe us too much. They cleaned our place out, too much of our resources’ (SBS News, 2013).134

The border dispute created an opportunity for Islanders to demand that the governments and other external actors to stop making decisions on their behalf. As the Getano Lui Snr explained, ‘[p]eople come to the Torres Strait for two or three days and think they know all about the Torres Strait Islands. It would be better if you consulted us about how we feel and what we think’ (Griffin, 1976, p. 32). Islanders voiced loud and clear their right to decide, or at the very least, be part of any decisional processes affecting their lives. ‘Whenever there are to be any consultations, any negotiations to be made on our behalf, I ask that we be allowed to hear of them. The decision about us ought to be made by us, by our people, the people who will suffer by the change’ (Lui Snr, quoted in Griffin, 1976, p. 32; see also Mabo’s and Nona’s interventions during this seminar). In regard to the border issues, the general line was, as Mabo stressed, that ‘[i]f this [border] matter was left to those people [Papuan peoples of the islands and coastal villages boarding the Torres Strait] and ours then we would find much better solutions than through Canberra and Port Moresby ‘(in Griffin, 1976, p. 35).

134 Over the course of the border negotiations, it was implied by some PNG officials that Islanders who were against becoming Papua New Guineans wished to remain Australians solely to access social services, in which case they were invited to relocate to Australia (see Olewale’s statement in Griffin, 1976, p. xxii). Angered by such remark, George Mye retorted ‘[w]e were in Torres Strait… long before there were social services. […] And it is only right that we get social services because we have paid our taxes to the Australian Government and, as Australians, we are entitled to a fair return […] We have done our part for Australia: trochus shell, bêche-de-mer. There are no handouts from Australia for us. Our men have worked for every penny they get’ (in Griffin, 1976, p 32). 142

The Border Action Committee gained significant support from the media (Kehoe-Furotan 2004, 175). From the early days of the border crisis, Torres Strait Islanders also found an unlikely ally Queensland’s then Premier Joh Bjelke-Petersen135 who campaigned for all of Torres Strait islands to remain Australian. As Getano Lui Jnr noted: ‘the things we asked for we actually got and if anyone gave us a greater measure of autonomy in the Torres Strait, it was Joh’ (SBS News, 2013).

In 1975, Malcolm Fraser and the Australian Liberal Party succeeded Whitlam’s Labour Government. Three years later, with consistent pressure from the Islanders, the Fraser Government successfully negotiated for Australia to retain all Torres Strait Islands inhabited and uninhabited136, aside from three uninhabited islands (Kawa, Mata Kawa, Kussa and Yapere) directly off PNG’s coast north-west of Boigu. A significant portion of Islanders’ customary sea territories was, however, ceded to PNG by Australia, with PNG's seabed jurisdiction line located well south of Boigu, Dauan and Saibai, and well within Australia’s fisheries jurisdiction (see Map 4.1). In other words, although Islanders from these three islands maintained their right to fish beyond Queensland territorial waters (3 nautical mile radius), their territories became effectively enclaved by PNG’s seabed. In addition, important cays such are Maizab Kaur () which belong to Erub and remained Australian territory, are located within PNG’s exclusive economic Zone (EEZ). As noted by Kaye (1995) and O’Donnell (2006), it appears that traditional territories and fishing rights had little influence on the establishment of the fisheries jurisdiction line.

135 Until then, Joh Bjelke-Petersen was notoriously known for his strong opposition to Aboriginal land rights. In his own words: ‘All I'm saying is it's got to be stopped this land rights business and continually giving away the national assets, and not only giving it away but giving the militant leaders in the are the right to veto mining and all the rest of it’ (SBS News, 2013). As Fitzgerald highlights, ‘Despite having always argued against recognition of traditional Aboriginal and Islanders rights to land, the government was prepared to argue the opposite when it suited its own interests’ (1994, p. 551 cited in Kehoe-Forutan 2004). Bjelke-Petersen will become opponent of Aboriginal and Islanders land rights once again during the Native Title saga. 136 There were mentions, over the course of the negotiations, of the possibility to keep the inhabited islands Australian but concede the uninhabited ones to PNG. Islanders firmly opposed that option given the importance of the uninhabited Islands, cays, sandbanks reefs and waterways for their subsistence. The Commonwealth proposal totally dismissed Islander groups’ customary tenure over these islands. Again, this negotiation excluded Daru and Parema, two islands that were never included in the Outer Island region. 143

Map 5.1 Jurisdictions of the Torres Strait Treaty and Torres Strait Protected Zone. Map by Thomassin and Markham, 2017

The Torres Strait Treaty

In 1978, the border negotiation progressed towards the elaboration of a complex international treaty for the Torres Strait. Signed in December of that year and ratified in 1985, the Torres Strait Treaty137 officially sealed the future of the archipelago, ending years of uncertainty and border deliberations (Mulrennan and Scott 2000, 2005; Mullins 1997; Kaye 1994). Torres Strait Islanders are not signatories of the Treaty although, at the very least, many Islanders certainly consider themselves as a rightful unofficial third party (Mfodwo & Tsamenyi, 1993; Loban, 2002; O'Donnell, 2006). Notwithstanding being peripheral to the overall negotiation process (when not entirely overlooked by Australia and PNG), Islanders’ sustained

137 The Treaty’s full title is: Treaty between Australia and the Independent State of Papua New Guinea concerning Sovereignty and Maritime Boundaries in the area between the two Countries, including the area known as Torres Strait, and Related Matters. According to Kaye the Torres Strait Treaty is ‘one of the most complex maritime boundary delimitation treaties in operation’ (2001, n.p.). 144 political pressures not only contributed to secure the region’s territorial integrity, but also succeeded in inscribing a number of their preoccupations in the text of the Treaty. Among such preoccupations were demands for a ten-year embargo on mining and oil drilling138 in Torres Strait waterways (Mye in Griffin, 1976, p. 42) as well as the protection of theirs and their Papuan neighbours’ traditional activities and rights (including fishing, trading activities, and right to visit family members and friends on both side of the border). Both Islanders and coastal Papuan neighbours were adamant that their relationships should not be affected by the new border arrangements. ‘During the negotiations, the [I]slanders made very clear to the Australian Government their concern that traditional practices and freedom of movement be allowed to continue…’ (Burmester, 1982, p. 330). As Arthur writes, ‘[i]t was argued at that time that a border, in the sense of a barrier, would not be a fair and equitable outcome, and that what was needed was an arrangement which would provide some flexibility and allow marine resources to be shared’ (Arthur, 1998, p. 28).

Over the negotiation process, Torres Strait Islanders, again supported by the Queensland government, proposed to designate the region as an international marine park where fishing (including commercial pearlshell and trochus fisheries) and hunting activities would be reserved to the region’s traditional custodians. The marine park was a key dimension of a statement expressing Torres Strait Islanders’ views signed during the 1975 Conference of Island Chairmen. It was also the genesis of the concept of a protected zone for the Torres Strait (Ryan & White, 1976, p. 103). The statement itself listed several core requests, many of which feature (entirely or in part) in the Treaty (e.g. freedom of movement, Islanders’ unrestricted access to the whole of Torres Strait for all purposes and activities, and environmental protection so as to ensure the perennity of Islanders’ and coastal Papuans’ traditional way of life) (ibid.). Acknowledging Islanders’ request for unrestricted access to Torres Strait waters, the Treaty also ‘recognizes Indigenous offshore rights to fish’ (Smith & Dodson, 2010, p. 4).

Hence, aside from establishing the maritime boundaries and joint management responsibilities between Australia and PNG, the main purposes of the Treaty include the

138 The length of the moratorium was repeatedly extended. In 2008 Australia and Papua New Guinea agreed to an indefinite moratorium on mining and drilling in the Protected Zone (foreignminister.gov.au/releases/2008/fa- s033_08.html, last access 0n 24 March 2019). 145 protection of the Torres Strait’s traditional inhabitants’ traditional way of life and livelihood with special regard to their traditional fishing activities and free movement rights (Article 10.3), and the protection of Torres Strait marine environment (Article 10.4, 13 and 14). The Treaty ostensibly prioritises economic development and employment opportunities for Islanders (Article 26.3) while promoting the optimal use of the region’s commercial fisheries (Article 21). In principle, traditional fishing and hunting activities prevail over commercial activities, and some commercial fisheries (e.g. trochus, bêche-de-mer and pearl-shell) are only accessible to Islanders (Altman et al., 1994b; Kaye, 1994; Mulrennan & Scott, 2000, 2005). The Treaty also provides for Torres Strait traditional inhabitants to continue their subsistence dugong and turtle hunting139 with the provision that these activities be limited or even interrupted if these species come under threat (see Article 14 and 20).

The Treaty and ensuing Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984 (TSFA) (Commonwealth)140, established the Torres Strait Protected Zone (TSPZ). The TSPZ (see fig. 5.1) includes all of the islands, sand cays, and reefs located within the Australian territory except for the ‘inner islands’ (i.e. Waiben/Thursday Island, Kiriri, Ngurapai et Muralag) and Cape York’s Northern Peninsula area. The TSPZ also englobes a few cays belonging to PNG141, as well as Erub’s Maizab Kaur and Erub-Mer shared territories of Anchor Cay and East Cay. The TSPZ does not, however, encompass Islanders’ entire maritime domains which suggests that Torres Strait Islanders’ (or Papuans’) customary marine tenure regimes were not seriously considered for the elaboration of the Zone (Burmester, 1982; Johannes & Macfarlane, 1990; Mulrennan & McGrath, 1994; Scott & Mulrennan, 1999). As Getano Lui Jr expressed, ‘so many demarcation lines have been drawn in the Torres Strait that we are finding it difficult to cope with them’ (quoted in Johannes, 1990).

The Treaty and TSFA laid some of the foundations for the region’s fisheries co- management arrangements by setting up the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority

139 In the Torres Strait, the bulk of commercial dugong hunting (mostly for dugong oil) happened between the 1940s and 1969. Commercial hunting of dugong in the region was conducted by non-Islanders interests with Islanders’ participation. In 1968-1969, Queensland legislated to prohibit commercial turtle and dugong hunting. Since, hunting these species is reserved to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders for non-commercial purposes (Nietschmann, 1985, p. 140). 140 The purpose of the Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984 (Cth) is to give effect to the fisheries related provisions of the Treaty. 141 Kawa, Mata Kawa, Kussa and Yapere (north-west Torres Strait). 146

(PZJA). The main purposes of this statutory body and its complex consultative and advisory structure are to manage the TSPZ’s commercial fisheries in order to uphold the Treaty’s obligations including protecting the traditional way of life and livelihood of the region’s traditional inhabitants.142 Accordingly, the TSFA vested the PZJA with the responsibilities to: manage the region’s Indigenous and non-Indigenous commercial fisheries; manage Islanders’ traditional turtle and dugong hunting; and negotiate fisheries and broader environmental management arrangements with PNG.

Torres Strait commercial fisheries were initially separated in two categories. The Article 22 fisheries, which consisted of the prawn, tropical rock lobster, pearl shell, Spanish mackerel, barramundi and included the traditional turtle and dugong fisheries, were managed and licenced by the PZJA. All other commercial fisheries (e.g. trochus, mud crab, bêche-de-mer, and finfish (other than Spanish mackerel) fell under Queensland management as per the Queensland Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984. From 1999, however, all commercial fisheries occurring within the Protected Zone were eventually transferred to the PZJA (Altman et al., 1994b; O'Donnell, 2006).

Section 3 of the TSFA established a new category of commercial fishing reserved to Islanders living in the Protected Zone: the ‘community fishing’ category. This category was a first step towards the demarcation of Islanders and non-Islanders commercial fishing activities and the development of an Islander specific sector for the region’s fishing industry. Under the community fishing scheme, licences were allocated to each island council, enabling Islander residents to partake in commercial fisheries while easing their data-gathering requirements (Haines 1986, Arthur 2006). Until then, Islander and non-Islander commercial fishers operated under the same commercial fishing licence system for larger vessels. Initially, Islanders’ dinghies did not require licences to operate in the commercial fisheries (Independent Allocation Advisory Panel, 2006, p. 13). According to Mulrennan et al., the implementation of the community fishing category triggered an increased Islander participation in commercial fisheries. Many Islanders,

142 See https://www.pzja.gov.au/about-us/what-we-do, last consulted in 25 March 2019). Torres Strait Islanders, however, have expressed the view that the Treaty is preoccupied mainly by Australia and PNG sovereignty. While the Australian-PNG relationship is an important aspect of Torres Strait fisheries management, its detailed analysis is beyond the scope of this thesis. 147 however, ‘express[ed] dissatisfaction with its [the category] operation on the ground’ (Mulrennan & McGrath, 1994).

At first, the PZJA consisted in the Commonwealth and Queensland Ministers for fisheries. Two advisory committees were also established to assist the Authority in its function; the Torres Strait Fisheries Management Committee (TSFMC) and the Torres Strait Fishing Industry and Islanders’ Consultative Committee (TSFIICC). The Island Coordinating Council (ICC)143 appointed Islander representatives to each of these committees, on which they nevertheless remained a minority. At the time, Smyth (1993), following the Coastal Zone Inquiry, suggested that Islanders’ level of representation on both committees represented the greatest indigenous involvement in the regional management of marine resources in Australia.

Until 2002, Torres Strait Islanders had no decision-making power within the PZJA144 and its consultative structure which, arguably, barely qualified as ‘consultative’ co-management (see chapter 1 and 8). Islanders also hold limited sway over the bi-lateral Joint Advisory Council (JAC) where they must rely on government officials to bring forward Islander preoccupations. While consulted—notably through cycles of Traditional Inhabitant Meetings (TIM)—Islanders have often felt that their concerns and demands were largely removed from the bi-lateral consultations and therefore, widely ignored (O'Donnell, 2006). Mfodwo and Tsamenyi (1993) have stressed the subordinate positions of Islanders and the paternalistic underpinnings of the Treaty. In 1993 they wrote:

This is clear from analysis of the Treaty text as well as from comments made by representatives of the TSPZ communities (sic) on the everyday impact of the Treaty. Such positioning of traditional inhabitants as marginal accords with the mundane paternalism of contemporary nation-state based frameworks for the protection of the rights of indigenous people. For different reasons both Australia and PNG continue to support administrative frameworks which enhance or maintain the place and role of the state as a primary actor in the daily life of its citizens (p. 230).

143 The ICC was created through amendments to Queensland legislation under the Torres Strait Islanders Act 1971- 1975. This Islander body was under the ultimate control of the DAIA (Sharp, 1981; Arthur, 2005a). 144 The PZJA was initially a joint Commonwealth/Queensland body. In 2002, Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA) joined the PZJA (see chapter 8). 148

While at first Islanders welcomed the Treaty and its ‘spirit’145, over the years, many of them came to perceive it as serving everybody else’s interests in addition to being a ‘logistical and bureaucratic nightmare’ (Lui, in Jull et al., 1994). In Getano Lui Jnr’s words, ‘at one stage when it was first implemented we all thought that it was there to protect our rights but now it seems that it is there to protect everyone else except us—the Torres Strait Islanders themselves— and this problem has built over the years in frustrations’ (ibid.). ‘Indeed’, writes O’Donnell, ‘many Islanders reportedly believe that the Treaty’s terms and provisions are not only encroaching upon their traditional lifestyles but also constraining their ability to assume greater levels of control over their own affairs’ (2006, p. 138). Over the course of my research, many Masig Islanders and Islanders from elsewhere in the region have indeed expressed their worries and dissatisfaction regarding the Treaty. The Treaty intrudes on numerous aspects of Islanders life; from defining who they are supposed to be and the nature of their arguably mutually exclusive traditional and commercial fisheries, to their relationship with their PNG families, friends or trade partners146, their movements between their islands and the Papuan coast (through customs and quarantine regulations), and even their health.

The Treaty also significantly limits the scope of Islanders’ customary marine tenure regimes (CMT) which are an integral and defining dimension of their traditional way of life and fisheries practices (commercial or ‘traditional’). As noted by Haigh (1993, p. 149) and as I will discuss further in following chapters, the Treaty overrides ‘the ability of Torres Strait communities to limit access to their CMT…’ by allowing Papuans from the Treaty villages147 along with non-Indigenous Australian and Papuan New Guinean commercial fisheries interest to access waters and marine resources within the Protected Zone (ibid.) without having to seek

145 The Torres Strait Treaty is said to be based on the ‘spirit of “co-operation, friendship and goodwill’ (Mr B. Bai’s (Secretary of PNG Department of Prime Industry) opening address at the Torres Strait Fisheries Seminar 1985 (Haines et al., 1986). 146 The establishment of this protected area also resulted in a redefinition of the relations between the Islanders and Papua New Guineans. For Lawrence, the new frontier has ‘served to separate groups of people who previously exercised customary rights of access to the Torres Strait’ highlighting that ‘for the coastal Papuans, the narrow passage of water now marks a boundary they may not cross without permission’ (2004, 191). Lawrence also mentions that the formalisation of this border has contributed to weakening the traditional ties between the Kiwai peoples of the coastal regions of Papua New Guinea and the Torres Strait Islanders (1991b, 374) with consequences differing from one community to the other and appearing to vary along an east-west axis (Lawrence 1991a). I would nevertheless argue that, at least for Masig, these relationships remain strong. Masig, for example, receives regular visits from the coastal village of Sui and Islander of Parama and Daru, many of whom have relatives on the Island. 147 The Treaty villages are: Bula, Mari, Jarai, Tais, Buji/Ber, Sigabadaru, Mabadauan, Old Mawatta, Ture Ture, Kadawa, Katatai, Parama and Sui. 149

Islanders’ permission. The same remark can be made of Australia’s obligations under United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) to provide for foreign vessels’ rights of innocent passage embedded in the Treaty (Article 7) (Haigh, 1993; Kaye, 2001). Drawing on the largely Eurocentric international Law of the Sea’s legal conception of ‘common seas’, which Islanders never accepted, the UNCLOS prevents Islander communities from enacting their rights to control access to their maritime domain (Haigh, 1993). In the late 1970s, the UNCLOS institutionalised the national exclusive economic zone (EEZ), consequently ‘provid[ing] governments with a regulatory authority, which they did not have before’ (Jentoft, 2004, p. 146). It is worth noting here, as Kaye (2004) has also emphasised, that UNCLOS makes no reference to Indigenous peoples and Indigenous rights. This highlights how international legal instruments can become, in effect, colonial instruments.

The 2010 Bridge and Border Report underlined that several witnesses ‘…raised concerns about aspects of the Treaty, or its implementation, including inadequate or ineffective consultation with local inhabitants, problems with interpretation, non-compliance Treaty provisions and enforcement, a lack of capacity on the PNG side to fulfil its obligations under the Treaty and the status afforded to some communities in PNG’ (Foreign Affairs et al., 2010, p. 24). Also, dissatisfied with the Treaty, the Torres Strait Island Regional Council (TSIRC) went as far as requesting its full review; listing several grievances including insufficient consultations of Islanders and the need to address the problem of foreign illegal fishing in Torres Strait waters (TSIRC submission n.9). Some nevertheless worried that reopening the Treaty might open a Pandora’s box.

Lawrence and McGrath also noted that the terms of the Treaty are ambiguous in many regards. For example, Article 13, which deals specifically with the protection of the marine environment, does not provide any details regarding the forms of such protection. In this regard, the Treaty merely states, ‘that the two countries agree to all possible measures to protect the environment’ (1994, 52). The Treaty is also opaque about Islanders’ and coastal Papuans’ roles in this regard. As stated in the Marine Strategy for Torres Strait:

[d]ecisions affecting the regional environment are generally outside the powers of Islanders. The extent of government consultation of such matters is in many cases little more than receipt of official notification of decisions already by government bodies in Canberra or Brisbane. Such

150

unworkable arrangements corrode the moral authority of the very systems they are intended to maintain (Mulrennan, 1993, p. 17).

Hence, the border’s location, the multiple jurisdictions now subdividing the Torres Strait, and the terms of the Treaty have all been the object of important contestations from Torres Strait Islanders, Papuans from the Treaty villages and the PNG’s government (see for example Office of the Prime Minister, 2015).

Papuan perspectives and transborder relations

Papua New Guinea’s independence and ensuing Torres Strait Treaty have profoundly transformed the living conditions and interrelationships of Islanders and Papuan coastal populations. On each side of the border, Islander and Papuan groups’ social, economic and political circumstances have progressed following significantly different trajectories (Lawrence 2004). Nowadays, despite the clause concerning the protection of the traditional inhabitants’ lifeways and right to free movement within the Protected Zone (Articles 11 and 12), access to the wider Torres Strait resources has become difficult for the Papuans of Treaty villages. As mentioned in Lawrence ‘the […] imposed political and legal system are inflexible and, at least on the Australian side, are rigidly enforced’ (2004, p. 204).

Commercial fisheries, more lucrative south of the border, are particularly coveted by Papuan fishermen. Attempts to fish within the Australian jurisdiction (see Chapter 8) or join the Australian fisheries, illegally at times, are frequent (Arthur, 2005) and a source of concerns for the Islanders who feel that they have little control over the situation. ‘Papuans like to work in the Australian rather than the Papuan cray fishery as prices are higher, and they can earn valuable Australian dollars which can be used to buy Australian goods’ (Arthur, 2001, p. 211). As Lawrence notes that, ‘the Papuan perspectives of the Torres Strait are now tinged with bitterness and envy’ (2004, p. 204). These frustrations experienced by Papuans are notably underpinned by the fact that, unlike Islanders, they ‘were not given a choice to remain Australians’ (The Australian, 1 February 2007).148

148 Some Papuans who were living in the Island communities chose to remain on the Australian side of the border and were given permanent residency and citizenship following a post-Treaty period of amnesty. 151

The gap between the socio-economic conditions prevailing on either side of the border also makes the Torres Strait an immigration hotspot. Torres Strait is considered to be a particularly ecologically vulnerable point for the introduction of potentially harmful alien species into Australian territory (AQIS, 2003). On this point Beckett highlights that, ‘[i]n terms of defence, quarantine and immigration, it is to Australia’s advantage to have the islands inhabited even if it means underwriting the communities’ (Beckett, 2004, p. 11).

The movement of goods and individuals is subject to intensive and rigorous surveillance, particularly on the Australian side (Beckett 2004). The tight quarantine restrictions in place in the Torres Strait which notably prohibit the movement of live plants, fruits, vegetables and animal products have impacted heavily on the region’s extended traditional trade network.

Several members of the coastal and island communities of PNG’s Western Province feel that they are being prejudiced in their right to an equitable share of Torres Strait’s wealth (Lawrence, 2004). Islanders are aware of their advantageous socio-economic position vis-à-vis their northern neighbours (see Chapter 8). As Arthur highlights, ‘[t]here are real and putative kin relationships between Islanders and Papuans, some which are based on marriage or which go back to the pre-contact period. These relationships still carry with them kinship obligations which Islanders find hard to ignore’ (2004, p. 215). Yet, while Islanders are troubled by the conditions lived by their northern neighbours and family members, many consider that they also bear the brunt of a situation over which they have no control.

Regaining control over Torres Strait lands and seas Shattering an ‘Australian silence’149: Mabo and the end of terra nullius

… just before we won the Mabo case, I was asked by the editor of the Melbourne Age […] “What if the government wins the case?” My answer was, “The government can go on making fool of itself, to think that they have won the case and they own the land. They practically don’t.” Truth is that I own the land “till the end of time. That is the truth about it.”

Dave Passi, Meriam (Ward & Muckle, 2001, p. 25) In the late 1970s-early 1980s, as the Torres Strait Treaty was being finalised, disputes arose around the question of land-sea territorial ownership. These disagreements notably

149 I borrow this expression from Sharp (1996). 152 constituted the framework of the legal struggles which would oppose a group of to the State of Queensland and conclude with the landmark Mabo decision and the birth of the Native Titles.

Prior to the ratification of the Treaty, the Erubam Carlemo Wacando, at the helm of the Torres Strait United Party (TUP)150, attempted to invalidate Queensland’s annexation of the Torres Strait territory in 1879, simultaneously bringing the matter before the High Court of Australia (Wacando v Commonwealth) and the United Nations Special Committee of Twenty- Four on Decolonisation (Kehoe-Forutan, 2004; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). As reported by Beckett, the Party argued that ‘the Australian Government never properly annexed the islands and seabed of Torres Strait, so that the land and oil and gas and minerals and fish and sea will remain the traditional free property of the Torres Strait Islander people’ (Beckett, 1987, p. 204). Over the 1976-1981 period, the TUP made recurrent, yet unsuccessful, calls for Torres Strait independence (Beckett, 1987; Sanders & Arthur, 2001).

In the early 1980s, former Islander soldiers realised that their land had been appropriated by the British Crown, thereby discovering that, under the Australian law, they were landless peoples (Beckett, 1987, Kehoe-Forutan, 2004). In 1982, Torres Strait leaders demanded more autonomy in terms of governance and attempted to obtain inalienable freehold title over their lands. As a response, the Queensland government implemented a regime of Deed of Grant in Trust (DOGIT)151, which, from 1984, partially replaced the Aboriginal and Islander reserve system (Beckett, 1987; Nakata, 2004). ‘The fundamental change in the policy was that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people were given some degree of control over the land on which they lived and a greater security of tenure’ (Nettheim, 2002, p. 272). Far from constituting property titles, the DOGIT are inalienable land use rights granted to, and administered by, Indigenous local or regional councils (in the Torres Strait, by elected Island Councils152) for the

150 Based in Townsville, the Torres United Party was form in 1976 in reaction to the dissatisfaction with Queensland Government control of Torres Strait. (Sanders & Arthur, 2001). 151 The Deed of Grant in Trust (DOGIT) legislation was enacted by Queensland Land Act (Aboriginal and Islanders Land Grants) Amendment Act 1984. 152 Created by the Queensland Government’s Community Services (Torres Strait) Act 1984, the 17 Island Councils were represented by the Island Coordinating Council (ICC). In 2008, the Island Councils were agglomerated under the Local Government Reform Implementation Act 2007 (the Reform Act). Each Island Council became a district division of the Torres Strait Island Regional Council (TSIRC) which replaced the ICC. 153 benefits of their residents.153 Subject to significant government control, these land use rights could also be revoked at any time (Brennan, 1992; House of Representatives. Standing Committee on & Torres Strait Islander, 1997; Nettheim, 2002; Kehoe-Forutan, 2004; Terrill, 2015). Under the DOGIT regime, people were authorised to use the territory and resources based on their needs for non-commercial purposes only. Despite these major trade-offs, most island communities reluctantly accepted Queensland's DOGIT regime, except for the Meriams (Nakata, 2004).

On May 20, 1982, Mr Edward Koiki Mabo, a man from Mer living in Townsville (north Queensland), and four of his compatriots, Reverend David Passi, Celuia Mapoo Salee, Sam Passi and James Rice, brought the state of Queensland and the Commonwealth before the High Court of Australia to assert their rights over the islands of Mer, Dauar and Waier, which the Meriams have ‘continuously inhabited and exclusively possessed […] since time immemorial’ (Meriam statement quoted in Scott & Mulrennan, 2001, n.p.). Their claim derived from Malo ra Gelar, an oral law which notably dictates Meriam people’s rights and responsibilities regarding their land and sea territories (Brennan, 1995; Sharp, 1996). As Sharp wrote, ‘land tenure and inheritance, interclan unity and Meriam identity, reciprocity with certain neighbours and with departed ancestors, Malo’s Law has the authority and force of a religious commandment’ (Sharp, 1996, p. 7). It should be noted that their claim related to both the recognition of their property rights as Meriams, but also as individuals belonging to that community.

Concerned with the unpredictable outcomes of the Mabo case, the conservative government of Bjelke-Petersen voted in support of the Queensland Coast Island Declaratory Bill 1985; a ‘fourteen lines long’ Bill, the effect of which ‘was to wipe out any property rights held by Torres Strait Islanders when the Torres Strait became part of the colony of Queensland’ (Brennan, 1995, p. 11). Thus, in the year the Treaty was being ratified, Bjelke Petersen, who fought alongside Torres Strait Islanders to preserve the region’s territorial integrity, was fighting against Meriam wishes to be recognised as owners of their ancestral lands and seas. In 1988, the Bill was invalidated by the No. 1 judgement which found it discriminatory

153 Certain dimensions, such as customs and the management of the education system, would however fall under the relevant state and federal ministries. ‘The result was a polyglot of government agencies, all with a multitude of functions and responsibilities and all working independently without common set of directives based on any future goals for the region’ (Kehoe-Forutan, 2004, p. 179). 154 and in breach of the Racial Discrimination Act 1975 (ibid.). The annulation of the Bill was also in accord with responsibilities conferred on Australia by the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination voted by the United Nations in 1965.

Due to the complex nature of the Mabo case and the constraints embedded in Common Law regarding property rights over the seascape (Brennan 1995, Sharp 1996; 1997), the portion of the claim concerning Meriams’ ownership of their marine territories (which would also have implied the prosecution of the Commonwealth government) could not flourish. Hence, the case focused on the islands and did not accommodate the continuity between the land and the ‘surrounding seas, seabeds, fringing reefs and adjacent islets’ which underpins Meriam laws and customs (and those of Torres Strait Islanders more broadly) (Sharp, 1998; Mulrennan & Scott, 2000; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010).

After ten years of deliberations, Mabo v Queensland concluded with the invalidation of the colonial legal fiction of Australia as terra nullius and the recognition of a particular form of land ownership rights, Native Title (Mabo v Queensland No. 2). As Justice Brennan explains, the High Court rejected the doctrine of terra nullius on the basis that it drew on a ‘discriminatory denigration of indigenous inhabitants, their social organization and customs’ (Brennan cited in Asch, 2002, p. 30). In doing so, the judges recognised, for the benefit of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, the continued application of their traditional laws and customs, including the rights and responsibilities pertaining to their territories (up to the high-water mark) notwithstanding Australia’s annexation by the British Empire.

Claiming rights through a foreign system

Despite its inscription in Common Law, Native Title recognition is not automatic. Instead, each Torres Strait Islander or Aboriginal group must make a claim to have their title recognised in accordance with the terms of the Native Title Act 1993.154 Based on the Act, Torres Strait Islanders and Aboriginal people ‘have to prove that the traditional laws and customs that they get their native title from are acknowledged and observed today and have been continued since the time of European settlement’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2006, p. 5). A special

154 Three years after the Native Title Act 1993, sixty-three claims had been filed solely for the Torres Strait (Mulrennan & Scott, 2001). 155 tribunal, the National Native Title Tribunal (NNTT), was established to review applications and make decisions on claims made by Indigenous communities. In other words, the Native Title regime requires of Indigenous Australian groups that they utilise a ‘foreign’ legal system—the very same system that underpinned their initial dispossession—to seek the recognition of their property rights over their territories. This regime therefore places on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander groups, rather than on the colonisers, the onus of proving the continuous existence of such rights; proof which must draw from codes derived from ‘tradition’. Yet, and as discussed in chapter Two, these concepts of ‘continuity’ and ‘tradition’ are not without problems. According to Beckett, ‘[c]ontinuity of course is not an all or nothing affair, and it leaves hanging the question of whether what survives remains important […]. Moreover, old institutions may survive, but assume a different character in a colonial context. Tradition, a term that also appears in the statements of claim and of the facts, is no less tricky’ (1995, p. 23). ‘Continuity’ and ‘traditions’ have often been severely obstructed by colonial dispossession, displacement and control (e.g. through the missions and reserves systems and from decades of state sanctioned removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families and communities). One could argue that such highly unequal legal relationships present genuine risks for Indigenous claimants whose fate lies in the hands of barristers and magistrates trained in the Western legal culture and whose understanding of, and will to acknowledge, Indigenous laws and principles may be poorly developed. The formalisation of Torres Strait Islanders and Aboriginal peoples’ rights and forms of property also gives the false impression that these relationships to the lands, seas (let alone the sky)155 can find their equivalent in Western legal terms (Sharp, 1996; Marshall, 2017). As Marshall stresses ‘[w]estern conceptions of native title have resulted in the reconstruction of Aboriginal [and Torres Strait Islander] traditional laws and customs, and as a result they often bear little resemblance to Aboriginal ontological meanings’ (2017, p. 99).

155 Among the expert witnesses in Mabo’s case, Margaret Lawrie supported Beckett's statement that the land and sea were owned by groups or individuals while adding that stars and winds were also owned in the same way (Sharp, 1996). For Sharp, however, Lawrie’s statement is likely to have provided support to the other camp. In Sharp’s words, ‘Margaret Lawrie’s statement on the Meriam’s ‘ownership’ of lands and winds ‘alike’ was no doubt supportive of the argument that their relation to land did not constitute ‘real’ ownership…’ (ibid., p. 139). This situation highlights once again the incomprehension engendered by this confrontation of two worldviews to which this trial gave rise. As Cordell (1991) argues in a similar context, there is a significant communication gap that needs to be addressed so that each party’s views are understood by the other. 156

The Mabo case has highlighted the incommensurability of Torres Strait Islander and Australian laws, notably around conceptions of property. According to Sharp, ‘[t]he courtroom became the meeting point of two seemingly “natural”, but nevertheless different, conceptions of rights to land and sea’ (1996, p. xix). The 33 Meriams who testified before the Court were directly confronted with these cultural differences and the difficulties they generated. Borrowing again from Sharp, ‘this long hearing of Meriam claims to traditional title to certain lands, reefs and sea areas and the existence of a system of Meriam land law, was beset by distortion and trivialisation. The overall effect of this was often to diminish Meriam meanings and certain matters of profound meaning to the Meriam were bypassed’ (ibid.). Based on an oral transmission of property ‘titles’, Meriam claims were often discredited as hearsay (Sharp, 1996) when not corroborated by external expertise and written evidence.156 As a clear illustration of the power imbalance defining this context, the written words of outsiders often outweighed firsthand accounts of local realities.157

Despite the difficulties in translating Meriam conceptions of territorial ownership into the terms of Australian law, the Mabo trial laid the groundwork for future claims. ‘We are now in a situation where indigenous people have legally demonstrated rights’ (Jull, 1994, p. 47). For H.C. Coombs,

[t]he Mabo judgment seems to have served the Torres Strait Islanders reasonably well. It has established clearly their sovereignty in the conduct of their own affairs, and has provided an acceptable basis for title, tenure, use and inheritance of land and sea. […] They are in a good position to demand a UN-supervised Act of Self-determination, ensuring the continuation of these gains into the future, or to negotiate a form of association with Australia acceptable to, and consistent with, their own vision (in Sharp, 1996, p. ix-x).

156 In the Mabo case, the genealogies produced by W.H.R. Rivers (1908), some of the photographs taken by Haddon, Wilkin and other members of the 1898 expedition, as well as the records of Mer Island Court, are part of the documents used to corroborate witness statements (Beckett, 1995, 1998, 2004; Philp, 2004). 157 This trial opposing Mabo and others to the State of Queensland involved the direct and indirect participation of several anthropologists and other researchers who participated in the elaboration of evidence submitted by the complainants and as expert witnesses. Nonie Sharp, accompanied by law professor Garth Nettheim and economist Herbert Cole Coombs, were advisors to Koiki Mabo in the early stages of the case (Beckett, 1995). Beckett, a key expert witness in this trial, came to support the Meriams’ claims, notably confirming the continuity over time of their traditional tenure system, which remained relatively similar to what it was during the passage of Haddon’s expedition in 1898. 157

Importantly, this legal victory, albeit partial and constraining, indicated to Torres Strait Islanders and Aboriginal groups that the Court can be an option to pursue the recognition of their rights. As Marshall notes, ‘[t]he Mabo decision restored Indigenous Australians’ faith in the legal system, for a time’ (2017, p. 75).

Secessionist Movement

In addition to the Mabo case, the 1980s were marked by a new secession call. In 1985, Canberra dissolved the National Aboriginal Conference (NAC), an Aboriginal forum founded by the Fraser government in 1977.158 For the Islanders, this presented an opportunity to lobby the government for a representation system specific to the Torres Strait population not encompassed within an entity representing all Indigenous Australians. This request was made alongside Islanders’ demands for the recognition of their rights over their land and sea territories and resources (Sharp, 1993). The Commonwealth slow response and lack of receptiveness to Islanders’ requests progressively pushed the ICC to call for Torres Strait’s secession from Australia (Beckett, 1987; Sharp, 1993; Kehoe-Forutan, 2004). As reported in O’Rourke (1988), with this secession call, Islanders clearly reaffirmed that, as an ‘independent people’, they never accepted the colonial ‘system of laws, politics and economy’. According to Kehoe-Forutan,

Secession was not so much a tactic as a culmination of historical events and peculiarities, political experiences and cultural inputs. These factors combined with the growing Islander dissatisfaction with government policy and administration at all levels in the region, with the federal administration of the Torres Strait Treaty and with the lack of progress in addressing the most serious inherent problems found in the Torres Strait Islands (2004, p. 174).

Orchestrated by George Mye with the assent of the ICC over a six-month period from July 1987 to January 1988, this highly publicised political manoeuvre allowed Islanders to voice, once again, their dissatisfaction with the Commonwealth and Queensland governments. Although not foreseen, the strong media coverage the event attracted helped to legitimise Islanders’ actions (Kehoe-Forutan 2004). This flamboyant political act opened negotiations

158 Islanders had two elected representatives on the NAC. The NAC succeeded to the Commonwealth's National Aboriginal Consultative Committee (1973-77) (Sanders, 1994).

158 between the ICC and the two levels of government. As pointed out by Getano Lui Jnr, the ‘Government then sat up and acknowledged that they [the Islanders] were supposed to be there’ (Smyth, 1994, p. 71).

Unlike past initiatives, the 1988 secessionist movement provided the ICC with an opportunity to state its intentions regarding issues of autonomy and control ‘over the land, sea and air in Torres Strait’ (O'Rourke, 1988 quoted in Sanders & Arthur, 2001). Moreover, the movement provided the ICC with an access to the negotiations underpinning the establishment of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC)159, which took office in 1989.

The latter led to more resources being focused on the region; leverage in negotiations regarding ATSIC; a new profile for the Torres Shire and recognition of Islanders and non-Islanders living within its boundaries; higher levels of Islander involvement in the shire; a clear direction separate to that of mainland Islanders; and changed perception of the role of Thursday Island in the region (Kehoe-Forutan, 2004, p. 187).

As an outcome of the negotiations, the ICC gained more control over the policies affecting its constituents. Yet, despite such gains, the ICC did not obtain the level of autonomy160 it aspired to (Sanders & Arthur, 2001). Moreover, while the responsibilities of this local government were multiplied, the financial resources at its disposal remained largely insufficient, thus limiting the scope of the latter. Nevertheless, the political experience acquired, and the gains made by Islanders during this decade had set the stage for the actions and demands would take place from the 1990s. The political and legal tools that Islanders possessed by the end of the 1980s allowed them to progressively bend the power relationships existing between them and the two level of governments.

159 The Commonwealth Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) was established by the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission Act 1989. The Commission, constituted under Commonwealth statutory authority, was the peak representative body for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in Australia. It was abolished by the Howard government in 2005. 160 The ICC requested that ‘all existing crown land and leases on crown land be vested in the ICC for the benefit of immediate and future Torres Strait Islanders’; that ‘the ICC must control all funds to the Torres Strait through direct grants from Treasury’; that there be ‘no involvement by other departments in the disbursement of funds’ and that ‘the ICC must have the right to raise revenue in the same manner as a State or Territory’ (O'Rourke, 1988). 159

Establishment of the Torres Strait Regional Authority

In 1989, Torres Strait Islanders gained a space within the newly founded ATSIC as one of the Commission’s 36 councils; the Torres Strait Regional Council (TSRC). While the ICC provided Islander representation at the Queensland level, the TSRC offered them some degree of representation with the Commonwealth government. Although the TSRC had no executive powers or functions, unlike most of ATSIC’s regional councils, it could elect its own national Commissioner (Sanders, 1994). In 1994, an amendment of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act 1989161 established the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA)162, a regional entity encompassing all members of the ICC and, for the first time including representatives from the inner islands (Arthur, 2005a).163 As highlighted by Sanders and Arthur (2001), the TSRA was a unique structure within the ATSIC, the only one given the same powers and functions as the Commission itself. As such, the TSRA gained the responsibility to formulate and administer programs for Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal people within Torres Strait boundaries and advise the Minister holding the Indigenous Affairs portfolio on matters related to such affairs within its area (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission Act 1989). Initially headed by the ATSIC, the TSRA became independent from the national body in 1997 (House of Representatives. Standing Committee on & Torres Strait Islander, 1997). Again, as Sanders and Arthur emphasised the TSRA ‘represented a significant new form of political autonomy’ for the Torres Strait (2005a). Established in response to Islanders’ consistent pressures for greater autonomy, the TSRA was created as a new governance body sitting alongside Queensland’s ICC. However, following concessions that allowed the TSRA to be composed of the ICC members, the new body became complicated, duplicating Islanders’ governing and representative structure and falling short of transforming the ICC into a governance structure that would give the region State or Territory status. The establishment of the TSRA was described as ‘a move towards regional self-government for Torres Strait’ (Altman et al., 1994b), but the outcome left Islanders largely unsatisfied (Sanders & Arthur, 2001; Arthur,

161 Now known as Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander (ATSI) Act 2005. 162 Arthur noted that ‘the Torres Strait Regional Council was the only ATSIC regional council in Australia that was made an ‘Authority’ and given powers similar to that of a commission itself’ (2005, p. 229). 163 The TSRA comprised representatives for Horn Island (Ngurapai), Prince of Wales (Muralag), Hammond Island (kirriri) and Thursday Island’s (Waiben) communities of Port Kennedy, Tamwoy, Rosehill, Aplin, Waiben and Quarantine. The TSRA does not directly represent Islanders living outside the Strait but includes the nearby Cape York Islander communities of Bamaga and Seisia. 160

2005b). From its inception, the TSRA was described as a ‘transitional’ governing body for the Torres Strait164 (TSRA, 1994, p. 13). Accordingly, Torres Strait Islanders have since been negotiating and developing scenarios for a more autonomous, integrated, and inclusive regional assembly (Arthur, 2005a).

Setting the terms of self-determination and control over marine territories

Following the Mabo decision and the negotiations resulting from the 1988 secession attempt, Islanders’ political manoeuvres multiplied. The option of complete separation from Australia was discarded by local leaders who then shifted their focus on developing an alternative model of self-government for the region (Lui, 1994a; Lui, 1994b). ‘[W]e have now done all the homework’, emphasised Getano Lui Jnr, ‘[…] and we have found that both economically and politically we cannot become independent, as in sovereign independence but there are alternative ways of becoming autonomous while still remaining part of Australia’ (in Smyth, 1994, p. 71). The creation of an autonomous territory, akin to the Australian island territories of Norfolk, Christmas and Cocos (Keeling)—which have their own local constitution— or the Inuit territory of Nunavut in Canada, were explored as possible way forward (see Jull, 1997).

In 1991, the ICC took the lead in developing such an alternative by issuing the Principles and Objectives for the Future of Torres Strait. This report, submitted to the Queensland and Commonwealth governments, aimed at providing guidance for the development and reform of government policies concerning the Torres Strait. In this report, the ICC demanded that Islanders’ cultural specificity become central to the elaboration of any programs and policies that would affect their lives. The report also called for the development of a marine strategy for the Torres Strait. The resurgence of industrial fisheries from the late 1970s-80s, Chevron's prospective oil pipeline traversing the Strait, and fears associated with chemical discharges of the Fly River catchment emanating from the Ok Tedi mine in PNG’s Western Province165,

164 ‘In recommending the creation of a new Torres Strait Regional Authority, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission saw its creation as a transitional arrangement providing a basis for a progressive negotiated movement towards greater regional autonomy in the delivery of programs and services for the Torres Strait’ (TSRA, 1994, p. 13). 165 In the mi-1980s, Torres Strait Islanders lobbied for a baseline study to be undertaken amidst concerns associated with the Ok Tedi mining operations. Located in the Fly catchment, Islanders feared that the activities of this gold and copper mine would generate high levels of pollution in their waters (Gladstone & Dight, 1994). The Ok Tedi 161 represented major sources of concern for Islanders, whose lives and livelihoods relied heavily on the region’s marine resources (Lawrence, 1991; Lawrence & McGrath, 1994; Arthur, 1998; Nettheim, 2002). ‘We live with the effluents from mines, new development projects and international shipping swirling around in the waters from which we obtain our daily food’, protested Lui (1994b, p. 11). As the Chairman of the ICC, Lui stressed that ‘[a] comprehensive conservation and development strategy was needed as the foundation for future public policy and economic development in the Torres Strait region’ (1995, Document not paginated). ‘The Marine Strategy for Torres Strait’, he added’ ‘would be the largest element in this approach, building on the unique relationship between Islanders and the sea’ (ibid.). The Principles and Objectives report thus laid the groundwork for the ICC and a multidisciplinary team of researchers166 from Australia and abroad to develop this marine strategy, which was endorsed by the TSRC in 1992 (Mulrennan & McGrath, 1994) and adopted by both the TSRA and the ICC in 1999 (Nettheim et al., 2002).

The Marine Strategy built upon a spirit of co-operation and the imperative to ‘recognise the value and authority of indigenous knowledge and resource managers alongside the contribution of scientific researchers’ (Mulrennan & Hanssen, 1994, p. 69). Yet, McGrath warned, ‘[s]ome of the things that come out of [the Strategy] no doubt will not be acceptable to governments, however, that is the way it is going to be’ (Mulrennan & McGrath, 1994, p. 77). The core principles guiding this comprehensive initiative were that ‘[c]ultural autonomy, significant measures of self-government, and rights to ownership and management of traditionally used lands, waters and resources, form an indissoluble package of necessary measures’ (Lui, 1994b, p. 11). While the Strategy’s bottom up framework placed Islanders’ values and knowledge at the

Mining Limited and BHP Billiton are responsible for what has been described as an environmental disaster (Marychurch & Stoianoff, 2006). The mine has notably been the object of a class action by local Papuan landowners; 13,000 villagers seeking compensation for destruction of their traditional lands of the order of A$5.08 billion (see http://www.theage.com.au/news/business/villagers-sue-bhp-billiton-for- 5bn/2007/01/19/1169095978975.html, last access 24 March 2019). Concerns about the OK Tedi mine’s activities were raised by Islanders, scientists and commercial fishermen at the Torres Strait Fisheries Seminar in 1985, led the Commonwealth government to fund a four-year environmental study: the Torres Strait Baseline Study. In his closing remark to the Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference in 1990, Cordell highlighted the central space occupied by ‘ethical and indigenous rights concerns’ in that what could have been another ‘technical workshop’ for an ‘environmental monitoring, baseline study project’. ‘They [the organisers] are not only hitching their plow to a more ecologically sane version of development but to a more socially aware and enlightened management program that would involve local people as more genuine partners’ (1991, p. 510). Cordell, while certainly supportive, pondered how far the organisers were prepared to go to achieve this ambitious proposal. 166 Their work was supported by number of written submissions from external researchers and government agencies. 162 forefront, it also illustrated their openness and support for ecosystem management and ecologically sustainable development approaches. Endorsing a shift towards shared management between Islanders and the government, and involving PNG representatives, the Strategy also demanded that existing research projects and prospective initiatives be better coordinated. Stemming from a holistic perspective for Torres Strait land and sea management, this this Islander-led initiative positioned itself as an alternative to the usual approach taken by the Australia governments which ‘emphasise the economic aspects of development more strongly than its social and cultural aspects’ (Young, 1994, p. 97). The Strategy was also clear about Islanders’ uncompromising vision for the future of the region; a vision that underpins their engagement in the fisheries co-management arrangements on which I will focus in Chapter Nine.

Acknowledging the consultative mechanisms (e.g. the PZJA) in place at the time— mechanisms which it criticised for yielding little decision-making power to Islanders167—the Strategy generally sought ‘to maximise Islander involvement in existing structures, while recognising that structural changes [were] also required to achieve real empowerment’ (Mulrennan & Hanssen, 1994, p. 70). In Lui’s words, ‘[w]e need to be able to make decisions about social, cultural, economic and environmental matters in our region, not just have the right to attend advisory meetings which may, or may not, pass our ideas up the line’ (in Smyth, 1994, p. 17). Elsewhere, Lui criticised Australia for ‘[trying] to manage our affairs through the representations of nearly forty official agencies and departments, none of whose officials are accountable to our region or our people. To participate in Australia as citizens’, he added, ‘we must change this status’ (Mulrennan & Hanssen, 1994, p. 38). Indeed, as the participants of the Surviving Columbus conference highlighted, ‘it would seem that most of the issues affecting marine pollution and the depletion of marine resources are largely dependent on external forces outside the control of the local Islander inhabitants’ (Mulrennan & McGrath, 1994, p. 75). This aspect will be discussed in greater details in Chapter Nine.

167 As mentioned in the Marine Strategy, ‘[t]he extent of consultation on such matters is in many cases little more than receipt of official notification of decisions already taken by government bodies in Canberra or Brisbane (Mulrennan & Hanssen, 1994, p. 39). 163

Drawing inspiration and support from abroad

Since the late 1980s, Torres Strait Islanders political strategies and actions have drawn heavily on international agencies' discourses on the environment, sustainable development, indigenous rights and social justice. They ‘have turned to global environmental and sustainable development currents’ with the aim of ‘spreading “first world” standards accommodating indigenous autonomy and self-government, in order to bring some fresh air to discussions about their future’ (Lui 1995, no pagination). Through their participation in international conferences and forums, Islanders were more than ever on the lookout for developments in the field of indigenous rights emerging in different national contexts. In addition, their knowledge of the various international treaties and conventions concerning the Torres Strait provided them with significant leverage to support their claims for increased autonomy and decision-making power, particularly in regard to the management of the region’s commercial fisheries. The conclusions of the Brundtland report (1987) and Rio Earth Summit (1992) support Islanders’ claims that the protection and sustainable development of marine environments require the implementation of local systems of governance and community-based natural resource management approaches that incorporate Indigenous knowledge. ‘The worldwide commitment to ecologically sustainable development offers particular hope to regions like ours’ explained Lui (Lui, 1994b, p. 17). For example, Chapter 26 of Agenda 21, a document attached to the Rio Summit ratified by Australia in 1992, referred to the responsibility of governments to allow and provide the means for indigenous peoples to govern themselves and self-develop, manage their resources, exercise their customary rights on land and sea, use their knowledge and manage their traditional territories. It also upheld the need for Indigenous peoples’ lands to be ‘protected from activities that are environmentally unsound or that the indigenous people concerned consider to be socially and culturally inappropriate’ (Agenda 21 Ch 26.3 a ii). Yet, while some international instruments support Islanders’ pursuit of greater autonomy, others also limit their capacities to use and manage their land and sea territories according to their customary laws. This is notably the case of the UNCLOS which, as mentioned earlier, does not recognise Indigenous sea tenure and rights to control access over their marine territories. This highlights the utmost significance for Islanders to continue their fight to obtain security of tenure over their sea domains and recognition of their own law of the sea.

164

Erasing Mare Nullius

According to my tradition, those fish, the prawns, whatever is in that sea, belongs to me and my people. That is important. That, of course, ought to be claimed and I’m claiming it.

(Mabo, 1989, in Life Blong Islanders). While the question of Islanders’ ownership over their land domains was being resolved, one isle at a time, through a series of ponderous claims made to the Native Title Tribunal, the recognition of their property rights over their sea territories remained unsettled. Excluded from Mabo to increase the case’s chances of success, the recognition of their sea tenure remained a major preoccupation and key priority for Islanders, especially post-Mabo decision. Without such recognition, Islanders’ bargaining power remained limited. Indeed, as Mulrennan and Scott wrote, ‘there has been very limited progress on genuine power-sharing in regard to marine jurisdiction and resource allocation decisions—the real economic stake of the region’ (Scott & Mulrennan, 1999, p. 169). Obtaining the recognition of Islanders sea rights (including the control over marine resources uses and management) was, accordingly, raised as a priority by the TSRA from the outset (Altman et al., 1994a; TSRA, 1994). In the mid-1990s, the Australian Fisheries Management Authority (AFMA) became the principle agency responsible for the general administration the Torres Strait fisheries on the behalf of the PZJA (see O’Donnell, 2006).

As Cordell pointed out, ‘[y]ou can ignore local sea rights issues, but they tend not to go away’ (1991, p. 515). In his concluding remark to the Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference, Cordell stressed that ‘there is mounting evidence that what local residents need foremost to sustainably manage their territories be they on land or sea is security of tenure’ (ibid.). Islanders and non-Islander researchers, through various forums from the mid-1980s onwards (e.g. Marine Strategy for the Torres Strait and associated forums, Torres Strait Fisheries Seminar, Turning the Tide Conference, etc.) have strongly supported such claims. A holistic recognition of Islanders’ sea tenure was needed; emphasising the relevance of Islanders’ regulatory customary marine tenure regimes—as ‘knowledge system[s], enmeshed in social relations, constantly being updated and adapting to changing conditions’ (Cordell, 1991, p. 513)—for the sustainable management and development of the region’s marine environment and fisheries.

165

Yet, over the late 1990s, the PZJA appeared to take a step in the opposite direction and proposed a change in licencing for the Islander sector, converting the ‘community fishing’ licences into individual Traditional Inhabitant Boats (TIB) licences (Independent Allocation Advisory Panel, 2006, p. 10). Such changes ignite further frustrations in an already tense relationship. ‘How can we have to get licences to fish our own waters?’ lamented Lui, ‘[w]e are not talking about management any more, we are talking about ownership of control’ (Torres News, 4-10 December, 1998, p. 5). He also added, ‘[o]ur people will still go out and fish as if under the community licence and if they get caught, not only will they go to court but you will be taking the whole community to court’ (Torres News, 28 May-3 June, 1999, p. 1). Despite the resistance, the TIB licences were implemented from 1999. This controversial licencing system was still contested at the time of writing (Pers. Comm., Getano Lui, 2017).

Outside of these forums and amidst growing anger, Islanders from across the region also began to deploy various strategies, beyond the legal avenue, to regain control over their marine estate before lodging a formal sea claim over the entirety of the Torres Strait (see the Torres Strait Sea Claims discussed below).

Proclamation of EEZ and ‘Fishing War’

In a media released issued in December 1993, Mer’s ICC Chairman, Ron Day declared an exclusive economic zone (EEZ) around his community’s home islands (1994, p. 47). Day stressed that the move was ‘not a bid for sovereignty’ (ibid.) but was instead driven by economic motivations. The declaration of an EEZ was a clear attempt by the Meriam to enforce some control and change of direction in the non-Islander operations were conducted and regulated in the region. Drawing on Mer’s customary law, the self-proclaimed EEZ was to be reserved for the residents of Mer while allowing other Islander communities to fish and sell their catch to Mer’s freezer. Non-Islander operators could also fish in the zone providing they accepted ‘to fish under the dictates of the community council and provide details of their catch’ and ‘sell their products to the community freezer at the same rate paid to local Islander fishermen’ (ibid). Eventually, Erub and Ugar fishers teamed up with the Meriams and extended the EEZ to include a large proportion of Eastern Islanders’ reefs and territories (Mulrennan & Scott, 2000, 2001, 2005; Mulrennan, 2002; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). The move resulted in tensions and clashes with the commercial fishers operating within these territories. In December 1993, the non-Islander sector,

166 via the Commercial Fishermen Organisation, accepted a voluntary moratorium on fishing the area until an agreement was reached between the parties (Osborne, 2009). A ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ with the commercial fishers emerged from this situation. As reported by Haigh, this agreement stipulates that commercial fishers ‘could fish within a ten nautical mile “exclusion zone” surrounding Mer provided they consulted with the relevant Island Chairman, Elders and the community’ (Haigh, 1999b, p. 166). However, breaches of this agreement occurred and several non-Islander commercial fishing boats were shown the way out by Eastern Islanders (Mulrennan & Scott, 2000; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). Passi expands on these evictions:

Murray Island is known for sending ‘illegally’—we don’t say that, we say legally— trawlers out from our waters. And we had people come to us from Australian Fisheries and say, ‘This is the international law.’ I said, ‘International? Did your people come and take my ancestor, Koit, to sit and make this law become international? Do you expect me to obey that international character of the law? Sorry, when you go, you take that law with you. This water is mine till the end of time.’ Sorry, I’m a Murray Islander (2001, p. 25).

In 1998, three Meriam fishers, one armed with a crayfish spear, proceeded to expell non- Islander coral trout commercial fishers after confiscating the catch which was later sold to Mer’s freezer (Haigh, 1999a, 2000; Loban, 2007). Criminal charges of robbery armed robbery were pressed against Meriam fishers Maluwap Nona and George Andrew Gesa. Both Nona and Gesa pleaded not-guilty asserting that ‘they were protecting their traditional fishing grounds and were entitled by customary law to take the fish’ (Torres News, 9-15 February, 2001, p. 1). Both were found not guilty on the ground that they had an ‘honest claim of right to the fish’; a right protected by the Torres Strait Treaty (Haigh, 1999a). In Haigh’s words, ‘[t]he case stands as a reminder that the issue of fishing rights in the Torres Strait is a matter long overdue for negotiated resolution between governments, professional fisherpersons and Torres Strait Islanders’ (2000, n.p.). As Scott and Mulrennan summed up, ‘[a]lthough the action has occasionally led to prosecution or threats of prosecution against Islander defenders, it has been effective in some measures it produced’ (Scott & Mulrennan, 2010, p. 153).

167

The verdict did nothing to appease the tensions between Islanders and non-Islander commercial fishers which continued to escalate after Nona and Gesa’s acquittal.168 Between 22- 25 March 2001, the cultural maritime summit Ngalpun Malu Kaimelan Gasaman, coordinated by the Late Ephraim Bani, was held on Thursday Island.169 Marshalling a large number of Islander Elders and leaders as well as members of nearby Aboriginal communities, the Summit’s main purpose was to ‘galvanis[e] Islander support for the launch of a broad based sea claim including claims to sovereignty and exclusive rights to occupy and control their sea country’ (English, 2001). At the end of the Summit, all non-Islander commercial fishers were given an ‘ultimatum’ to ‘get out of the Straits’ within a week (English, 2001; Mulrennan, 2002; Loban et al., 2016). Some commercial fishers described the ultimatum as a ‘declaration of war’ (English, 2001; Loban et al., 2016). Nonetheless, over the following months, both parties accepted to talk.170 One of the outcomes of their negotiation was an ‘informal agreement with key figures in the commercial fishery to leave a ten-nautical-mile radius around certain home islands for exclusive Islander use’ (Scott & Mulrennan, 2010, p. 153). Yet, in the years that followed, Islanders and non-Islander fishers have criticised the ambiguity associated with variations in the interpretations of this voluntary arrangement, particularly in terms of the extent of the agreed exclusion zone (Mapstone et al., 2003).

The ultimatum served to commercial fishers at the Summit also prompted the Commonwealth fisheries minister to travel to the region. While the Minister cautioned Islanders against further actions targeting non-Islander fishers171, his visit allowed Islanders to initiate political negotiations on a series of outstanding issues. The negotiations included possible measures to address the impact of the non-Islander prawning and tropical rock lobster industry on their livelihood in the context of an emerging lobster crisis (Mulrennan, 2002 with references to the Torres Strait Rock Lobster Working Group, 2001 and PZJA, Meeting 13, 2002). These

168 Some of the local Cairns Newspaper headlines in the few days following the acquittal listed illustrates well these tensions: ‘Race War Threat’, ‘Piracy Illegal’, ‘Fishermen Afraid’, ‘Mystifying Judgment’, ‘Law making us laughing stock of the world’. The Indigenous media, however, approached the trial outcome from a different angle. The Koori Mail headlines stated instead: ‘Our right to fish’ and ‘TSI ruling a major step’ (ibid) while the Torres News opted for the neutral statement: ‘Nona and Gesa Acquitted’.. 169 One of the organisers of the Summit was Maluwap Nona. 170 Tensions of various intensity (punctuated by periods of relative calm) between Islanders and non-Islander commercial fishers still existed at the time of writing. 171 Federal Member of Parliament for Leichhardt, Warren Entsch, condemned the ultimatum and threat of violence, qualifying move as ‘a huge step backwards’ (Torres News, 30 March-5 April 2001, p. 5). 168 measures included a reduction of the number of prawn licences, seasonal and permanent closures, and a ban on the use of hookah and GPS. They also focused on the need to reform the PZJA governance structure to increase Islanders representation and decision-making power within that structure.

These demands were supported by the Torres Strait Fisheries Task Force (TSFT), established over that period by a group of Islander fishers whose goal was to ‘increase the extent of islanders’ participation in these decision making processes’ by ‘develop[ing] a new structure through which islander fishermen will have greater influence and will be able to advise the ministers on appropriate legislation and policy changes’ (TSRA, AR 2000-2001, p. 2).172 With financial support from the TSRA, the Task Force participated in the review of the PZJA Fisheries Consultative Structure (PZJA, Meeting 12, 2001). In 2002, the Chair of the TSRA obtained a seat on the PZJA alongside the Commonwealth and Queensland Ministers (Mulrennan, 2002). I will return to the latter aspect in Chapter Nine. The TSFT also secured three prawn licenses for future use by Islander fishers (PZJA, Meeting 13, 2002; O'Donnell, 2006).173

Over this period Islanders also clearly stated through the PZJA that ‘the legal rights of non-Islander licensed fishers are viewed by traditional inhabitants as being inconsistent with their aspirations for marine resource-based economic development’ (PZJA meeting 13) and warned of the ‘serious implications of leaving the issue unresolved’ (ibid.). A coordinated sea claim over the entire Torres Strait was one attempt by Islanders to bring resolution to this problem.

172 http://www.tsra.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0015/14073/anrep0102.pdf (last accessed 24 March 2019). 173 The licenses were never used. In 2005, the licenses were surrendered to enable the buyback of all the finfish licenses. 169

Akiba: Torres Strait Sea Claims

Torres Strait Islanders’ undeterred and unremitting battle to formally erase the fiction of mare nullius re-emerged in 1996 when Islander groups across the region began to make claims over marine territories resulting in a large number of overlapping native title claims over sections of Torres Strait’s waters (Garnier, 2004). ‘To hear all these claims’, Henry Garnier174 said, ‘would [have been] a slow and complex process’ (2004, p. 60).

As noted by Scott and Mulrennan, ‘[t]here [was] substantial, though not uniform, Islander support for sub-regional consolidation of sea claims, and indeed for an integrated Torres Strait regional sea claim’ (Mulrennan & Scott, 2001, p. 11). The Cultural Summit discussed above, was part of a process aiming at coordinating these cases. The project was formalised in November 2001—after what had been a tumultuous year—when a collective sea claim (Akiba v Commonwealth) was lodged before the Federal Court of Australia. For the Islanders, the sea claim sought the recognition of their right to ‘take, use, enjoy and develop the resources of the claim area, including to make decisions about the allocation, exploitation and conservation of such resources’ (quoted in Kaye, 2001, p. 23). The sea claim was therefore about regaining control over their marine territories and resources. As Garnier states, ‘[o]ur dream of greater autonomy will never be complete unless we achieve recognition of rights to the sea’ (2004, p. 61). The TSRA also stressed that the recognition of sea rights is essential to achieve autonomy for the region.175

In the wake of the claims, several anthropologists, geographers and native title lawyers, working with local groups, documented the relationships between the archipelago’s communities and the seascape, as well as their ways of appropriating this environment. Over the years, ethnographic research carried out in the Strait has documented the persistence, resilience and dynamism of island customs, knowledge and land rights, despite sustained colonial interferences. As documented in this thesis, notwithstanding the colonial presence and pressures, Islanders continued to live on and from their unceded territories and, as Cordell writes, ‘to dance, sing and depict their landscapes and seascapes’ (1989, p. 40). Nietschmann notes however that ‘[d]espite the locally recognized boundaries, a seascape of possessive names, a culturally relevant history,

174 Henry Garnier was then Chair of the ICC and Chairman of Hammond Island. 175 http://www.tsra.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0015/14073/anrep0102.pdf (last accessed 24 March 2019). 170 and a long-term occupation and use, Torres Strait Islander sea territories are invisible to most outsiders’ (1989, p. 84). Oblivious to Islanders’ regimes, the colonial administration imposed the status of common ownership of the fisheries area on Islanders (Cordell, 1984, p. 302).

While the Mabo judgement failed to recognise native title below the high-water mark, the decision contained some legal basis for claims to be made over customary sea territories (Haigh 1993, Sutherland 1992, Scott and Mulrennan 1999; Marshall, 2017) The Commonwealth of Australia v Yarmirr ('the Croker Island case') was launched to test this very issue (Morris, 2002). On October 11, 2001, the conclusion of the trial between the Mandilarri of Croker Island and the Northern Territory concluded with an amendment of the Mabo Judgment to include the recognition of native titles over the sea (Osborne, 2009) within twelve nautical mile limit (Strelein, 2004).

Yet, unlike land titles, titles over maritime areas have been defined as non-exclusive; ‘exclusive possession was held to be inconsistent with public rights of navigation and fishing under the common law, and with international marine law’ (Mulrennan & Scott, 2001, p. 14) see also Butterly (2013) and Grey (2007).176 The holders of these titles are therefore required to share the territories concerned with the broader public. As Burke puts it, ‘the native title rights include free access to the sea and seabed within the claim area in accordance with traditional laws and customs for the purposes of: travelling through or within the area; fishing and hunting; visiting and protecting places that are of cultural and spiritual importance; and safeguarding cultural and spiritual knowledge’ (2001, p. 4). In regard to the fisheries, the amendment states that, ‘the exercise of native title fishing rights will be protected from government regulation, providing the fishing is for domestic, non-commercial purposes’ (ibid., p. 3). Sparkes (2002, quoted in Scott & Mulrennan, 2010, p. 157) noted however that non-exclusive rights offer some form of political and legal leverage when it comes to native title holders’ involvement in management as well as exemptions from certain fishing and hunting laws and regulations. Yet, in the Torres Strait, such exemptions and leverage are less significant than the guaranties the Torres Strait Treaty already provides (Kaye, 2004; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). Thus, following Croker, ‘jurisprudence and

176 As Osborne emphasises, ‘island claimants knew that ‘exclusive possession’ was not a viable option, but they sought the broadest possible application of the law’ (2009, p. 111).

171 legislation enables central governments to treat native title sea rights as residual and inferior to those of commercial fishermen, mining companies and pearling companies’ (Mulrennan & Scott, 2001, p. 14, Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). Limited in scope, this timid extension of native title to maritime domains nevertheless opened the door to further sea right claims.

Between 2002 and 2008, the Yolŋu (northeast Arnhem Land, Northern Territory) engaged in a legal battle of their own as they ‘sought to exclude all others from fishing their traditional land and waters’ (Marshall, 2017, p. 26). Known as the Blue Mud Bay decision, the case concluded in a ‘landmark victory in the High Court’ (Brennan, 2008, n.p.) which extended their land rights under the Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Act 1976 to the low water mark (Hunt et al., 2009). Recognising Yolŋu’s rights to exclude commercial fishers across the intertidal zone, ‘the decision reaffirms the strength of Aboriginal property rights under the statutory land rights regime that operates in the NT’ and represented ‘unprecedented opportunities for Aboriginal participation in the seafood industry’ (Brennan, 2008, n.p.). The permit system associated with the decision gives traditional owners of the inter-tidal zone power to exclude commercial fishers, and associated leverage for negotiated arrangements, along 80 per cent of the Northern Territory coastline.

Blue Mud Bay instilled some confidence in Islanders regarding their then ongoing sea claim. There was hope that their sea claim would ‘result in a more beneficial judgment, given the predominance of the sea for their cultural identity and economic prospects’ (Mulrennan, 2003, p. 308). Around the time the sea claim was lodged, Islanders had requested the suspension of new licence arrangements (Garnier, 2004). Nevertheless, as the persistence of native title over the Torres Strait was being debated in court, the PZJA continued to negotiate its allocation and licensing reform.

Akiba was an active case over the period covered by this research and several Masig Elders were working at building up the case with anthropologists and native title lawyers. On the Island, most were anxious to see this case resolved. Unsure of the claim’s details, particularly in terms of the limitations associated with the Australian legal framework, they were uncertain of what to expect if the claim succeeded or failed (Various community members, Pers. Comm., 2008-2009). Yet, they certainly hoped that the claim would increase their control over their

172 marine territories and fisheries. The claim was not resolved over the 2008-2010 period on which this thesis focuses. As the sea claim was won in 2013, the ramifications of the decision for fisheries management are not discussed in this thesis.

Conclusion: A slow journey towards autonomy and repossession of sea rights

In historical accounts there is plenty of evidence of Islanders attempting to negotiate the terms of their participation, complaining about unfairness, refusing to co-operate, and demonstrating ambivalence towards the new order. Nakata (2007, p. 143) From the mid-1930s onwards, Islanders have mobilised to face common challenges and injustices, engaging in an enduring but slow process of resistance and decolonisation. Until the 1960s, their demands were largely driven by principle of fairness. Their battles aimed, inter alia, at obtaining equal income, control over of their wages, and sharing the same rights that other Australians citizens were taking for granted. In the wake of the collapse of the pearling industry, an emerging national and international support for Indigenous self-determination, the border disputes and ratification of the Torres Strait Treaty, Islander leaders, backed by their communities, shifted their focus towards the interconnected goals of achieving political and economic autonomy, regaining sovereignty over their land and sea territories and control over the region’s fisheries. Their determination to regain security of tenure over their marine territories was largely driven by socio-economic and environmental concerns about the sustainability of some fisheries and the intense competition emerging from the then growing non-Islander tropical rock lobster, prawn and mackerel industries. As Scott and Mulrennan emphasised, competing directly with Islanders’ fisheries, these industries have limited Islanders’ ‘ability to use their home seas to develop their economies […]; posing issues of environmental sustainability that are hotly contested in the local and regional politics of resources management’ (Scott & Mulrennan, 2010, p. 151). In addition, decades of the PZJA’s conventional bio- economic management has not prevented crisis from occurring in some of the region’s commercial fisheries (e.g. tropical rock lobster and bêche-de-mer) (O'Donnell, 2006, p. 214). These crises have done nothing to build Islanders’ trust in PZJA and its agencies (see Chapter 9).

As discussed in this chapter, over the years, Islanders have developed a range of political strategies to achieve their goals of autonomy and land-sea ownership (Mulrennan, 2007). These

173 included negotiations with both levels of governments, the formation of political entities, successive declaration of secession, the proclamation of exclusive economic zones, direct actions and legal claims. They have also insisted on being informed and involved in everything concerning the Torres Strait. Each of their gains (e.g. creation of Island Councils, maintenance of their territorial integrity, reduction of prawn licences, centrality of their lifeways for development of fisheries management strategies, etc.) has tended, however, to be framed by new legal and bureaucratic mechanisms, with opportunities for the state to retain as much control as possible. Hence, the Islanders-state relation is one perpetual tussle.

The Torres Strait Treaty and the Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984, which, as O’Donnell emphasises, underpin fishery governance structures that are quite unique in Australia (2006, p. 213), offered some support to Islanders’ quest for autonomy, promoting their involvement in the region’s marine resource management and, as Arthur highlights, giving them ‘some degree of control in the marine economy’ (2006, p. 233). Nettheim et al. also emphasise that, ‘in the Torres Strait there is legislative recognition of the rights and interests of Torres Strait Islanders in the management of fisheries, the marine environment in Torres Strait and the maintenance of management and community rights’ (2002, p. 386). Yet, while the Treaty promotes forms of cooperation between the various actors involved in the management of the region’s resources (e.g. government agencies, Islanders, non-Islander fishing industry, scientists, etc.), it did not formally translate into equitable sharing of the decisions or co-management (Mulrennan & Scott, 2000, 2005) at least until 2002 when the TSRA Chair joined the PZJA and gain some decision- making power. Islanders’ long journey to regain control over their seascapes and fisheries has also involved their participation in a plethora of forums where they were often largely outnumbered by ‘experts’ and government agents and had little opportunity to speak or influence the discussions177. Transcripts and summaries from a number of these forums, conferences, seminars, meetings, inquiries and the like reveal the often apathetic, paternalistic and at times openly racist tone Islanders have repeatedly been exposed to while participating in such events. The ICC-led Marine Strategy for Torres Strait was a counter response to this lack of decision- making power and representation and an attempt to redress the situation as part of a process to change the PZJA management structure. The Strategy also notably led to the production of the

177 The Torres Strait Fisheries Seminar, is an example of this. Two out of approximately 40 speakers were Islanders. 174

Land and Sea Management Strategy released in 2006 which, supported by the TSRA, was notably underpinned by the implementation of the Land and Sea Management Unit (LSMU). The LSMU provides TSRA representation within the PZJA consultative structure and offers support to Islanders’ fisher representatives involved in the structure.

Regardless of the PZJA’s claim to protect Islanders’ traditional lifeways and livelihood, there were few indications, over the period covered here, that Islanders’ values, lifeways, institutions, and knowledge were the foundation of fisheries management and development in the Torres Strait. The very implementation of licences for Torres Strait Islanders being an example of the contrary. Interestingly, what is understood as ‘traditional way of life and livelihood’ in this context—based on the text of the Treaty, the TSFA and documents emerging from the PZJA— remains unclear. To bring some clarity to this question, the next three chapters, which focus on the case of Masig, will provide an example of what Islander small boat fisheries, broader lifeways and aspirations—in other words, ‘traditional way of life and livelihood’—look like.

175

Part two A critical analysis of Torres Strait fisheries management

Chapter Six: In tune with the winds, the sea and the people, insight from Masig fishers’ quotidian

The ethnographic fieldwork I have conducted within Masig territory examined Masig Islanders’ forms of involvement in subsistence, ceremonial and commercial fisheries together with the modalities of their wider engagement with their extended land and sea territory. The purview of this investigation thus includes local management practices, social institutions and knowledge systems which are shaping them, and which form an integral part of what I understand to be Masig’s ‘fisheries system’. The aim of this chapter is to give a comprehensive portrait of this system. It examines the interplay of Masig Islanders’ commercial and customary fishing practices; showing how these practices are defined by and anchored within a longstanding customary regime of rights, responsibilities and reciprocity (towards their kin and maritime domain); their economic rationality predominantly characterised by its plasticity its relational ontology; and their dynamic, intimate and holistic socio-ecological knowledge system (Chapters 7 and 8). These elements—which codify and regulate the ownership, access to and uses of specific zones and resources while guiding the extraction, use and distribution of these resources—are constituents of what is locally known as gud pasin.

Far from existing in isolation from external influences and interferences, Masig lifeways and practices are entangled with international, federal, state and regional values, laws, policies, and property regime as well as non-Indigenous fishers’ and institutionalised science models of interaction with the environment. These elements also frame—to various extents—the range of possible local fishing and marine resource management practices while shaping the dynamic fishery system in place. These intersecting dimensions are examined throughout Chapter Six, Seven and Eight to demonstrate how seminal they are to Masig’s contemporary maritime lifeways.

I arrived at Masig on the afternoon of 25 July 2008, during sager tonar, the season of the gusty south-eastern trade winds. Prior to my departure, it was decided that for the first few weeks of my fieldwork I would live with Uncle Dan, one of the Island’s Elders and experienced seamen. After a week spent on Ngurapai and Waiben, gateway to the Torres Strait, I embarked

176 on the Cessna that took me to the Outer Islands; a region I had until then only ‘experienced’ through books, conversations, photographs and films.

The magnificent seascape that was unfolding before my eyes filled my mind with great expectations. Now and then I could see the shape of a large sea turtle or minuscule boats anchored on the shores of some uninhabited islets which, from my outsider’s position, appeared to be lost in a sea expanding in every direction. From above, I tried to identify the islands we were encountering based on maps I had memorised in an attempt to mentally connect each people with their parcels of ocean and earth.

Flying over this spectacular scenery, I nevertheless felt nervous. Things had not quite gone according to plan since my arrival in Australia six months earlier, so I was slightly anxious about what the following months would bring. I was also nervous because the plane had taken off an hour behind schedule and I had been unable to inform my host of the delay. I was worried that Uncle Dan might not be there when I arrived. At the time, I was not conscious of the residents’ acute awareness of people’s movements into, out of, and across their sky, land and sea.

Photo: Thomassin, 2008. Masig and Koedal. Forty minutes after leaving Ngurapai, Masig materialised onto the horizon with its extensive reefs, clear turquoise waters, and white beaches encircling the green vegetation covering most of its landmass. The short airstrip that seems to split the Island in two and the prominent telecom antenna which then rose from its centre gave the place a dramatic sense of 177 smallness, at least from a ‘land-centric’ perspective. Getting off the plane, the airstrip’s Dhari178 shaped gate caught my eyes: ‘Welcome to Masig’.

Behind the gate, I recognised Uncle Dan from a photo I saw at the Gab Titui Cultural Centre on Waiben a few days earlier. I was relieved to see him there. As the Island Lodges’ driver, he declared being used to flight schedule delays regularly caused by hazardous weather conditions. On Masig, time tends to be quite relative; ‘ailan taim’179 you often hear. The rhythm of people’s lives is less influenced by clocks than by tangible indications that the moment has come to make a move. In this case, the rumbling clamour of the aircraft engine approaching the Island was the signal my host was waiting for. He introduced himself, extended a heartfelt welcome to me as we jumped in the Lowatta Lodges’ Toyota Tarago. As he pressed on the accelerator, my fieldwork on Masig began.

Driving at a slow pace, Uncle Dan gave me a brief guided tour of the Island before heading to his house. He took me to the jetty on the Island’s northern shores where a few women were fishing with handlines; at their side, a few plastic buckets into which they dropped their catches. Adjacent to the wooden jetty was a boat ramp. Uncle Dan explained that the cargo boat lands there once a week, on Monday or Tuesday depending on the tide, to deliver the arguably ‘fresh’, frozen and preserved food, the fuel and other goods arriving mainly from Cairns via Ngurapai. Looking offshore, he commented on the tide and named all the islands in sight; Mawar, Igab, Darmuth, Umaga, Erub, and Koedal; ‘This is all Masig territory’, he added, ‘not Erub of course, but everything else that you see’.180

Moored near Koedal, in an area commonly known as the Crab pot, was Captain Tom, the fuel barge then used by the trawler operators.181 Nearby, a few of these prawn trawlers were awaiting nightfall to pull-up their anchors and drop their otter-trawl nets in the deeper channels of Masig’s sea territory.

178 Torres Strait Traditional headdress. 179 Torres Strait Creole: Island time. 180 Erub being a high volcanic island inhabited by a neighbouring community, on a fine day visible to the east of Masig territory. 181 2008 was the last prawn fishing season for the barge. It was replaced in March 2009 by a mothership service. 178

Pointing eastwards to a place called Opsiriam, Uncle Dan talked about a monument celebrating the landing on Masig of the London Missionary Society (LMS) on July 3, 1871. ‘Here’, he said, subtly underlining a distinct Masigalgal identity, ‘we celebrate the “Coming of the Light” on July 3’.182 Directing my attention further east along the beach, he identified a rocky platform called Sau Point; the area where the mythical ancestor Sau, one of the Four Brothers landed and metamorphosed into rocks a very long time ago (see Chapter 3) and an expression of the intimate and continuing kinship connections that exists between the Masigalgal and their land and sea domain. Later during my stay, another Elder emphasised the exceptional character of this site, Sau Point being Masig’s only rock platform (Inter., MC1, 2008).

We left the jetty and drove back on the road parallel to the airstrip. Uncle Dan identified a patch of land on our left named Kubgiz; one of his family’s garden areas where they used to grow pumpkins. We continued heading towards the Island’s southern shore and reached the dirt road which lead to the cemetery at Pedig where he began telling stories about his family and underlined some connections between the names on various headstones and specific families and places, as well as particular individuals’ traits and skills. A large number of the graves’ ornamentations provide a silent narrative of the Island’s enduring seafaring lifeworld. As we returned to the car, Uncle Dan bid farewell to his departed relatives and friends as a sign of respect and, he explained, to let them know that they are not forgotten. ‘Every time we come pass cemetery we sing “ohoh!” Same thing when you walk pass someone’s house’.

A moment later we were back on the main road, immaculate, and bordered with coconut palms. Each house’s sandy front yard was adorned by imported and native trees; a colourful melange of frangipani, bougainvillea, hibiscus, poinciana, and mekay trees (sea almond trees) to name but a few species. Large selpis (clam shells), kabar (trochus shells) and old fishing buoys decorated many of the home facades. A small group of women and children followed by a few dogs were unhurriedly walking down the street in the declining afternoon.

In less than two minutes we arrived at Uncle Dan’s house at the centre of the village where the Island’s two main roads intersect and within a stone’s throw of the Island’s grocery

182 The London Missionary Society’s initial landing on Erub on July 1, 1871 is observed as an Islander national holiday throughout Torres Strait. 179 and convenience stores, the Council Office and community meeting area with its luxuriant curtain fig tree (a gift made by Queen Elizabeth II in the 1950s). At the junction was a monument commemorating the first Councillor Conference of 1937 (Chapter 4); a tribute to those Islander statesmen who planted the seeds of Torres Strait’s self-determination movement(s). Standing beside the monument, looking along a north-south axis, one can see the street at either end emerging from and disappearing into the sea; a powerful visual metaphor illustrating that the ocean is not the end of the road but an extension of it.

A pleasant scent emanated from Uncle Dan’s house when he opened the door. A saucepan of kaiar (tropical rock lobster) curry had been left to cool down on the gas stovetop. John, his nephew and Masig’s Councillor at the time, had invited us to join him, his mother, his two sisters and uncle for dinner that night as a welcoming gesture. Uncle Dan had obtained the kaiar tails earlier that day from a relative and the curry he cooked was our contribution to the dinner— ‘simple gud pasin’, he added. He took a moment to show me his house, traded his trousers for his favourite calico183 and soon after we were on our way to meet his family (which, unbeknown to me, would become my family).

When we arrived, the table was covered with fresh seafood (roasted mullets and parsa) complemented with sopsop (a Torres Strait classic made of sweet potato and pumpkin in coconut milk), amai dampa (damper bread cooked on ashes), salads and the indispensable steamed rice. The evening was filled with stories about their family, their islands, the sea and the winds, about kaikai (food), fishing as well as comments, anecdotes, and critiques related to researchers who had come in the past; all of this accompanied by many laughs and a dash of politics. This was my first taste of the renowned island hospitality.

A week later the womer (frigate birds) were flying relatively low in the sky letting people know about the strong sager (south-easterly trade wind) and rough sea conditions of this otherwise glorious sunny morning. Not the best day to be out fishing in a small boat. I walked to the Council Office where Toshio Nakata, then TSRA’s Land and Sea Management Unit Fisheries Coordinator, and Councillor John Mosby were expecting me. In the white-walled, air- conditioned conference room, decorated—somewhat to my surprise—with a photo of Elizabeth

183 Also known as lavalava (Torres Strait sarong). 180

II, I explained my research proposal to an all-male audience composed of three Council members (including Cr. Mosby), one of the Island’s two Native Title Prescribed Body Corporate (PBC) chairs184, Masig’s Community Fisher Group Representative, Mr Lota Warria, and Mr Nakata. Following my brief presentation, I was suggested that I produce a memorandum of understanding185 comprising provisions regarding the respect of the Island’s cultural protocol and intellectual property. After assenting to the request, I was invited to stay for the scheduled fisheries meeting during which Toshio Nakata explained elements of the complete buy-back of the finfish fishery commercial licenses in favour of the Traditional Inhabitant (TIB) fishers which had occurred less than two months earlier.186

Having just arrived on the Island, I had no actual understanding of the context shaping the local commercial and subsistence fisheries. This first meeting on Masig gave me some insights into the plurality of life projects nourished by the community members present in this room regarding the development and management of the local commercial fisheries as well as some of the challenges and tensions associated with these diverse aspirations. As I have heard on so many occasions from the onset of my fieldwork, Masig is ‘wan big pamly’.187 Hence, like most families, it is composed of heterogeneous elements. Even in what appears to be a small and rather tightly knit community, agreeing on future directions for the Island fisheries is not a straightforward exercise. As many acknowledged, and to use the words on one fisher in particular: ‘there’s on the Island different types of fishermen and different attitudes towards fishing’ (Inter., MC2, 2009).

Living and fishing Masig’s marine domain: an ethnographic account of Masig contemporary small-boat fisheries system

Looking outward to what is happening across Masig’s seascape reveals the coexistence of local subsistence fishing, hunting and collecting activities, and two broadly defined commercial fishing sectors with, on the one hand, a fleet of small-boats individually owned and operated by

184 The second Chair of the PBC was then undergoing training in an aquaculture program in Cairns. 185 In 2008, there was a desire within TSRA to implement a compulsory fisheries research protocol for the Torres Strait. Professor Martin Nakata and Ms Vicky Nakata were commissioned by the Torres Strait Scientific Advisory Committee to work on a protocol (see Nakata & Nakata, 2009). 186 http://www.tsra.gov.au/media-and-publications/media-releases/media-releases/2008/2008-press-release last accessed on 7 February 2013). 187 Torres Strait Creole: one big family. 181

Masig Islanders or Islanders and Papuans with affine or gubaryapi (adoptive) ties to the Masigalgal domain and, on the other, larger vessels operated predominantly by specialised Cairns-based non-Traditional Inhabitant fishers. As will progressively become evident throughout the following chapters, these two broadly defined contemporary commercial fisheries compete—either directly or indirectly and move according to radically different modi operandi; varying in scale, scope, techniques and goals, abiding by contested rules of ownership and access to the sea and resources, characterised by different cultural and historical ties to the area and driven by contrasting economic rationales and aspirations.

The strong synergy and interdependence between the customary and commercial marine activities, which characterise the Island’s fishery system, will be discussed further along in this chapter. For the moment, I leave aside the non-monetary components of this system to focus on its commercial fishing practices and differentiate these practices from those of the non- Indigenous sector.

Commercial fishing within Masig’s maritime domain

In management terms, Torres Strait Islander and non-Islander commercial fishing sectors are regulated by discrete licenses issued by the Queensland’s Department of Primary Industry and Fisheries (DPI&F)188 on the behalf of the PZJA; namely in the Traditional Inhabitant Boat (TIB)189 and the Transferable Vessel Holder (TVH) licenses. As suggested by the label, TIB licenses are restricted to those who qualify as ‘traditional inhabitants’190 as defined by the Torres Strait Treaty and Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984, while the TVH licenses can be held by any commercial fishers providing they can demonstrate a history of participation in the Torres Strait fishery targeted.

The TIB license—accompanied by species-specific commercial permits—encompasses the boat-based subsistence, ceremonial and commercial fishing and hunting of multiple

188 The DPI&F has since been renamed as the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry (DAFF). 189 The Traditional Inhabitant boat license was implemented in 1999 and replaced what was known as the community license (O'Donnell, 2006, p. 222). 190 The Torres Strait Treaty defines Australian ‘traditional inhabitants’ as Torres Strait Islanders who live in the TSPZ or the adjacent coastal area in Australia; are Australian citizens and ‘maintain traditional customary associations with areas or features in or in the vicinity of the Protected Zone in relation to their subsistence or livelihood or social, cultural or religious activities’ or PNG citizens meeting the same criteria but on the PNG side of the border. 182 species.191 Held by the boat owner, the TIB license and permits are tied to a specific craft. These boats, however, can be crewed by any Traditional Inhabitant for commercial and customary purposes.192 In 2008-2009, a TIB license costed A$120 and A$10 for each species-specific permit.

Growth in terms of entries is only possible in the TIB sector for which, at least until 2018, an unlimited number of licenses can be issued. No new license was issued for the TVH sector since the 1980s (Commonwealth of Australia, 2010, p. 246). To become a player in the industry as a TVH, one must buy a license from an operator exiting the fishery.

I would like to mention from the onset that there are fundamental ontological and political issues with this license and permit regime pertaining to the question of territorial and resource ownership and the implied reconfiguration of what Minnegal and Dwyer approach as the ‘inherent capacity to procure resources’ (2011, p. 198). I will address these issues in greater length when discussing the question of customary marine tenure (Chapter 7).

Photo: Thomassin, 2008, line of trawlers in from of koedal.

191 No license is required to participate in customary harvesting. A licensed boat that is not attached to commercial permit is restricted to the pursuit of subsistence activities. 192 Non-traditional inhabitants are not allowed on TIB vessels when commercial activities are taking place. This includes the Papuans who are visiting the Strait. 183

The TVH Sector

Although providing an ethnographic account of the TVH sector is beyond the scope of this study, I would like to draw a brief portrait of these fishers to contrast their fishing practices with those of the Masig Islanders. The sector is composed almost essentially of non-Islanders fishers, many of whom are Cairns-based.

Masig’s maritime domain attracts an important share of the region’s TVH operators. The prawn trawlers, in particular, are an integral and inescapable element of the Island’s seascape for a significant portion of the year.193 Masig’s territory encompasses most of the prawn fishing grounds and includes zones targeted by the mackerel and reef line industries which continue into Erub, Ugar and Mer waters (Commonwealth of Australia, 2009). As for the non-Islander tropical rock lobster fishers, they seldom venture into Masig’s territories; the best fishing grounds for this species being in Western Torres Strait waters (Poiner & Harris, 1991).

The TVH sector has declined considerably over the last thirty years both in terms of vessel number and fishing effort. This decline can be partly explained by a series of buybacks and reduction of the total allowable catch or effort194, the increased cost of fuel which made remote regions such as the Torres Strait less accessible, the strength of the Australian dollar and, to a certain extent, Islanders’ continuous pressure to regain control over their resources and territories. Perusing annual Fisheries Status Reports (from 2006 to 2012) reveal that none of the Torres Strait fisheries, including those in which non-Islander fishers are active, came close to reaching their yearly catch limits. Over the 2008-2010 period, the TVH sector landed approximately 43 per cent of Torres Strait total catch in the tropical rock lobster fishery (100% in the case of the prawn fishery which alone was valued at $10.4 million in 2008-2009).

In 2008, Masig’s freezer manager, John Morris, estimated that there were fifteen prawn trawlers, one mackerel and one coral trout primary boats with tenders still active in their waters as opposed to roughly six mackerel boats, five coral trout and at least twice as many trawlers about ten to fifteen years ago (Inter., 2008). The number of TVH operators may appear trivial,

193 The prawn industry efforts are mainly concentrated between march and July. 194 The number of licensed vessels in the prawn industry has decreased from 108 active licenses in 1996 to 51 in 2007. Out of the 51 vessels only 15 operated in the Torres Strait. These operators are usually licensed to fish in the Eastern Trawl and northern prawn fishery (Larcombe & Begg, 2008). 184 but this fleet of less than 20 vessels, measuring between 15 to 20 meters and equipped with freezers as well as processing and accommodation facilities, GPS and sonar, is considerably bigger and of much greater capacity than Masig’s ‘fleet’ which I describe below.

Masig community members, like most communities across the Strait, welcomed this reduction of the non-Islander sector, something they have been fighting for over several years (Inter., MC4, 2008). Some of them would like these kole (non-Islander) fishers to leave their territory altogether but understand that this is also their livelihood. At the very least, they want the TVH operators not to interfere with their own livelihood, but also to compensate the communities in cash and/or in-kind for the resources they are extracting from their waters. I will return to this in Chapter Eight.

At the time of my fieldwork and over the preceding last few decades, the Island’s fishers observed a diminution in size and quality of many commercial and non-commercial stocks, a situation that they partly ascribed to the intensive fishing practices of non-Islander fishers; pointing the finger more particularly at the non-selective trawling of the seabeds around their islands by the prawn industry. ‘Going over the same tracks night after night after night for so many years. […] The seabed is clean now because of the trawlers and where they anchor near Koedal, plenty of rubbish’ (Inter., MC4, 2009). When discussing his observed impacts of the trawler operations in their waters, one of the Elders gave the example of the black coral. ‘It’s like a sea tree’ he said, showing me a dry specimen that he had collected many years ago. ‘You can’t find these anymore’, he explains, ‘the trawlers got them’ (Inter., MC9, 2009).

Operating from larger boats, the non-Islander fishers can remain on the sea for longer and continue their work in weather conditions that keep Masig fishers’ boats aground. The local fishers have the sentiment that their waters are being fished-out in front of their eyes; of being robbed of their resources and lifeways. More will be said about the relationship between non- Islander and Masig Islander fishers in Chapter Eight.

Masig’s fishers

Over the period covered by this thesis, there were approximately 27 registered Islander (TIB) boats on Masig (Inter., MC5, 2008), easily identifiable by their 3-digit hull registration number prefixed by the letters YKE. These boats are privately-owned multipurpose fibreglass

185 dinghies or tinnies195 measuring up to six meters in length and generally equipped with a single 60 horsepower outboard motor.196

Photo: Thomassin, 2009, boats at the freezer house All of Masig’s TIB license holders specifically questioned on that point (14 of them197) had obtained fishing endorsements for most of the commercial species present on their territory, that is for kaiar (tropical rock lobster), kabar (trochus shell), finfish198 and, in some cases, for bêche-de-mer.199 As many active and retired fishers have pointed out, holding permits for every accessible commercial species enables the Island’s fishers to seize any of the opportunities that may arise. Masig fishers often target more than one commercial species and usually combine

195 Aluminum dinghies. 196 A few boats are equipped with 90hp engines. 197 All men over 30 years old. 198 The finfish fishery consists mainly of dubui (Spanish mackerel) and witi (coral trout species) but may also include other reef fish species such as varieties of snappers, emperors and rock cods (Wilson et al., 2009). 199 Masig Islanders have been also involved in the fragile multi-species bêche-de-mer fishery until the main stock collapsed again around 2005, resulting in the closure of the fishery for an undetermined period. It has been partly re- opened in recent years but remains a fragile fishery. 186 commercial and subsistence harvesting during one trip. This paramount aspect of Masig’s fishery system warrants more discussion and will be addressed in more detail later.

Until 2007, when the two available licenses were sold to buyback the TVH licenses in the finfish sector, Masig Islanders, like any Torres Strait Traditional Inhabitant fishers, could have used one of the prawn licenses but this option was never taken up. Over the years, and as recorded in a few contemporary local songs, a few men have worked as crew members in the prawn industry either in the Torres Strait, the Gulf of Carpentaria or along Queensland’s northeast coast. Yet, from the dawn of the industry in the region in the 1960s, the interest of the Masig Islanders to enter this fishery as owner-operators remained low. This lack of interest can be partly explained by the major capital investment required to acquire quotas (approximately $800,000 in 2008), trawlers and equipment that would enable them to participate in the fishery. The prospect of working at night for weeks at a time, away from their family, was also described as unattractive by some of the local fishers (Inter., MC4, 2008). As one fisher puts it: ‘I feel comfortable with what I'm doing now, still make money rather than going out spending my time there outside [on a trawler] hum... but make money and spend time with my family as well. No point of going outside when there is a lot of money’ (Inter., MC2, 2009). A few community members were nevertheless discussing the feasibility and desirability of engaging with the trawlers or other TVH operators for them to provide training to Masig’s fishers so that they could acquire experience and skills as crew members, skippers or operators. This option was on the mind of Councillor John Mosby. The idea to enter in a relationship of this sort with the TVH sector was somewhat driven by a logic of ‘reciprocity’; that is, a way for the TVH sector to reciprocate with the Masigalgals for using their marine domain. Such reciprocal arrangements with trawler operators had not yet occurred when I left the Island in January 2010. The idea was not forgotten, however, and was mentioned in personal conversations I have had since with various people on the Island.

As mentioned above, any traditional inhabitants are legally entitled to work from any TIB registered boat. Consequently, the number of people involved in commercial fishing fluctuates and, at given times, it is potentially greater than the number of registered TIB licences,

187 considering that a fishing party may consist of up to three fishers per dinghy.200 Masig Islanders who do not own a boat may work regularly or sporadically as fishing partners of boat owners. Alternatively, some ‘boatless’ fishers may also be working from dinghies borrowed from relatives. On Masig, many of the boat owners have full or part time jobs that keep them on the Island for certain periods of time. In these circumstances, a relative who is without a boat or whose boat may be momentarily or definitively inoperative may ask, or be offered by a boat owner, to use their craft.201 For instance, one of the Island’s police officers and mackerel fishers who had sold his boat and was working towards buying a dory (7-meter craft) told me: ‘[m]y sister and her husband bin spik me, when they work [on the Island], I can use their dinghy to work’ (Inter., MC6, 2009). This situation is also characteristic of several fishers in their twenties. For them, working with a relative or borrowing a boat or other piece of equipment represents one way to earn money and one way to save to buy their own dinghy and outboard. Such arrangements generally entail informal and often unspoken reciprocal agreements between the parties which will be the object of discussions further along in this chapter. Once again, this is simple gud pasin. This type of arrangement also prevails between boat owners who choose to work together: ‘it’s like partnership hey... he [his cousin brother] help me, I help him... if we go in his boat, next day mine... we share the catch... that's what I mean... his boat, he's got the catch he gives me half... same with my boat... half way... same with the fuel and things like that’ (Inter., ARG, 2009). Hence, arrangements of this nature also depend on maintaining good relations with the boat owner who is often a relative; a situation that can be punctuated by occasional lapses. Echoing this, a younger diver said: ‘owning a dinghy gives you freedom’, explaining that you’re not prevented from going out because of momentary conflicts with family members (Pers. Comm., AM, 2009).

The fishing effort fluctuates greatly within Masig’s pool of fishers which, as mentioned above, also includes non-boat owner fishers. During my fieldwork, two to three fishers were ‘working the sea’ full time (i.e. fishing was their main source of income). The others fished either part-time during their Community Development Employment Projects (CDEP) off-week

200 When more than one fisher is involved, the catch is usually sold under one name, the fishers taking upon themselves to calculate each person’s share of the profit. Hence, the figures compiled by AFMA are an indication of the quantities landed but are not an accurate account of the number of fishers involved. 201 I say ‘his’ as a large majority of boats were owned by men. 188 or only occasionally (see Chapter 5 and relational hybrid economy section in Chapter 7). Individual and collective fishing effort fluctuated with the seasons, their needs, land-based commitments and the flow of residents in and out migrations. Not all the TIB license holders were active commercial fishers. Of those active in the commercial fisheries, 19 of them in 2008 (Inter., MC5, 2008), did not inevitably engage with all the species for which they held a permit. When they did, it was not always or solely for commercial purposes. For example, since the mackerel industry was put ‘on a standstill’ (Inter., MC8, 2009) with the closure of the Island’s freezer and processing facility in 2008, the fishers who continued targeting this fish did it mainly to feed their family. Similarly, kaiar, witi (coral trout), and other ‘commercial’ seafood are also taken for domestic consumption and community or family feasts.

While both historically and at present most of the commercial fishing activities have been conducted by men, several women have also been directly or indirectly involved in these activities as boat drivers202, line fishers, kabar hand pickers and divers, and occasionally as kaiar divers. They also play a crucial role in processing the produce (e.g. boiling and cleaning the kabar shells, grading them, cutting and cleaning kaiar tails, processing and packaging of bêche- de-mer, etc.) and help with or fill out the paper work (Inter., MC9, 2008). In at least one Elder’s opinion, women are ‘…better at processing than the men’ (Inter., MC10, 2009).

In the past, spouses or partners have regularly worked alongside each other on the water while younger girls fished with their fathers or their balas (brothers and cousin-brothers) (Inter., MC11, MC3, MC9, 2008-2009). ‘[W]hen we were small…’, explains one fisherwoman, ‘I used to go out with dad trochus diving and cray fishing, fish for mackerel…’ (Inter., MC12, 2009). Uncle Dan and Aka Golly, who are first cousins, talked about having worked together to gather trochus shell from one of the nearby cays, while another Elder, Aka Daisy, accompanied her father and later her husband on the reef to collect these shells. Another man explained that during the pearling era, many fathers and sons were away on the luggers for extended periods of time. To secure extra income for the family, as money was scarce in those days (Inter., MC3, 2008), many of the women and men who were not working on the pearling vessels collected trochus

202 In June 2009, a recreational boat license course was offered on Masig. The course was free of charge and attracted around fifteen participants, just under half of them were women.

189 shells from nearby reefs which they could travel to aboard rowing dinghies. In the 1980s, when Masig’s freezer was buying a greater diversity of mixed reef fish, women could also sell part of the fish caught by hand lines.

Today, Masig women are still involved in a wide range of activities:

…women they used to go out with the men, with their partner or... they were out line fishing and when they come back, you know, everybody [in the family] help clean the fish... selling together. It's like me and K now... what we're doing now... like we mainly go out for cray and trochus... we are still doing the same thing now […] I do the diving. Even if we do live [diving for live lobsters rather than spearing them for their tail], […] I in the water, you know... K in the boat... like when I catch cray, give it to K, K empty the basket and throw the basket again. K sort of got a job in the boat rather than just sitting down doing noting all day you know’ (Inter., MC8, 2009).

…when I go out [for cray] with P, like, I’m just the driver […] but trochus... when we go trochus I dive with him. (Inter., MC14, 2009).

Just cray fishing, steering the boat... only trochus shell I bin diving picking up trochus shells. It’s diving not dry picking… like the water up to the hips. Swim around yeah… look for it. I did a couple of dry picking too...yeah, a couple of dry picking... (Inter., ANP, 2009).

Sometimes my wife comes but maybe 90 per cent I go by my own self (Inter., MC2, 2009).

My sister sometime helps me carry dem coconut husk or something to start when I bin start to boil bêche-de-mer. [...] My adopted sister sometime helps me and dem girl blo awa [my uncle’s daughters] down there at my shed down there (Inter., MC9, 2008).

Almost every Masig Islander who live on the Island has learnt and been involved in all the fisheries in one way or another at some point. As with subsistence fishing, commercial activities involve Masig Islanders across most generations; the youngest community members learning their way on the reefs and learning the trade by observing, listening to, and helping their uncles, aunties and Elders, the eldest, even those who have ‘retired’ from fishing, sharing their knowledge down the line. Uncles and aunties play a salient role in teaching the Island’s children about interacting with and work on the sea. As one of the Island divers explains,

190

[w]hen dem uncles take us diving for the day, you go as soon as the tide go down and you don’t stop sun start to come down. […] It is so much fun. Sometimes you get tired and want to go home but you know you won’t make them uncles come back if they are not ready to. When you see dem uncles dropping their goggles inside the dinghy, you’re happy because you are coming back home. Sometimes you come late and you get worried cause e come dark but they know what they are doing. It’s pitch dark sometimes but they know their way. You worried but then you see the glow of the island. Of course, this was when they can afford to have extra crew. When the tide and conditions were ideal, they will usually go with more serious divers (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2010).

He also mentioned:

[w]hen I was in primary school we would go crayfish spearing with Athe T. He would have had Awa G or Awa L with him. If it would be us boys it would be me S, A and sometimes Aunty E, G and AG (us the whole house crew). S would steer the dinghy while Athe T speared the crayfish. I would be the one that break the antennas and stack them in a corner or put them in water to stop them getting stained, occasionally changing the water when the colour changes black […] sometimes we would get paid a small amount. Like $50 each or sometimes a $100 (Pers. Comm, MC16, 2011).

An older fisher recalls accompanying his father on the water. ‘I bin diving go outside wer lugger with my dad por kabar […] school age, six or seven’ (Inter., MC15. 2009). Another community member mentions that her husband sometimes takes their daughter with him when going out fishing. ‘Sometimes we [her husband, herself and their daughter] go fishing on the weekend, when it’s good weather we go. […] G [her daughter] go swim with L for cray… dive for cray where the stone’ (Inter., MC17, 2008).

Description of Masig Islanders’ core commercial activities

Thus far I have outlined general features of the commercial sector of Masig Islanders’ contemporary fishery system. This section will focus more precisely on the intricacies of Masig Islanders’ marine harvesting practices before examining how each of these activities are intermeshed and coexist dynamically on the water. I would like to emphasise here that, while I have accompanied Masig men and women on and in the water and reefs across their marine domain as they conducted a wide range of harvesting activities, from clamshell collecting,

191 octopus hunting, night squid fishing, reef fishing, to cray diving, I have not partaken in fishing trips that had a commercial component. While I was invited to join a few fishers during such trips, including night fishing, these trips were unfortunately cancelled for a range of reasons (e.g. bad timing, health issues, move to the mainland for work, and the like). Consequently, this section draws on lengthy interviews and conversations with the Island’s fishers and broader community members. These are complemented by my observations of ‘non-commercial’ fishing activities and land-based commercial related activities.

As mentioned above, Masig Islanders’ fishing activities involve multiple species and purposes (subsistence, ceremonial, trade, gift, and commercial). In this section, I make a slight digression by momentarily adopting a species-specific approach. I have chosen to do so because the practices associated with the capture of each species allow me to illustrate specific aspects of the Island’s fishery system and maritime lifeways. It also makes it easier to detail what the fishers are doing when they work on and in the sea, which techniques are used to capture their targets and achieve their goals, what’s involved in processing and selling the produce and how their work across the seascape embodies special relationships with their fellow Islanders, maritime territories and ancestors. These are notably expressed and performed through songs, dances, storytelling and artwork, but also through the maintenance of relationships between families, between islands, and beyond. This approach also allows documenting some of the species-specific challenges faced by the fishers, challenges that are somewhat overcome by their multi-species fishing approach and participation in other sectors of the local economy. This will be the focus of the section on Masig’s relational hybrid economy (Chapter 7).

This species-by-species description does not imply that Masig fishers, either individually or collectively, tend to specialise solely in one of the fishery sectors described below. It should be kept in mind that during almost, if not every fishing trip, multiple species are commercially and non-commercially harvested. During these trips, fishers use a combination of techniques and gear, most of which, if taken independently, can be described as ‘selective’ in the sense that they target specific prey. However, and as mentioned earlier, these ‘selective’ techniques are used in conjunction with other methods, their combination changing as a function of a variety of ecological and socio-economic factors such as the complex tidal phases, the weather, the sea conditions, seasonal variations, species’ abundance and migratory patterns, the fishers’ goals,

192 market fluctuations, access to buyers, fisheries closures, family members’ requests and a number of other factors. I will return to this seminal aspect of Masig fishery system subsequently.

Kaiar (Tropical Rock Lobster)

Over the period covered by this research, free diving for kaiar was the most popular and lucrative of Masig’s commercial fishing activities, notwithstanding the Island’s remoteness from Torres Strait main diving grounds located in the western part of the Strait (Poiner & Harris, 1991). Indeed, most of the commercial fishing effort was directed towards this species. Between 2005 and 2008, prior to the closure of the Island’s freezer and processing plant, an estimated 24 tons of kaiar (22.5 tons of frozen tails and 1.5 tons of live kaiar) were landed at the freezer compared to an overall five tons of finfish (mackerel, coral trout and mix reef fish) (Inter., MC4, 2009). These figures do not account for the catch (including trochus shells) sold to other buyers who were also purchasing product from Masig fishers over that period and who mainly bought kaiar. In the Torres Strait, the kaiar fishery closes yearly between September 31 and December 1. This closure period extends to January 1 for the use of hookah system (breathing apparatus) which Masig fishers are generally not using.

Across Masig territory, two main harvesting methods were deployed in relation to this species. Influenced by the market prices and divers’ preferences, the kaiar were either netted, scooped or a combination of both and kept alive in purpose-built handmade cages or speared for their tails and kept in 80 to 150 litre ice-chests. None of the fishers had deep freezers on board.

In the early days of this fishery, Islanders had only access to the ‘tail’ market. When the ‘live’ option became available in the 1990s—accompanied by increased demand for the product on the domestic and international203 markets—Islander fishers, encouraged by the greater returns for their work, shifted their efforts towards the live catches (Dennis et al., 2006). As noted by one of the fishers interviewed, aside from a couple of divers, everybody is currently working primarily for the live market (Inter, MC2, 2009). In 2008‒2009, live kaiar attracted less dollars per kilogram than tails but, at greater whole weight, they were 1.5 to 2 per cent more profitable than the latter (Wilson et al., 2009).

203 Mostly China (Australian Fisheries Management Authority, 2010). 193

There is a tendency among the divers to draw more intensively on one or other of the kaiar fishing methods. Yet, most of them have all the necessary gear on board their craft to target the live and tail markets and are using an uneven combination of catching and spearing. This comment made by one of the live cray divers exemplifies this complementary approach: ‘[t]he tails’, he explains, ‘comes in when it's a very awkward one that you can't get em out... or when there is one-way traffic going in [can’t push the kaiar out]’ (Inter., MC2, 2009). Similarly, some of the spear fishers have reported that live kaiar make up a small percentage of their total catch. In both cases the fishers adapt to the ever-changing circumstances of their work on the water.

In addition to the two techniques described above, some fishers also practice night fishing. Night kaiar fishing differs greatly from the daytime harvesting techniques for it involves no diving. It is about scooping up the kaiar as they walk on and around the reef. The fishers shine bright spotlights over slightly submerged reefs to localise the animals, which are then captured with a scoop and dragged into the boat. This fishing method is not as widely practiced across the Masigalgal marine domain as it is across the rest of the Kulkalgal region. Located in the deepest water of the central strait zone, the reefs within Masig territory are not the best suited for this type of fishing, which is more associated with Poruma and Warraber areas. In Masig waters, night cray fishing mainly happens around islands with higher reefs such as Damuth, Mawar, Igab, Auridh and some parts of Warrior reef (Inter., MC8, 2009). It occurs more specifically during kuki, the northwest season, when the lowest tides occur at night. ‘Neap tide we go for dive [...] It's just when the big... the tide is really out. Iron dry... gat [spring tide]. This is the time when you go at night’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). Over the kuki season, the divers who are involved in night fishing can make the most of the whole tidal cycle, going out at night during the gat and diving during the day on the return of the neap tides (ibid.).

Within Masig territory and throughout the species’ fishing season (1 December to 30 September), diving for kaiar usually happens during the day at neap tides when the sea level remains relatively constant, the current is weaker, and the water turbidity is minimal as opposed to spring tides associated with the full and new moon when the water is murky.

Whether the divers target the live or tail markets, diving for kaiar is an activity that relies largely on the divers’ knowledge, know-how, physical ability, and stamina. Their extensive

194 knowledge of their marine territory, of the three-dimensional spatio-temporal configuration of its body of water, reefs and seabed, of the seasonal migration route travelled by the kaiar, and of the kind of conditions they know they will find at destination, allows them to assess when and where it is suitable to go to quickly reach the zones they wish to exploit; confident that they will find enough produce, and that the water conditions and level will be optimal, thus saving precious time and fuel. ‘You're out there to make money... not to go for picnic’ (Inter., ARN, 2009).

Contrary to non-Islander divers and Islanders working the deeper marine zones of the Badugal’s and Mabuaigal’s domains (western Torres Strait) who use the hookah system, Masig Islanders are exclusively involved in free diving. ‘Some other Torres Strait Islanders, they use hookah but dempla gad other type of reef. Here shallow reef’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). Equipped only with fins, wetsuits (optional), goggles and gloves, and armed with custom-made hand spears, nets or scoops204 according to their practice, it is their own body that they rely on when out on the reefs looking for kaiar. Diving at depth up to four or five meters, they propel their bodies down the saltwater column inspecting the edge of the reef, examining each depression that could hide crays, spearing or catching those above a certain size, coming back up to breathe and drop the catch.

Many divers explain that they set goals for themselves prior to hitting the sea. They determine in advance how many kilos they aim to catch to cover operational cost and make some profit. In mid-2008 buyers were paying A$32 per kilograms but the price and catch always fluctuates. As John Morris, the main freezer operator, mentioned, ‘if you get 80 kg of cray a day it’s good, 120kg a day is too gud [very good]’. ‘Next week’ he added, ‘you may only get 30kg’ (Inter., MC4, 2009).

Depending on how many kaiars the divers will find in one location, they may spend a few hours up to a whole day on the reef, exposed to the elements and the hazards of the sea, the burning sun or the cold and blinding rain, the colder water temperature of the sager season, the sea snakes, sharks, the sharp upor (sea urchins) and so on. They may be out for the day only, or

204 Most of Masig Islanders make and often design their own gear. For the hand spears, they fit a single prong to a wooden handle; the prong’s head is itself fitted with a special flicker which prevents the cray from slipping back. A rubber band is tied to the handle to propel the spear. For the live cray sector, the divers will prepare their net and scoops by adjusting the length according to their needs and attach the net to various frames, create cod ends, they will also build their storage ‘ous’ (house). 195 stay until they have reached either their targets or load capacity, which may take a few days (generally less than a week). ‘If you go to one area and you fill the basket up, there's no point of staying around. Like I said, you go to one reef there is 100 crays in there you might be there for one hour and take off... that's it! ‘Cause 100 crays is too much [it’s a lot]’ (Inter., MC2, 2009).

When staying out overnight, they camp on islands (such as Meimei) that are close to the fishing grounds or sleep in their dinghy, anchored on the reef, to save time and fuel, an option which has its downside as a middle-aged uncle amusingly suggested: after a night spent in your boat ‘your back e sore when you go in the sea’ (Inter., MC6, 2009). Ultimately, apart from the general weather and sea conditions, the swiftness with which they reach their goals hinges largely on the experience, physical capacity and strength of the divers, on how many dives their body can take in and how long they are able to stay underwater. Having no freezer on board, the cray tail divers’ capacity to work the remote reefs or islands also rests on the quantity of ice left in their ice-chests. For all the divers, their time on the reef is also limited by the availability of freshwater supply. While food is not an issue in this environment, there is virtually no water on the islands used as base camps by the fishers. When their provisions run out, it’s time to go back home. A few smokers also feel the urge to come back when they run out of cigarettes.

Experienced divers have what they call their ‘paborite rocks’ or ‘stones’ (favourite rocks, reefs or stones known also as kaiar or cray ous [house]) scattered across their fishing territory. These are ‘rocks’ where ‘every time you're diving you sabeh [know] this stone gad [have] cray, e always gad cray...’ (Inter., MC6, 2009). A good ‘rock’ or ‘ous’ usually comprises several depressions where the kaiar rests, lives or hides. At time such rocks are built by the fishers. As one of them explains, you ‘put the coral and rocks to make a habitat for the cray. It works (laugh)’ (Inter., MC18, 2009). While the location of favourite fishing zones of some fishers are known by others—with some of the stones being named after the fisher the most associated to it, these zones are not the exclusive possession of any of Masig’s fishers (Hviding discussed similar relationship with the seascape in the Marovo Lagoon context, see (1996, p. 275)).

Within the Masigalgal marine domain, a remarkably ‘gud ous’ may shelter over 60 kaiar (Inter., MC8, 2009). However, anything above two digits is considered a reasonably good rock. ‘Sometimes if there’s many cray… maybe something like 20, the diver would tell the driver

196

‘sakeh ankar’ [throw the anchor]… it always puts a smile on the driver’s face, he knows that there are many crays down there. ‘sakeh ankar’ it’s like saying “jackpot!”’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2008).

Whether they work alone or with a partner, Masig fishers tend to spread over the territory with variations according to the seasons. Usually, there is no more than one boat per reef. Unless other divers have beaten them to it, the cray fishers will head to their favourite spot first before scouting other areas; orientating themselves using various markers across the seascape with remarkable precision. ‘[T]hey just know the rock hey!’ mentions Aunty K, ‘[i]t’s amazing. When he [her husband] looks back to the Island and looks back at the water and direct himself straight to the stone’ (Inter., 2009).

I asked many fishers if they were assisted by navigation technologies to find their fishing grounds. The general response was that their detailed knowledge of their fishing territory makes such tools superfluous. I have witnessed Masig Islanders’ exceptional navigation skills on several occasions and observed how quickly people find specific submerged reefs, seagrass beds and other targets which appear invisible to me. The people with whom I have travelled explained how they use combinations of visual prompts across the seascape; mentally ‘marking’ certain areas to access them in the future. To borrow the words of a fisher in his mid-twenties, ‘most of the fishers know the surrounding ocean body so well that no navigation tool is needed. Sometimes it’s hard to find it with changing seabeds (tides, reef vegetation growth, sand covered etc). Most of the time they don’t waste fuel looking for it they’ll find it straight away’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). ‘Our mind is the GPS’ is indeed a phrase that I have heard Masig Islanders repeating with a hint of humoristic impudence. ‘If you have a GPS’ mentions one fisher, ‘you can log it in your GPS but GPS e already inside your mind. You know where the stone [...] when we go out you just have to recognise the reef, recognise the stone wer the reef, how the layout for the reef” (Inter., MC6, 2009). Their mnemonic maps are in fact more like integrated GPS and sonars which indicate the location, distance and topography of the seascape using a triangulation principle.

Where the best rocks or diving zones are varies throughout the year. ‘Crays are always moving around with the seasons, you know, you will find out that when cray season starts in

197

December, they are more around Warrior reef Magan passage [Moon Passage] but April, moved around back this side around here [south of Masig] and Thursday Island... Cumberland passage, this area...’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). In addition to the crays’ migration pattern, the dynamic reef habitats are also shaped by the seasonal dominant winds and sea currents. ‘Sometimes’, explains one diver, ‘your favourite stone is covered because of the seasons… because of the norwes [north-westerly trade winds], sand sediment now covers the rock’ (Pers. Comm., MC16 2009). Different reefs are also habitats for various stages of the species’ life cycles and the divers will work or avoid an area accordingly. For example, ‘at Damuth, crays are most likely to be small to medium... it’s a different environment... pagar [seaweeds] and rocks and you see there puzi [antennae]. but if you go south in the reefs... they are big... it’s probably because of the migration... but near Damuth, if you swim at the outer edges of the bommies... you would find the larger ones, as the larger ones tends to live in the outer rocks on islands reef fringes’ (ibid.). Yet, for the period of the year when the sea is generally too rough, the best fishing area becomes the closest one, largely independently of the other factors mentioned above.

Coming back to the methods used by the divers, both capturing live crays and spearing them comes with a series of advantages and drawbacks. Some fishers explain that diving for live cray is more fuel-efficient. Going for cray tails, to borrow the words of one of them, ‘being a waste of time and fuel’ (Inter., MC19, 2009). Depending on which area is targeted and on the weather conditions, the fishers will take approximately six 20 litre drums of petrol with them, each of which cost between A$50 and A$60. ‘Your fishing trip as to make up for the cost of that fuel’ (Inter., MC20, 2009). While all the divers travel similar distances to reach the targeted reefs, live cray divers tend to stay longer in a single location, and collect several crays before taking them back to the boat and moving on to the next rock. The spear fishers, on the other hand, tend to move around more and faster. If two persons are involved, the driver will follow the diver and collect the crays as they are being speared.

If there is only a few crayfish around, the diver would spear it and wait for the driver to come collect the catch. If there’s plenty, the diver would quickly kill the crayfish by spearing it in the middle of the body then throw it in the middle of the rock and start spearing again so that they won’t be disturb by the other crays moving around this way preventing them from getting away (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009).

198

This approach also helps saving some fuel. Speared kaiar also bleeds body fluids into the water, attracting sharks. This is something that is less likely to happen when netting live crays. Thus, the live cray divers don’t have the same urgency of getting captured crays out of the water or move as quickly to a new location.

Some consider that targeting live kaiar is hard work and describe this practice as time consuming. As summarised by one fisher, each diver has its own tricks and ideas on what works best but the principles underlying their strategies are essentially the same; it is about knowing the rock and adapting their strategy to it in order to limit the number of crays that escape. The diver needs to examine the configuration of each kaiar house and establish how many exits and entries need to be fitted with funnel nets (or covered with a cast net in the case of open houses). Once all exits are blocked, the diver disrupts the crays to prompt them to swim straight into one of the nets (or scoops). A young diver explains, ‘[w]e work in pair; one that lead the cray to the net and scoop, the other person is waiting at the other end to catch the cray. It’s a lot of time observing, studying the rock’ (Pers. Comm, MC23, 2009). Overall, capturing live cray happens at a much slower pace and is more technical than the hand spear fishing option. Hence, for the diver quoted above, live crays mean more money, but the work is less stimulating. ‘I prefer working for cray tails. It is a more sportive way to get the cray. You dive, find the cray and spear it’. Similar comments were made by a few other fishers in his age group.

Another diver, in his mid-thirties, who combines both techniques, also expressed his preference for the tail market. ‘Live is wasting time. Ok, you don’t use much fuel but live... two persons have to be there, put a pipe, chase them [...] cray diving in the shallow, e gad plenty cray, sometimes 50 something crays in one stone on top of one another. One spear go... can take up to four sometimes’ (Inter., MC19, 2009). The need to work alongside other divers is not exclusive to live cray divers and appears to depend more on the person’s skills and preferences. Experienced live cray divers can, and do, dive solo and have developed and improved their techniques and gear to catch more than one cray at a time.

Day by day, then we sort of got used to it, got the hang of it. Oh! This is how you are setting the net! Now we are not using the net anymore, we are just using the scoop. […] See that’s something to learn everyday as you go along. It's like... the prawn trawler they call it ‘cod end’ at the back. So, the prawn can only go one way. Once it reaches out the back there is another net at

199

the back and it sort of close itself. So, it stops coming back up so whatever is going in stays in. So, it’s itself another thing you know, we've learnt. Then, you know, like I said, you don't need two persons anymore. It makes it quite a bit easy. …if there's... there's five crays in that rock. You know, […] before we used to chase one in, grab it, put it in the boat... then you come back, rearrange the scoop again, set it again then chase the other one. So, with this scoop... the net at the back, the cod end at the back so we set it there... whatever in that rock, we chase everything in. So, you don't have to take it out, take it to the boat and come back (Inter., MC8, 2009).

Making sure that the produce will be saleable is an important preoccupation for both types of divers. As mentioned above, those who target the cray tail market continuously have in mind the quantity of ice left in their ice-chest which must remain sufficiently cold to preserve the quality of the flesh to the highest possible market standard (Inter., MC8; MC4, 2009). For them, the harvesting and most of the processing tasks happen in parallel. Once dropped in the boat, the kaiar can be kept in a saltwater container for a limited time but it must be tailed, given a first rinse and stored in an ice-chest as quickly as possible. Under the burning tropical sun, fishers cannot afford to leave the animal out for too long. When two persons or more are involved, the driver or a crew member will often undertake this task. Once back on the island, the tails are thoroughly cleaned, weighed, inspected, packed and frozen in the fisher’s home deep freezer, ready to be sold to the flying buyer. When it was still in operation the crays were bought by the Island freezer, where they were assessed for their quality, processed, frozen and ready to be shipped to Cairns and beyond.

Sometimes you arrive late, like 8:30pm. Your fingers are all wrinkly for spending the day in the water. Your skin burns and you’re cold. You smell like fish and blood and all you want to do is rinse in the saltwater. You go drop the crays at the freezer house. Sometimes people just drop and leave, sometimes people stay to help out Awa Molly. You would go put the cray in the freezer and you are wet and it’s so cold. Then you go home and you know there will be food waiting for you (Inter., MC8, 2009).

The story goes otherwise for the live cray divers. While there is no processing per se involved with their trade, once back on the Island, the fishers still need to keep the crays alive, fed, healthy and in good conditions while awaiting the buyer’s visit (which can take several days

200 and, at times, over a week). Until sold, the risk of losing part of the catch is real.205 On occasion, killing a kaiar captured alive is a way to salvage the catch and ensure that both the animal’s life and fisher’s effort have not been wasted if, in the interlude between catching and selling, the animal becomes visibly weak. One of the problems mentioned by the fishers is that the crays sometimes eat each other when kept in a confined space so the longer the crays are in the cage, the greater the risk of losing part of the catch. The divers usually keep the crays in their custom- built cages and some will transfer them in smaller ‘turkey cages’ around the time the buyer is expected. I remember the stress and frustration felt and expressed by fishers on a particular occasion when the buyer was delayed by three or four days. One of the young divers was particularly upset as many of his crays, hence money and effort, were lost as a result. In the past the freezer house was also equipped with a large fibreglass tank where live kaiar could be dropped. This structure was damaged during a king tide episode and has not been replaced.

Photo: Thomassin, 2009, kaiar cage

205 This problem has been noted by AFMA (Australian Fisheries Management Authority, 2010).

201

Kabar (Trochus shells)

The kabar fishery is deeply-rooted in Masig seafaring culture and history. Most of the Masig Islanders living on the Island today are descendants of the divers who worked on the private and ‘family’ pearling and trochus luggers and cutters that prospered through the Strait from the mid-1800s to the mid-1960s (see Chapters 3 and 4). Some of the Island’s Elders took part in the industry themselves and have vivid memories of this time, including the hardship and dangers of their weeks, even months spent at sea and the pride that came as a by-product of their hardiness.

The fishery has changed radically since its collapse in the 1960s, which marked the end of the pearling era. Now the preserve of the Islanders, the fishery operates only on a small scale and, at least in the case of Masig, as part of the Island’s multispecies fishery system. The dinghies have replaced the luggers and cutters and the lifelines disappeared when the use of the hookah was banned from the Masigalgal waters in the early 1990s. The divers now keep to the shallow reefs and the harvesting is done through a combination of free diving and dry picking. While the luggers and cutters were used to work the pearl and trochus shell beds across the Strait, the area fished by contemporary Masig Islanders is mainly contained within their marine domain and adjacent shared waters and reefs to the south and southeast.

Since mid-1960s, and as mentioned in Chapter Five, Masig Islanders’ harvesting of kabar has been affected by punctual interruptions caused at times by a depressed market, at others by stock depletion (1970s) or the absence of buyers. The quantity harvested each year since the collapse of the fishery has been relatively small, the effort increasing and decreasing following the modulations of the market. The price of the shell has fluctuated over the years. From a low A$0.80 to A$1.50 per kilogram in the 1970s and 1980s, it peaked at six dollars per kilogram in the early 1990s and was oscillating around four dollars in 2008‒2010. ‘At that time [1980s] a ton for a A$1,500. Today now you get A$4,000 for the ton and we bin working for that price... One time we bin reach 16 tons 18 tons or something...’ (Inter., MC6, 2009). In November 2009, rumours circulated that a buyer was interested in paying six dollars per kilogram for the whole unprocessed shell (shell and meat).

202

MC6: Yesterday S. spiks for me e gad one buyer you know e not arrive yet but e spik em go pay six dollars for trochus [he said to him that he would pay A$6 for trochus].

MC20: Okay... if em go that far... e be gud!

MC6: [...] I said well I better get my dinghy ready (laugh)...

This news was welcomed by the community’s fishers, yet, it is not unusual for such promises to not eventuate, so they were waiting to see it happen before getting too excited.

Notwithstanding the relatively small quantity of shell collected yearly, the kabar sector remains an essential constituent of Masig’s fishery system and contributes to its versatility and resilience. Many Masig Islanders consider the trochus shells valuable and describe the fishery as generating good returns. ‘There is a lot of money in trochus... this is straight money... you go and you will have more than a grand (A$1,000)’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). When compared with cray diving or mackerel trolling, diving or dry picking trochus shell has also the advantage of being less fuel consuming. ‘You can spend a whole hour, two hours diving that area and you don’t have to start the engine. Sometimes when you don’t go far, you may only need one and half drum’ (ibid.). Yet, and especially when they travel further afield, they still have to keep in mind how many shells need to be collected in order to cover the operational costs.

[S]ometime if they dive for trochus, you know, maybe they got that afternoon if they didn't make good that afternoon they overnight there, first thing in the morning they'll get some more before come back because this is allowance of using the petrol... this is the main concern of using the petrol and they have to make sure that they have the product to come back... (Inter., MC20, 2008).

In contrast to other commercial marine products, the kabar fishery also gives the fishers some leeway when it comes to selling the produce. As non-perishables, the shells can be accumulated over a period of time and sold when convenient, that is, when money is needed or when the price is good.

In terms of harvesting strategy, diving for kabar is more typically (although not exclusively) timed on spring tides as opposed to kaiar diving which occurs over the neap tides; making these two species rather complementary. While the two species are harvested

203 alternatively at variable rates throughout the year, they may also be harvested during a single fishing trip when the reef configuration allows it. ‘You go to certain reef wa [yes]... some reefs are low, some reefs are high and [...] some reefs you can't go at neap e deep too much to dive’ (Inter., MC10, 2009). Hence, many fishers describe kaiar and kabar diving as interconnected activities. This complementarity between the two fisheries becomes especially evident during the cray season annual closure when many fishers shift their focus onto the shell before the monsoon starts.

Like any other Masig fisheries, kabar divers synchronise their work with the annual, monthly and daily tidal cycles. At high tide the divers will have set their course towards the area they wish to work that day. Once there, and as the water is going down, they look for a good trochus bed, often jumping off the dinghy if an area looks promising, jumping back onboard and heading towards another zone if there aren’t enough shells of the appropriate size. ‘You get out the dinghy, swim around to find a good patch... when you find it you start picking... tied to the dinghy with a rope, or pulling it as you go or, when it’s calm, let it drift a little while you are picking the shell’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2008).

The divers’ work starts with the ebb tide, when the water gets down to about hip height, and continues until the water rises again above a certain level. As these divers explain:

when you dive, deep here [hip height] and then you start off as the tide drop... you can go dry picking... and they when dem boys they when dry time they collect all the trochus and make a heap here and heap there and put a buoy and then when the time come back to move the dinghy, they just come to the buoy and put them inside. Instead of being tied to the dinghy at low tide. So it's easy (Inter., MC20, 2008).

I mas [must] be there in the right tide to pick up trochus shell. See, as the tide come up come up come up, I can't even dive now 'cause morning the tide come up. I jump into my boat, take my towel, wipe myself, wipe my hands, fire my cigarette, drink my water and back home. Straight down to my place ya [here]. My salt shed there. [...] Put them thing up, boil em. In the afternoon, I don't go back because it's gonna be very late tide and I tired now. So same thing I come home, eat, 8 o'clock, that room there sleep. 5 o'clock morning, I go again. [...] So that's how I went every day. When the tide right, when the tide wrong I stop. You have to clean dem shells now (Inter., MC9, 2008).

204

Every reef is different. The shape of each reef also influences its entire ecosystem, thus the type, size and conditions of the shell that live there. The experienced divers know where to find the best shells. Some reefs have smaller trochus but ones that have a thicker base. These shells are prized by the fishers; they are good for buttons (Inter., MC10, 2009). On some reefs, and depending on the season, the trochus are covered with clay or algae. The divers often avoid these reefs as collecting dirty shells means harder work at the processing phase. Experienced divers can tell the reef provenance of the shells based on their conditions and appearance.

Kabar divers generally work alone or with one partner. Yet, there are some people who dive with their family (wife, children and sometimes nieces and nephews). Both the small size and carrying capacity of the dinghy and the strength of the outboard motor (usually 60 hp engine as mentioned previously) limit the quantity of shells a diver or a team of divers can bring back in one trip.206 For that reason, if one wants to make the most of a diving trip, the fewer people onboard, the better. Yet, because of the sedentary nature of the species, the divers who fill up their boat can resume their work the following day. ‘If you find a good patch you may have to return to the Island to unload but you may want to go back to it the next day... you know where it is… […] you make sure you keep it secret, you don’t tell anyone’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). One of the fishers joked about telling other fishers that a certain zone is infested with sharks to keep them away from the area (Inter., MC10, 2009). The same strategies are certainly deployed for the other commercial fisheries.

Keeping an area secret is possible as, unless two persons are working from the same boat or working as a team to gather money for special occasions such as tombstone openings, the divers tend to work individually on separate reefs. The divers let other divers know, however, roughly where they are heading.

MC14: …when we camp there [Meimei] and we talk which reef they are going to dive. And we let each other know like I’m going to this reef, and another would say I go to this reef, see you back here. To let all the dinghies know where you are. It’s really for safety. You know. If you get

206 As one Elder and retired diver remarked, ‘[s]ome people go and pick tons and tons of trochus and then have to stop, why? They overrun their engine’ (Inter., MC9, 2009). 205

into trouble and you’re not seen back on the Island they’ll say oh they say they were going to that reef, you know…

A: So it’s not to avoid going at the same place as someone else…?

MC14: No you can go to the same place. So you would probably let that dinghy go over there give the time to that dinghy to go over that reef, give the time to dive around that reef but it’s all reefs. People just go everywhere. The reefs are there like wer Meimei then e gad plenty so you can choose where you want to go. Sometimes you just go to the same place wer you want to go together, two dinghies or three dinghies working together. Sometimes they [the divers] just go to their favourite rock wer they want to go again to dive yeah.

Photo: Thomassin 2009, trochus shell processing

As many divers have emphasised, picking or diving for trochus is relatively easy; the hard work really begins once the harvesting is over. After a whole day on the reef, taking the product off the boat to the family shed where they will be cleaned, graded, and packed can be challenging. ‘I think like today, the fishermen we reckon the only hard part about looking for trochus e getting the product off the boat onto the shed on the Island… carrying [loads of] 20 kilos on your shoulders. That would be the hard part of trochus’ (Inter., MC10, 2009). The

206 processing of trochus shell involves several steps; ‘e gad boiling, take off the meat, you have to clean the shell, you got to weight em... you and sell em out... cause the buyer for em probably in Cairns or somewhere...’ (Inter., MC7, 2009). These tasks are not considered difficult as such but take a great deal of time. Depending on the quantity of shells collected, it may take the fisher and his helpers the entire night to go through the whole batch, sometimes continuing the next day.

The trochus shells are boiled in a large tin barrel. This process cooks the meat, which is then extracted from the shell using a spiral shaped hook. To clean the outer part of the shell, they used the rotating force of a cement mixer.

Now some use gas burners and now they don’t clean the shell they use cement mixer. It goes around stir, stir, stir and it gets the clay off those shells. They recon that’s the easy… easy bit […] put probably two crates [milk crates] in the boiler, put about for twenty minutes. Take it off. Turn it off. Because e gad that broken meat inside they use that spiral thing… pull it off. Put two crates in the cement mixer, put it with water. As the mixer is going around all the shells are banging onto each other and it cleans… it takes the clay off and the water rinse all the algae that is attached to the shell. 20 minutes they recon is the limit to clean the shell. You tip it off… it come out clean. Easy! […] Really, why we clean the shell is… you can tell if the shell is no good. […] If the shiny part is rotten. That part inside for the button. […] that’s the reason we clean the shell to see if there is big hole on the shell like or an insect got into the shell so the shell is no good for buttons and that (Inter., MC10, 2009).

While it can be said that any of the Island’s fishery sectors is a ‘family’ affair, this description resonates strongly with the processing aspect of the kabar industry which tends to involve many members of the diver’s family; his wife or partner, children, brothers, sisters, in- laws, neighbours and so on. ‘It takes your whole family... like it’s a family thing... you work together...’ (Inter., MC7, 2009). As I will discuss later, the participation of family members in the handling and processing of the catch is an essential dimension of Masig’s fishery system but one that tends to remain rather invisible to fisheries managers and in the statistics about Torres Strait fisheries.

On the day the diver (or divers) is expected to come back with the catch, those family members who were not part of the trip come together on the beach where the fisher’s shed is located. They will have some food ready; mullets, parsa or any other fish comprising the catch

207 of the day are roasted over an open fire, some rice and damper (bread) may have been prepared in advance, cold drinks are waiting to quench the thirst of the divers and cleanse the salty taste left in their mouths by a day or more at sea. While waiting for their arrival, some people, including the children, will have collected firewood and gotten the boiler ready as soon as they hear the drone of an approaching outboard engine. The rest of the night will be about boiling, pulling the meat out, cleaning, packing, eating and chatting. For their help, the people involved will get their share of trochus meat. ‘It’s about the kabar meat too... kabar meat is a favourite... people like it in curry... with a lot of chilli, or just boiled’ (Pers. Comm., MC16. 2009). They also know that when the time comes, the divers and their family will reciprocate in one way or another.

Masig’s trochus industry relies largely on individual’s connections with independent buyers based in Cairns and even Sydney. In the 1980s, the shells were bought by the freezer207 which was then owned by the Island Industries Board (IIB, now Island Board of Industry and Service (IBIS)) but because this species does not require refrigeration, a few Masig Islanders started competing with the freezer by becoming middlemen for mainland exporters while others dealt directly with various buyers. There were two active middlemen on the Island for most of the period covered by my fieldwork although, for a time, nobody was playing that role. When discussing their direct or indirect relationships with the buyers, many divers and middlemen emphasised the need to maintain a good name, that is, to be trusted and known to always supplying ‘top products’ (e.g. Inter., MC9, MC4 2009). Hence, the middlemen also play a role in insuring the quality of the product.

The buyer expects you to do the process, do the weighing… DPI [Queensland Department of Primary Industry and Fisheries] used to take numbers so if you don’t clean your shell properly you got all that running puss inside or trochus gad flies and the flies go lay their eggs and e no go pass quarantine […] so the shell has to be really processed, clean… you can also smell it too…

207 When the freezer was operating, they dealt with the ‘processing of the meat by taking the meat out we freeze the shell, the live ones... we freeze the meat overnight and then take em out and then we've got them pipe... copper pipe it made a spiral... and you put into the trochus with a pressure pump one... when you put em inside it blow the meat outside... the water pressure inside take the meat come outside...and then... at that time CDEP bin just started...CDEP started and we had some ladies down there employed by CDEP to do the packing...’ (Inter., MC10, 2009). This quote exemplifies well dimensions of Masig relational hybrid economy discussed in Chapter Seven. 208

[…] it’s not good. […] the buyers want the money; they need shells that have passed quarantine (Inter., MC9, 2009).

For the fishers of course, more buyers generate competition and therefore better prices. ‘It’s good you know, bring all the buyers in and let them compete against each other […] they’ll pay a reasonable price ‘cause they really want their shells’ (Inter., MC10, 2009). Being so far from the main markets, the conditions for competition between buyers are not always there, but the community members are constantly on the lookout for new business opportunities. Competition between the Island’s middlemen sometimes caused some frictions.

Duboi (Spanish mackerel), witi (coral trout) and other reef fish

At the time this field research was conducted, the management category labelled as finfish fishery and for which Masig fishers held licenses, was composed of two broad sectors; the Spanish mackerel fishery (duboi) and the reef line multispecies fishery which focused predominantly on varieties of coral trout (witi), but also comprised numerous species of snappers, emperors and rock cod. These two sectors involve significantly distinct methods and know-how; mackerels were caught by trolling whereas, when fishing for coral trout and mixed reef fish, the fishers anchor their dinghy on the reef to cast their hand lines. Most Masig fishers (essentially the men in the case of mackerel trolling) are catching or have caught these species more or less intensively and used or tried each method at one point or another. It is said locally, however, that serious mackerel fishers are of a ‘special breed’. Like the kaiar fishery, commercial mackerel fishing began in the 1970s in the aftermath of the trochus shell industry. The mackerel fishery was second only to cray diving in terms of tonnage landed and value until the late 1980s (Poiner & Harris, 1991).

The expansion of Masig’s mackerel, coral trout and mixed reef fish fisheries is also linked with the establishment of freezer facilities on the Island in the late 1970s (Poiner and Harris, 1991: 129). The level of participation in these fisheries has fluctuated through time following the ebbs and flows of market demand, the management and access to the freezer and fishers’ preferences. As one fisher puts it: ‘it all depends on the factory and if the price is good and all that but otherwise we just have it for kaikai [domestic consumption] that’s all’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). Change in the quality of the fish stock may be also influencing the fishers’ desire to

209 go out for mackerel. ‘People these days only dive for cray. They have seen a reduction in the size of coral trout and mackerel and this is thought to be caused by overfishing [by the TVH sector]. These days they don’t get big fish’ (Inter., MC4, 2008).

On Masig, commercial coral trout and mixed reef fishing was strongly influenced by the operations of the Island’s freezer and processing facility. As one fisher recalls, the freezer manager would post signs at the freezer with the prices offered for the different reef fish. ‘Mepla [we] used to gad [have]… all the mixed reef fish and they used to take oh… all kind species of fish you know. But now... they sort of cut back... the factory only allowed this, this and this. Before when they used to operate on hum... 70s and 80s […] they used to like buy all kind fish’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). When the freezer was operating, both men and women were involved in the mixed reef fishery when they considered the prices good.

In 2008‒2010, business opportunities in the finfish fisheries sectors were particularly lacking in Masig waters for the local fishers despite the total buy-back of non-Islanders’ finfish licenses completed in June 2008. As mentioned earlier, the closure of the Island’s freezer facility in the third quarter of 2008 put the mackerel and reef fish fisheries ‘on a standstill’ (Inter., MC8, 2009) as it left the fishers with no straightforward option to sell their product. Having their own freezer on board their main vessels, the few TVH operators who leased back temporary licenses from the TSRA continued to be active in Masig and eastern Strait waters.

Many fishers were anxious to see the freezer reopen, especially so they could resume their participation in the mackerel fishery as soon as possible.208 As Awa Gavin Mosby, then Masig’s Community Fisher Group (CFG) representative, stressed:

I've been fishing around here lately. You don't have to travel far and if there was the infrastructure here, like if the freezer was going, you'd go out and you'd catch a couple of fish in the morning and come back and unload and then, you wouldn't worry about it […] I wish I could make some money now, the water is really good and I'd like to go out and catch some fish. The fish is there... I know... I've been out there the last couple of days... the fish is there but I'm not

208 The freezer facilities were still closed in early 2018. 210

putting a hundred percent effort into my day because what I'm doing is catching fish so I can take down [to Cairns] and feed my children through Christmas (Inter., 2009).

Over that period, Masig Islanders still targeted mackerel, coral trout and other reef fish. However, the catch was largely for domestic or local consumption. Some of the fishers who have been working on reefs located in the proximity of neighbouring island communities with operating freezers such as Erub or Mer209 have travelled the extra miles to land their catch there; a less profitable alternative as it increases the overall operational cost. Other Masig Islanders reported having caught and sold mackerel or reef fish while on their way to other Island communities across the Strait to cover the cost of their travel, buy some fuel, or make a small profit (often reserving a portion of the catch for their hosts and relatives).

As many on the Island have highlighted and as noted by Hand (2008 see also Poiner & Harris, 1991; Arthur, 1991), Masig sits very close to the main mackerel grounds located in the north-eastern part of the Strait, many of these grounds lying within Masig marine domain itself. Yet, even in the years prior to the closure of the Island’s freezer, commercial involvement in the finfish fisheries was relatively low (see also Arthur, 1991). The fisheries remain nevertheless essential parts of, and contribute to the flexibility and resilience of, Masig’s fishery system.

‘Nowadays’, explains Awa Ned Mosby, ‘not so many people are going out for mackerels; they are going out for cray; and for trochus shell when it’s the season’ (Inter., 2008). One explanation provided by many on the Island was the significant generational dimension of the mackerel fishery (also noted by Poiner & Harris, 1991). As mentioned above, mackerel fishing was a popular activity in the 1970s and 1980s. The older mackerel fishers learnt the trade working with non-Islander operators who fished in the region in those days. Many talked about special tricks learnt from Snowy Whittaker, a former pugilist with a somewhat fierce reputation (Inter. MC1, 2008), who had a mackerel boat and employed local Islander crew members during the 1970s. On the Island, the mackerel industry is strongly associated with the names of community members who were active over that period onward, many of whom have regrettably passed away or have somewhat retired since (although the appeal of the sea tends to pull them

209 The freezer on Mer was closed in 2010. 211 back onto the water). They are the people today’s fishers look up to and from whom some of the middle-aged mackerel fishers have acquired their knowledge and skills.

Several fishers have depicted mackerel fishing as requiring a lot of discipline and as being a particularly technical and solitary business. ‘Fishing [for mackerel] is often a one-person thing’, stressed Awa Gavin Mosby, an aspect of the fishery that seems to be prized by the older men while deterring the younger generation.

Mackerel trolling happens either at first light or in late afternoon. A key to be a successful mackerel fisher is therefore to be out there very early and be ready to start as soon as the sun starts rising.

MC6: One morning I went to Suguran, another sandbank, I went there like a 5:45. Awa Tex was there 4 o'clock in the morning. By the time I got there, at 7:30 – 7:45. Em already full with fish. I go… I just catch the last bit for the bait... I kesseh [catch] 40 something but em bin kesseh over […] 80 something, 90 mackerels... em starts when the first light bin come up

MC20: Wa, he was there 4 o'clock already that's why he's a gud mackerel fisherman.

Several fishers are catching mackerel for personal or commercial purposes but very few are engaged intensively with this species. The following quotes emphasise the distinctions between what some glossed as the casual and serious mackerel fishers:

…for a start, you’re running there for an hour and… if you don’t smoke, then you’re by yourself, all of a sudden…. Laugh… you got to think… I’m wasting fuel… I’m wasting fuel and I haven’t got a bite. But our experienced one really like to go… they don’t waste money on fuel, they know they will make more money that what they pay for fuel. When you don’t have the experience it’s costly… (Inter., MC10, 2009).

The boys don’t know how to fish. Terra Kabay, Peter Nai and Olirie Williams, they could fill the room back in time with their catches. We would be there from 3pm to 9pm next day box box box… Fishermen now don’t know how to fillet, need training… (Inter., MC4, 2008)

Making a profit by trolling for mackerel necessitates strong technical knowledge, a deep understanding of the marine territory, of the dynamic marine environment, and of the spatio- temporal dimensions of the tide and weather patterns and cycles, all of which are acquired

212 through kin and from experience. Lacking these skills hinders greatly one’s chances of making any money at all. There is no time to waste in guessing because guessing costs fuel, time and money. When experienced fishers leave the shore, they aim straight to the fishing ground where they have planned to work for the day.

Masig’s fishers who target mackerel commercially troll either using their personal dinghy or, when people own one, their dory.210 Dories (ideally equipped with diesel engines) were considered the most appropriate craft for this fishery. They are said to attract more mackerel, have a greater carrying capacity (a ton compared to half a ton for the regular 6-meter dinghy) and be more suited if one wants to sleep at sea. Trolling burns a lot of fuel because the engine runs continuously so if the areas targeted are not in the direct vicinity of an island, the fishers will often opt to sleep on the reef to make the most of their fuel and time.

Unlike non-Islander commercial operators, neither the dinghies nor the dories mentioned above were equipped with deep-freezers. As with cray divers who are targeting kaiar tails, mackerel fishers rely on ice-chests and thereby the duration of their fishing trip is limited. As one fisher mentioned, this dependence on ice limits them to day trips with only a 12-hour window to work with.

If you are going fishing obviously and you are storing say mackerel, you'd have to have heaps of ice. To hold your fish longer than 24 hours in the brine and then the only way that you can handle that is if you get a bigger vessel, with the brine that is constantly at the same temperature all the time. ‘Cause I've been on the mackerel boats, where we've hold our product for longer than 12 hours in brine and collecting fish 'till an amount where we can productively just take it and clean it all the time rather than cleaning one or two fish every couple of hours, you'll build it up during the process of the day and then clean 40 fish at night. And here, you can't do that. If you are going to go for a day trip for finfish. Bring it back then hopefully you'll have a freezer that can take it

210 To my knowledge, no one owned a dory at the time of my fieldwork; those who owned one in the past had parted with them. I have been told by a few fishers that there was a time when the freezer could lend a few dories to the fishers but this was no more the case in 2008. To buy a dory to enter the fishery full time was the ‘dream’ of one of the Island’s police officers. ‘My dream is to buy a dory again, once I get a dory I go become full time fisherman again’ (Inter., MC6, 2009). This police officer was involved in this industry before and had learned from some of the Island’s best mackerel fishers.

213

off you hand straight away or if it’s for consumption you got the day and come back (Inter., MC21, 2009).

Contrasting once again with the non-Islander sector, the processing of the catch, that is the filleting, packing and deep-freezing all occur on the Island. The fish are nevertheless bled immediately to maintain the quality of the flesh.

Participation in the commercial coral trout and mixed reef fish fishery was also minimal in 2008–2010. While it requires a good knowledge of the intricacies of Masig’s marine environment, this fishery is portrayed as a lot less technical and challenging and less fuel consuming than the mackerel fishery: ‘going to some reef, pulling your anchor, fish there for a while… go back, move around again… With mackerel you gad one bite then you go around in circle hoping it’s going to be coming up for the bait’ (Inter., MC10, 2009). As will be discussed shortly, the reef line fishery and subsistence fishing are activities that are particularly intermeshed.

Bêche-de-mer

As discussed in Chapter Four, Masig Islanders’ involvement in commercial harvesting of bêche-de-mer finds its roots in the early days of the region’s colonial intrusion. From its onset, the industry has been characterised by its fragility; the higher value species (sandfish, surf redfish and black teatfish) being extremely vulnerable to overfishing. Hence, the history of this fishery is one of boom and bust. In 2008‒2010, these key species were classified as overfished and, to allow the replenishment of their stocks, the total allowable catch (TAC) for the sandfish was set to zero in 1998 while the surf red and black teatfish harvesting was put on hold from 2003. The fishers still had the possibility to harvest some species of lower commercial value and for which there was little demand but, to my knowledge, no one was involved in collecting them.211 In fact, when asked about this fishery sector, Masig Islanders tended to describe it as being ‘closed’ while taking the opportunity to express their wishes to see it reopened as soon as possible.

211 This seems to have been a common trend throughout the eastern Torres Strait region (Skewes et al., 2010). 214

Here, I must note the distinctive character of this sector. Unlike Masig’s other commercial fisheries, bêche-de-mer is caught solely for commercial purposes. The produce is bound for Asian markets where they are considered a delicacy, a taste not shared by Masig Islanders. The species remained nonetheless an important constituent of the local fishery system.

Masig territory hosts some of Torres Strait’s best bêche-de-mer grounds, most of which are located east of Warrior Reef. When the fishery is open, the prices are good, the markets accessible and the conditions favourable, many Masig Islanders get involved either regularly, when their other commitments allow them to go out, or when in need of extra income.

Photo: courtesy of Dan Mosby, bêche-de-mer shed Collecting bêche-de-mer is described as ‘easy’ and men and women of all ages can do it. The size of the fishing unit varies. Some fishers prefer going on their own while others involve their whole household. The harvesting techniques resemble those of the trochus shell fishery. Occurring during the spring tides, it consists either of free diving from a dinghy or of picking the animal from various areas of the reef at low tide. Different species will be found on different parts of the seabed and reef so the fishers will choose their fishing spot the targeted species. ‘If you look for sandfish you’ll find them on the ai part [shallow sandy section of the seabed], that’s why they are called sandfish’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). Like the other fishery described

215 above, the collection of bêche-de-mer can either be the focus of a fishing trip or be harvested alongside other species.

In the years prior to the closure of the main commercial species, the catch landed on the Island was sold unprocessed to the buyer or its middleman. Over the 1990s and early 2000s, Uncle Dan was the major, when not the only, buyer on Masig. Working as middleman for a Taiwanese trader based in Sydney, he was buying bêche-de-mer from the local fishers. He hired two of his nieces to help him with the gutting, grading, boiling, salting and packaging of the catch which was done from his purpose-built shed on the centre northern side of the Island. Uncle Dan had run a preliminary trial at the request of the Taiwanese company. On this occasion he learnt processing methods from both the Taiwanese buyer and two of his uncles who had been involved in this fishery in their younger years. Uncle Dan often stressed the importance of being meticulous when it comes to processing, maintaining a high standard of quality being necessary to maintain good business relationships. Since then, others in the community have been involved as middlemen for the sale of bêche-de-mer (Inter., MC2, 2009).

In the early 2000s, before the closure of the fishery, a mother ship called Satu was posted near Warrior Reef and was buying bêche-de-mer directly from the fishers. One fisher highlighted however that Warrior Reef bêche-de-mer were more or less fished out in 1995. ‘We want TSRA not only to tell us what to do but also to help us to know what’s valuable, so we can [plan and pace] ourselves. You can only pick let’s say 20kg and pick little by little’ (Inter., MC2, 2009).

While Masig fishers had not been active in the bêche-de-mer fishery since 2003, many of them were keeping an eye on the various species, reporting and sharing their appreciation of the size of the stock among each other, occasionally questioning the scientists’ and scientific managers’ decisions to keep the fishery closed. Awa Lota Warria, who was Masig’s CFG representative from 2003 to late 2008, mentioned that ‘the CFGs have discussed among themselves and suggested to the scientists that they take a few of Islanders with them when they are conducting their bêche-de-mer surveys. This is to be sure that the interests of Islanders are taken into account and that they gain something out of this’ (Inter., 2008). Some fishers have raised doubts regarding bêche-de-mer scientists’ monitoring methods, pointing out that they go and count the bêche-de-mer in areas where the species is never present. They were notably

216 worried that this affected the total count and enabled the scientists to maintain the overfished status for the species. The scientists were adamant that this was not the case.

At the time this research was conducted, CSIRO had a few projects, which looked at establishing what they called a community-based or system to co-manage the fishery.212 Over the last months of my fieldwork, two local fishers were involved in monitoring the species. I will discuss this interaction between local fishers and scientists in further detail later. With the closure of the fishery in 2003, Masig Islanders’ connection with this fishery was, at that time, mediated through their interactions and occasional work with CSIRO scientists.

In tune with the sea, the winds and the people

I have underlined earlier in this chapter the dynamic multi-species and methods constituting Masig fisheries and how the fishing practices described above work in conjunction with and complement one another. The articulation of these fishing practices varies daily, monthly, seasonal and yearly cycles and circumstances. The tides, for example, are at their lowest during the day between May and September, and during the nights from October to February which affects when, where and what methods the fishers are opting for. Consequently, fishers’ choice of targets, methods and fishing zones are changing as days, seasons and years unfold.

This highly flexible approach allows the fishers to adjust and make the most of any circumstances; an aspect of their fishery they consider an ‘advantage’ as suggested by this comment made by Former Councillor Awa John Mosby: ‘[t]he advantage to be a TIB is that you have the right to fish [simultaneously] mackerel, cray and trout, and trochus’ (Pers. Comm., 2011).

For the Masig Islanders who fish commercially on a regular basis and even for those who combine fishing with other sources of income, the ability to shift between species as needed is a way to maximise returns of each excursion and secure an income all year round. When the conditions are not favourable for one species, the focus shifts towards another species, another zone or, as will be discussed later, towards work opportunities on the Island or on the mainland.

212 http://rrrc.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/133-JCU-Tawake-A-2009-Livelihood-benefits-of-adaptive- comanagement.pdf (last accessed on 24 March 2019). 217

‘It’s all about maximizing your time out on the reef’, suggests another fisher. ‘If the reef you are targeting is a low reef, you may have to wait for the tide to go down a little. Instead of just waiting, you can troll for mackerel until the tide is right’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). The following quote by one of the Island’s full-time fishermen illustrates this strategy well:

I got a pattern for a day, when I go out diving with the trochus and the cray and the bêche-de-mer working together with dem three operating you know you can make big dollars a day because you can work with the tide. You can operate by going out diving in the morning or even night fall as well, and you go just for a day, you throw a line in the morning for a couple of mackerels and you go up to the reef get a couple of cray and when the tide go down you go and pick trochus and bêche-de-mer and when the tide go back in, you start doing the opposite coming back up 'cause the tide is coming back in you picking bêche-de-mer, cray then mackerel then you come home (Inter., MC2, 2008).

Another fisherman explains: ‘[y]ou know, it's a seasonal thing... We go for cray from then to then, then after cray, you're out for trochus ‘till then, then, after trochus there was mackerel. When mackerel stop, then cray come again. But now because the freezer is not operating anymore, it's a stand still’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). ‘This is a practice of what we have been taught from small’, adds the same man, ‘that’s how it has been passed on. Migration of species… cray move, when you no work cray, you do more fishing then’ (ibid.).

During northwest time the sea is rough and murky so the fishers’ capacity to go to the outer reefs is often jeopardised. Being part of a small boat fishery, Masig fishers are limited by weather conditions, in contrast to the non-Islander sector. To keep on fishing, the locals target the nearby reefs. ‘When cray season is over we turn to other species like trochus, trout and mackerel. Trochus because the fishing area is on the front (south easterly)’ (Inter., MC5, 2009).

The intensity and frequency of involvement with the various species varies by fisher. Some individuals will prefer to engage more with one or two commercial species. Most fishers currently combine kaiar (live and tails) and kabar (which are accumulated and sold when needed or when a large quantity has been collected). Because the two species are collected on different tide phases, neap tide for the cray and spring tides for the trochus, people often get involved in both. As Awa Ned Mosby noted, cray divers are usually involved in trochus shell diving because both fisheries involve the same kind of skills (Pers. Comm., 2008). 218

The fishers will also target different species for different purposes. Awa William Mosby mentioned that when he fishes commercially, he is either targeting mackerel or trochus. However, he also mentions that he dives for cray to cover the cost of fuel: ‘…cray diving for fuel money’ (Inter., 2009). Many fishers have indeed mentioned that they would target a secondary commercial species to cater for the fuel. In the same way, fishers will also catch ‘commercial’ and ‘non-commercial’ species for their subsistence.

Subsistence and ceremonial harvesting of marine resources

In previous chapters, I have shown that for over 180 years Masig Islanders have used their marine environment for both non-monetary and commercial ends. The dynamic interplay between these two aspects of their livelihood forms the core of what I have described as Masig’s fishery system. While usually fishing is fishing, when asked what is currently locally accepted as comprised under the bureaucratic category/field ‘traditional fishing’ includes fishing, hunting or collecting of marine species and may include hunting some turtles and seabirds and collecting some of their eggs for kaikai (that is for direct consumption) and for cultural production, re- production and obligations (for example from other contexts, see McCormack, 2007; Altman et al., 2012). In other words, it concerns the portion of the catch that will be dedicated to personal, domestic consumption (including family members living on the mainland), to weekend family picnics, community feasts and ceremonial events (weddings, funerals, tombstone openings, etc.). This category also includes marine resources taken for bait (e.g. tup and dad (sardines), pokas (ghost crabs), range of small fish), as material for arts and crafts as well as for trading purposes (within the Strait region and to both Australia and Papua New-Guinea mainlands). These activities take place on the beach, from the Island’s ramp and jetty, in the intertidal lagoons, garaz, fish traps and sea gardens213, seagrass meadows and shallow channels around the Island. Dinghies are also widely used to access the deeper waters, surrounding or more distant reefs, islands and cays across the Masigalgal sea domain, shared Kulkalgal zones and beyond.

Subsistence harvesting activities involve a large selection of species and a mixture of ‘traditional’ and modern techniques, which, akin to commercial activities, will be chosen

213 Garaz are natural or manmade fish traps. They are often named after the individual associated with them. Sea gardens are areas deliberately delimited by a rock circle where sedentary species such as clams are left to grow, only to be taken in the future. One Elder note that these markers are not always respected anymore (Inter., MC3, 2008). 219 according to changing environmental circumstances and are influenced by personal preferences, access to a boat, gender, age, and health conditions. Depending on the target and opportunities, fishing, hunting and collecting activities occur at various times of the day and night. Ultimately, almost every comestible, aesthetic or otherwise useful species could be harvested if needed and deemed appropriate.

Past studies have shown that Masig Islanders have one of the world’s highest seafood consumption rates per capita (Poiner & Harris, 1991). Surveys focusing on the ‘subsistence’ aspect of customary fishing conducted in 1984-1986 by Poiner and Harris (1991) and more recently by Busilacchi (2008) revealed that between 75 and 83 fish species belonging to over 20 families are taken by Masig Islanders for this purpose. Species captured for subsistence more broadly also include two varieties of turtles (hawksbill, for their eggs, and green sea turtles mainly for their meat), crustaceans (e.g. kaiar and pokas) and a wide range of molluscs (e.g. squid and sugu (octopus), kabar (trochus shell), gog (baler shell), itai (spider shell), kirit kirit, selpis (clamshell), silel (pipi shell), periwinkle, etc.). Other shells are collected for their aesthetic or ornamental qualities (nautilus, uraz (cowries), cone shells, pencil shells, etc.). Species of seabirds and their eggs are also occasionally hunted and collected during fishing and hunting trips.

I have highlighted above the wide variety of marine species that are taken for non- commercial purposes. Yet, perhaps unsurprisingly, some of these species are of greater cultural significance or simply preferred to others for their taste and, consequently, targeted more frequently214, while other species are commonly disliked or perceived negatively for various reasons and therefore left alone.

Here, I will describe some of these non-commercial fishing activities to give a sense of what is happening on the ground and on the water. By doing so, my aim is to show how these practices shape the daily lives of Masig Islanders.

The green sea turtle (totol) is undoubtedly one of Masig’s most important species both for domestic consumption and ceremonial purposes as well as being part of men initiations. Green

214 See Harris and Poiner (1991) and Busilacchi (2008) for the list of species and composition of the subsistence catch. 220 sea turtles are mainly hunted from dinghies crewed by two or three persons (usually but not always exclusively men) although some experienced hunters can catch the animal on their own. When a hunting party is constituted of more than one person, a successful hunt relies on the sharp coordination between the animal, the diver and boat driver. The diver, standing at the bow of the boat, guides the driver towards the turtle while waiting for the right moment to dive in the direction of the animal in an attempt to immobilise it by grabbing its front pula (flippers). ‘It’s a very physical hunt…’, mentioned one hunter, ‘the body encounter with this big animal… you feel the strength of the turtle when you grab it… it’s pulling you… This is its territory. It is stronger there’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). Many hunters can catch a turtle in a single dive while others will need a few attempts before achieving their goal. Hunting skills are highly regarded socially and a source of pride and respect from others. ‘If an Elder is in the boat, you have the feeling that you need to excel… to prove your value as a hunter’ (ibid.). Once captured, the large animal is dragged alive into the dinghy by the diver and the crew. ‘You want to make sure that the turtle stays alive otherwise you’ll have to cut the meat straight away’ (ibid.).

Turtles bear many names according to their life stages and sex and the hunters will target specific categories according to their needs as suggested by this hunter: ‘When you are on the boat, spotting turtles, you are looking ultimately for the black agu (large fat female). [...] When you hunt turtle only for your direct family… you may decide to go for a migi kubar… a young (adult) male. It’s fat but smaller than the black agu’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2010). As a dinghy can only carry up to two full size turtles, keeping them alive also allows the hunters to choose the best specimens and release the less desirable one. Apart from being of the appropriate size, particular characteristics such as having a yellow flat belly (a sign that the animal is fat), and factors such as the season and the occasion which commanded the hunt, determine which turtle(s) will be chosen.

As the hunting party return to the Island, the meat will usually be prepared on the beach without delay.215 The butchering process is taken seriously, follows very specific steps and is executed by experienced men who know how to make the appropriate cuts according to each part

215 Some people will, on occasion, keep one or two turtles on leashes to be killed and cut later. This can happen if, after cutting part of the catch, it is decided that enough meat has been prepared. It is however expected that, after a couple of days, these turtles will be released if not needed. Failing to do so, as I will explain later, is perceived negatively in the community, and will attract criticism. 221 of the animal. When children or teenagers are present (because they were in the boat or are simply curious boys and girls swimming or playing when the hunters landed back to the Island) they may be given the task of cleaning the guts. They are also expected to learn the various techniques by observing the work of their Elders.

Almost all parts of the animal are used. The liver and sections of the guts are often barbecued straight away on the beach while the meat can be grilled, slow cooked in an earth oven (kupmary), used in curries and so on. The blood is used for the blood totol dish, which, alongside the kupmary totol, is an important feasting dish. The head, nowadays often discarded, can be used in soup. The flippers, while not a favourite, are still consumed by some. There is also a strict code concerning the disposition of the remains. As for the shell, it may serve as cookware for the kupmary, and can be used in artwork. If discarded, someone will be charged with taking it back to the edge of the reef to avoid attracting sharks to the beach area. It is considered proper to return the remains to the ocean where they belong and where they will feed other sea life.

Photo: Thomassin 2009, preparation of a kupmary Many Masig Islanders share an emotional attachment for the green sea turtle. For those of them living away from their home Island, homesickness sometimes expressed itself as a craving for turtle meat. To ease their longing, family members who remain on Masig will occasionally 222 send them some turtle meat [lawfully] and other seafood products. A mother was mentioning how her son, who was now attending high school in Cairns, missed eating reef fish. She was sending him a foam esky (cooler) filled with a variety of those. ‘Nothing special but can’t have these down south’ (Pers. Comm., MC24, 2009).

Mullets and parsa are also important parts of people’s diet and essential ingredients of reciprocal exchanges and community feasts. ‘This one here [Masig] mullet country’, emphasised Yessie Mosby, ‘[w]e treasure and got big respect for mullet’ (2009).216. As a good quantity of these fish can be harvested at once, they figure among the best choices for feasts. Moving in schools (arzmy), these two species can easily be caught along the beaches with purse seine nets manipulated by one or two persons.

Photo: Thomassin, 2009, mullet fishing at dusk Large pelagic fish such as gaigai (giant trevally) are also ideal for such circumstances as one of these fish alone can feed many people. Yet, their presence on the dinner table or during feasts is often a matter of serendipity. For example, gaigai feed on mullets; therefore, fishers

216 Yessie Mosby explaining the mullet ceremony: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S53aFbg37l8 (last visited on 24 March 2019). 223 netting in a mullet arzmy may end up with opportunities to spear the predator fish. Gaigai may also be taken during inter-island travels or while people are fishing commercially. Most of Masig fishers bring a set of fishing gear in their boat and are prepared for this kind of opportunity.

Reef fish such as tanik (black-spot seaperch), kebim, bila (black-spotted tuskfish), takham (honeycomb Cod) or witi make regular appearances on the dinner table. They may be speared or caught by handline from Masig’s shores with the incoming tide or off the shallow reef around the Island which is accessible by foot at low tide, while some other equally enjoyed species such as varieties of trevallies, snappers, witi, and duboi are often fished off dinghies. Selpis, itai and sugu are harvested from shallow lagoons around Masig and surrounding islands.

Like everywhere else in the Torres Strait, the dugong (dangal) is highly valued by Masig Islanders. However, the animal is only rarely encountered in this part of the Strait, situated far from the seagrass beds on which it feeds. Hence, Masig Islanders’ consumption of dugong meat is relatively low and is often associated with special events such as tombstone opening, funerals, weddings and so on. Most of the dugong meat consumed on Masig is obtained through relatives from or living in the Western Strait (with recent exchanges at times being mediated between family members through Facebook, e.g. sokoro (pickled shellfish) against some dugong meet). The meat is usually part of direct or delayed reciprocal exchanges between the parties involved. Thupmul (a ray species) and parsa, fish that are prevalent in Masig waters but rather rare in other parts of the Strait, are examples of products that are traded in the process (Inter., MC9, 2009).

To my knowledge, no dugong was caught in Masig waters over the period covered by my fieldwork. Given the significance and excitement triggered by such an event, it is unlikely that the capture of a dugong in Masig waters would have gone unnoticed. When I was on the Island, the story of the last dugong caught in the area was still a hot topic. As the story goes, a few years prior to my fieldwork, one of the Island’s hunters had singlehandedly speared a dugong during a cray fishing excursion and had to solicit the help of prawn fishers on a trawler anchored nearby to haul the large animal into his dinghy. Between mid-2008 and early 2010, at least one Masig Islander caught a dugong, his first, during a visit in the Western Strait. This event gave me the opportunity to appreciate the protocol underpinning the celebration of a first catch and rules of

224 distribution of the meat among community members alongside the tensions that can arise in such circumstances.

Intimate spatio-temporal knowledge

Marine species of various life stages are unevenly distributed across Masig’s territory and their presence in given areas may vary according to the seasons, often following predictable mating, nesting, and migration cycles. Hence, Masig Islanders’ success as fishers or hunters draws heavily on individual and collective intimate knowledge—including relational intergenerational knowledge—of their dynamic marine territory and their technical capacity to seize opportunities as they occur (in the case, for example, of less common but valued species such as the sabai (bluespine unicornfish), box fish, etc.). Experienced fishers know where to find the species they are looking for or at least where they are the most likely to find them. Certain zones, reefs, rocks, sand flats or other seascape features are associated not only with particular species, but particular species at particular life stages. For example, ‘[n]ear Masig, there isn’t any black agu, mostly migi kubar and warukaz (juvenile)’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2010), so to maximize chances of catching black agu, hunters will head towards certain reefs located south of the island. Seasonal cycles happening on the Island are also indicative of what is happening in the sea.

The desirability of certain species is also influenced by the seasons. To quote one of the Island’s fishers: ‘people know where the best place for all different types of catches to eat, depending on the seasons and when’s the best time to get the catch… when they have eggs, when they are fatter [but also] size for best taste […]’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2013). Parsa and bila are more or less taken all year round while some species are targeted more specifically at certain time of the year or for particular purposes. Sea mullets are also taken throughout the year but are particularly prized at suluwal (around ‘Spring’ time) when they are fat and full of eggs (Pers. Comm., MC26, 2009). The pekoo (painted sweetlip) is known to be fatter around December and therefore essentially targeted over that period. ‘When the “Christmas trees” [tamarind tree] are blooming… you get that taste for pekoos’ highlighted the late Awa Daniel Mosby (Inter., 2009). Silel (pipi shells) are used in zura, a light soup often described as a comfort food especially appreciated in the colder days of the sager season while also used to relieve the symptoms of colds and flu.

225

Rough weather influences fishers’ capacity to go out. For example, ‘norwes [northwest trade winds, around December] time, the sea is rough and murky so when we want to go we keep to the home reef [Reef around masig and koedal]’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2013). Another fisher mentioned that in the past, some used the sazie217, a root imported from Papua New Guinea to help catching fish (Inter., MC2, 2009; see also Poiner and Harris, 1991). The crushed root was put in the shallow lagoons formed at low tide to stun the fish. A few locals reported using this technique in the past. One of the local fishers explains that this technique was useful especially over the period of the year when the weather could limit people’s access to the sea for an extended period. Today, the availability of nets, better boats and availability of store food has contributed to the disappearance of this practice.

Manifestly, the species that attract the most attention change through time, as does the degree of reliance on local marine resources. Contrasting the current situation with what prevailed some 20 to 30 years ago, several community members (men and women between 25 and 70 years of age) whose knowledge shapes this research mentioned that people have become more selective in their catches. One recurrent explanation is that people today are less dependent on the sea for their daily sustenance while in the past money was really ‘scarce’ and there were not many options at the store (Inter., MC3, 2008). Consequently, the proportion of people’s diets directly harvested from the sea has decreased in favour of by store-bought goods. This also applies to feasts. Accordingly, this shift has repercussions on non-commercial fishing practices, influencing the frequency as well as the motivations and attitude towards fishing and towards the different species. Subsistence fishing is still prevalent but is as much triggered by desires for certain seafood than needs; as this fisherwoman highlights ‘we feel like eating fish on the weekend, then we go out on the dinghy. We catch a couple of bila for, you know, a munch, that’s all…’ (Inter., MC25, 2009). Furthermore, while in the past people would have taken home most of the fish caught on their line, today’s fishers are more selective, targeting and keeping the species that are locally enjoyed, releasing the rest. Contemporary fishing activities are not so much driven by absolute necessity, but by various people’s preferences and pleasure (or lack

217 There was also a local root used for the same purpose but apparently it was less potent. 226 thereof) that they find in such activities. More than only providing food or an income, fishing activities are also prized occasions to socialise.

Exemplifying the above is the following casual conversation which occurred late one afternoon while walking on the beach with two community members as we noticed a neighbour sitting on a chair next to the water, throwing a hand line to catch a few fish for dinner.

Sometimes we are taking these things for granted. Look, if she wants fish, she just takes a chair and a line on the beach at the end of her yard, sits, catches some fish. She can do that every day if she wants. And even if we can go catch our fresh fish at any time, we often don’t bother to go and open a tin of hamper218 instead until we get this taste for fish, then we take our lines, our spears or we jump in the dinghy to get what we want (Inter., MC21, 2009).

Things have changed with time too. Aka [grand-mother] would have taken home and eaten every catch but today, we are more specific. Karl (parrot fish, we let them go. […] We go for mullet and parsa or witi. Wrong fish at the end of the line, we throw them back in the ocean (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2008).

It is also worth noting that Masig was only electrified in the mid-eighties. Prior to that only a few people had generators and refrigeration facilities were largely lacking. The multiplication of domestic refrigerators and freezers is said to have impacted on fishing and hunting habits, along with food preparation and preservation practices. The late Awa Daniel Mosby (Inter., 2009) also noted that this technology progressively led to the erosion of the Island’s sharing practices. In the past, when the hunters landed a turtle, each family would send one of their members with a dish to collect their share of the animal. Today, sharing still occurs but on a lesser scale. People have their own boats, their own nets, their own refrigerators. The hunters and fishers will share their catch with more immediate family or neighbours. Being a rare occurrence, with the hunt usually conducted outside Masig territories, the sharing of dugong meat abides more closely to old sharing rules. I will return to the question of accumulation, preservation and sharing practices when discussing management issues in Chapter Eight.

218 Brand of canned corned beef (an old style can that one opens with the small metal key). 227

Gendered practices

Whether for commercial motives or not, there are general gendered trends underlying Masig Islanders’ fishing practices. Although there are certainly overlaps, women and men tend to target different species, operate in different zones and use distinct techniques and gear. Women’s harvesting activities are largely Island-bound219, occurring principally from the beach or the jetty at high tide and from small intertidal lagoons and areas of the reef accessible by foot at low tide, while a significant proportion of men’s non-commercial catch occurs during commercial excursions exploiting the various ecosystems across their marine territory. Women predominantly use handlines and short hand spears but also use nets. They often target reef fish including parsa, mullets, bila, tanik, and a variety of snappers, molluscs and crustaceans. Men’s tends to cover larger territories when fishing and hunting, they also target a variety of species which includes turtles, crays and trochus shell, witi, duboi, red emperor, pekoo and more elusive species such as the gaigai, the sabai and box fish. Both men and women use purse seine nets to catch mullets and parsa. Men do most of the diving, trawling and spearing of larger fish and while both men and women harvest marine species to provide for their household and broader family, men are largely in charge of gathering produce for communal feasts. Although some women are involved directly in commercial diving, fishing and collecting, most of their activities belong to the non-monetary sector.

Working in eastern Torres Strait, Bliege Bird argues that women tend to target ‘low variance resources’; that is, resources that are more predictable, while men are said to prefer ‘high variance’ hence less predictable options. Women’s preferences, she suggests, may partly be linked to their caring responsibilities regarding the children (Bliege Bird, 2007). She also observed less seasonal variability in women practices (ibid.). Such tendencies could also be observed on Masig in 2008-2010.

These distinctions are not absolute and overlaps are common. To my knowledge, despite the marked gendered trends and aside from dugong hunting which appears to be the exclusive domain of men, there are no fixed rules preventing men or women from partaking in particular fishing or hunting activities. Partners (including their children, niece and nephews) fish together

219 Women like men have their favourite fishing zones (see also Lahn, 2003, p. 127 for Warraber). 228 both from the shore or dinghies. Although I have heard many men stating their dislike or lack of patience for handline fishing, I have seen some of them holding lines at the reef edge while some women friends enjoy diving for cray and even hunting smaller turtles from the beach. Some members of the community insist on the fact that hunting turtle is a man responsibility. There are, however, rules stating that pregnant women should stay out of the sea. Failing to do so is said to bring tidal changes. During my fieldwork a pregnant woman did break the rule and some people in the community stated that the tide did change (the tide was ‘cut’) as a result. This exemplifies how, from this perspective, the sea has agency and that it is in a relationship with human beings.

Articulation of customary and commercial activities

Masig Islanders’ customary harvesting of marine species, including subsistence and ceremonial fishing and hunting, is tightly enmeshed with their commercial fishing activities. Many fishers involved in commercial activities have mentioned taking fish, crustaceans or molluscs for their own sustenance over the course of fishing excursions. For example: ‘[t]wo days camping on Meimei Island […] On Meimei there are sheds with generators, stoves and mattresses. You camp there; you have your damper and some tins. You eat nice fish, trout, boxfish, and all sorts of fish’ (Pers. Comm., MC23, 2009). Fishers will also bring back home a variety of seafood on the return trip. In the words of one of the fishers who underlined this co- occurrence of these two dimensions of Masig fisheries, ‘when you gor for sell you mas take a little bit come home por kaikai’ (Inter., MC8, 2009).220

It is ‘like an automatic reaction’, mentions another fisher, emphasising that people know what their family or extended family members like and that when you come across those desired species, sometimes a matter of luck, fishers will catch it and give it to the person they have in mind when back on the Island. Sometimes there will be an express request made to the fishers by relatives or friends who are not partaking in the fishing trip, commercial or not. This fisher describes the above as part of the ‘fishing ritual’.

220 Translation: When you are taking commercial catches, you must also bring something back home to feed the family. 229

The family comes down and help […] As part of the ‘fishing ritual’, fish, shellfishes, turtle or other edible seafood is caught to take back home for family members. Sometime requests are made of what they [kin] would like and families would tell the boat’s crew. As the divers explore the underwater world […] they keep an eye out for the sea creatures on the request list. It’s like anything you can forget about it, but soon as you see something that reminds of something you it all comes back, oh that fish Auntie Lizzie wanted (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2013).

Hence, on the water, commercial and customary activities interact in a synergetic way and are integral constituents of Masig’s dynamic small-scale fisheries system; understanding that this system itself is an essential component of the Island’s mixed/hybrid economy which will be the focus of a latter subsection of this chapter.

The fish, crustacean or mollusc itself becomes commercial, customary or both only once part of a transaction. Species taken for subsistence—while not inherently commercial in essence—are not absolutely dissociated from transactions involving cash221. This happens, for example, when products are used in the preparation of take-away meals or transformed into jewellery or art objects. This could also be a way to meet reciprocity obligation or to express gratitude for someone’s help. At times, the product itself becomes part of informal reciprocal arrangements or unspoken reciprocal gestures. For example, a fisher who borrows a boat may bring back some fish to thank the boat owner.

Conversely, portions of the commercial catch may, for diverse reasons, end-up on the dining table. Underwater it is sometimes difficult to estimate exactly the size of the animal, explain Awa Jack Pearson and Awa John Morris, thus it happens that slightly undersized kaiar are speared inadvertently222. When this happens, the cray may be brought back home for the family, given to extended family members or used in take-away meals. As observed and as pointed out by a number of fishers, bêche-de-mer aside, every commercially targeted species is also potentially taken for subsistence (Inter., MC8, MC2, MC14, 2009).

221 Except for turtle and dugong. 222 The law stipulates that fishers are allowed to have up to six undersized crays in their boat. Commercial species are often captured for subsistence when the seasonal harvesting period is on. For example, if an undersized kaiar is caught it is taken home (e.g. each boat can keep 6 undersized kaiar). 230

Some activities, such as diving for trochus shell or spearing crays, feed simultaneously into both the commercial and subsistence sectors. While the shells are cleaned and then stored to be sold in due course, the meat extracted is shared among family members and neighbours. In 2008-2010, there was no obvious market for trochus shell meat in the Kulkalgal region. Consequently, the meat, a by-product of this fishery, was exclusively consumed locally. According to one of the local fishers and entrepreneurs, they have attempted to commercialise trochus meat in the past but the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Services (AQIS) have considered that it was too risky because of potential illnesses (Inter., MC9, 2008). However, towards the end of my stay on the Island, local fishers were discussing with a potential Torres Strait Islander buyer who was planning to purchase unprocessed trochus shells from the Kulkalgal region. One of the Island divers also became aware that trochus shell meat was being sold for a good price at a little shop located on Ngurapai. ‘There is a local market over at Horn Island [Ngurapai]. One trochus meat for one dollar. […] They don't have them things on TI [Thursday Island] that's why I told you they don’t have the product around there only have it around here’ (Inter., MC2, 2009).

Conclusions

This chapter’s purpose was to present a textured ethnography of Masig fishers’ everyday lives and livelihoods, highlighting their strong connections and relationships with their lands and seas. Detailing the intricacies of Masig Islanders fishing practices reveals a complex and dynamic system which weaves together a range of fishing practices and purposes, species, kin and community groups, aspirations and intimately engaged socioecological knowledge. In this context, approaching Masig’s fisheries system through the discreet categories of ‘commercial’ and ‘customary’ or ‘subsistence’ poses a real risk of distortion, and fails to consider the dynamics underpinning the resilience and flexibility of this system.

This chapter and the ones that follow, demonstrate that the values of Masig small-scale fisheries system include much more that beyond pecuniary considerations. This fisheries system is central to Masig Islanders’ identity, relationality, as well as physical, psychological and spiritual well-being. As Johnson stresses, these salient aspects of small-scale fisheries systems are often neglected by neo-liberal policy makers (Johnson, 2018).

231

In the following chapter, I explore further this dynamic system by examining its interconnections with the Island’s wider relational economy and the responsibilities and rights inherent to Masig Islanders’ customary marine tenure regime.

232

Chapter Seven: Fishing pasins and life projects

Jentoft writes that ‘small-scale fisheries are rarely a distinct sector. Rather they are closely connected to, indeed embedded within, a larger social and ecological system—as a “system within systems”— intimately connected with economic, social and cultural life in local communities’ (2014, p. 3). This remark certainly applies to Masig fisheries. Hence, the purpose of Chapter Seven is precisely to place the strongly enmeshed fisheries and hunting practices examined in Chapter Six within Masig’s lifeworld and realm of relationships.

To do this, I delve into the particularity of this fishery system. I examine how it is shaped and governed by an enduring and dynamic marine tenure regime while being a salient constituent of a local economic system defined, like their tenure regime, by a relational ontology and flexible articulations between market, state and customary sectors. Throughout this chapter, my aim is to demonstrate how these various components of Masig Islanders’ lifeways are driven by encompassing socio-ecological values, etiquette and knowledge which are locally regrouped under the term gud pasin.

Together, these local systems and regime, in combination with a range of external laws and regulations, heavily influence which species are targeted over particular periods or in specific circumstances and determine the intensity, frequency of, as well as the impetus behind Masig Islanders’ fishing and hunting activities. These systems and tenure regime inform how the catch and economic benefits generated from marine activities ought to be distributed. They also underpin local aspirations, life projects, political endeavours, and development directions. In other words, these systems and regime are foundational to local fishing and marine resource management practices.

The complex articulation and interdependence of these systems reflect Masig Islanders’ lifeways, values, knowledge and relational ontology while motivating and supporting far-ranging economic and political projects. Issues pertaining to representation will also be discussed in the light of these interlaced systems. These interconnected systems and values will be put in relation with dimensions of Masig Islanders’ management of their land-sea domain discussed in Chapter Eight and of the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA) management regime scrutinised in Chapter Nine.

233

Inherited boundaries: Masig’s maritime domain

Ngau laga nupai bau puidan ngu Namu namu wai ger ger bau sit natema, Ina ngalmun lagau.

On our island we see the waves rolling in. There is the wave called Namu namu streaked with foam. This part of the sea belongs to us.

Extract of a song composed by Moses Mene (Masig Elder)

As I began documenting in Chapter Three, Masig Islanders’ fishing activities and seafaring lifeways are not randomly conducted in a sea ‘naturally’ existing ‘out there’, disconnected from the land, a-cultural, empty of relationships, or open for just anyone to access, use, and enjoy. As St-Martin suggests, the sea is instead a ‘cultural and social landscape of fishing domains and traditions’ (2001, p. 8). In other words, and as Mosse writes, ‘[w]ater resources of all kinds are never simply there, but are produced, used and given meaning by shifting social and political relationships’ (Mosse, 2003).

In contexts like the Torres Strait, sea-bound activities and lifeways are taking place in a sentient seascape created in part through the journeys and actions of mythical ancestors who constituted this land-sea environment by morphing into rock formations, nesting areas, sand cays, and hills; by transmuting into various marine species223, and sometimes by doing both (see Chapter 3). While drawing on these stories, which place people in a kin relationship with elements of the seascape that inform their genealogical knowledge, contemporary Torres Strait Islanders’ connections with the region’s saltwater are also supported by narratives recounting the ‘work’224 of their forebears, notably as divers in the perilous pearling industry across areas of the

223 On Masig, one of the stories tells of two children playing with a ball on the beach which transformed into pokai (manta rays). The story of Gelam, a man from Mabuaig who became a dugong, traversed the Torres Strait, creating some islands along the way to finally morphed into a hill on Mer. 224 Here the notion of work encapsulates any commercial, subsistence and ceremonial fishing, hunting or collecting activities. 234 seascape. Together, these stories are told to affirm the longstanding, ongoing, inherited, and political essence of their relationships with their sentient sea territories.225

Here, the emphasis on the itineraries and ‘work’ of direct ancestors within these zones is in no way fortuitous. The case of Masig fisheries system shows that the use of specific marine territories and resources—irrespective of the purpose—is inextricably tied with inherited socio- ecological knowledge and ownership rights over these territories or, when one is fishing or hunting across someone else’s domain, conditional on established relationships with the people who hold such rights and knowledge. This will be addressed further along this chapter. Hence, from a Masig Islander perspective, the sweat and labour that their living or departed relatives have mixed with the saltwater enveloping the region’s pearl and trochus shell beds, where some also lost their lives, further demonstrates their hereditary relationship and ownership of their marine estate (see Chapter 4).226

The stories, songs, and choreographies specific to each Island community recount and re- enact past and present marine activities and events—narrative performances of intimate connections with and rights over large marine areas. In Fitzpatrick’s words, such narratives ‘inform about the location, names and uses of home island reefs and sea territory’ (1991, p. 337). These stories and songs are tracks on the sea that link together islands, reefs and sand banks, the winds, animals, ancestors, the stars and most importantly, the people. As one of the Island Elders explained, they enable the fishers to sing their way across the seascape (Inter., MC11, 2009).

Nakata emphasises that Islanders’ traditional languages are preserved in these stories and practices (2010, p. 54). These languages are also embedded within the land and seascape in its various phases and motions, in the plants, animals, ancestors, and other beings that dwell there. The maritime realm has indeed retained an extraordinary number of Kala Lagaw Ya/Kulkalgal Ya terms. In a context where the language itself is no longer spoken fluently,227 this is yet another expression of Masig Islanders’ enduring and intimate relationship with their marine

225 The correlation between the work of their forebears and ownership rights over sea territories was emphasised on several occasions during the seas claims Court Hearing held on Poruma in October 2008. 226 Reference to the zones worked by their forefathers while taking part in the pearling industry was made on numerous occasions during the Torres Strait Seas Claims hearing held on Poruma in October 2008. 227 There has been growing efforts over the last ten years or so to revive kala lagaw ya on Masig (which is close to kulkalgal ya, Masig’s original language). 235 territory. In other words, these ever-expending repertoires of lyrical and embodied narratives are living maps and archival records of itineraries, places and territorial boundaries, as well as historical, and socio-ecological knowledge associated with specific parts of the seascape.

Across the region, beneath the conundrum of jurisdictional lines traced over 140 years of a colonial bureaucracy that regards the very nature of marine environments as being incompatible with private ownership (Sharp, 1998 see also Chapter 2 and 5; Scott & Mulrennan, 1999; Mulrennan & Scott, 2000; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010), the sea is segmented into an intricate mosaic of marine domains owned either exclusively or collectively by specific group(s) of Torres Strait Islanders (Pers. Comms. 2008-2018, see also Scott & Mulrennan, 1999; Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). While neglected by policies and made invisible on most maps,228 the boundaries delimiting these marine territories are defined and governed by longstanding marine tenure regimes which exist, albeit with some variations, throughout the Torres Strait (e.g. Johannes & MacFarlane, 1991; Scott & Mulrennan, 1999, 2010) and underpin customary use and management of Masig and wider Torres Strait resources (Mulrennan & Scott, 2000).

Political in their essence (c.f. Hviding, 1996), these sophisticated tenure regimes determine who holds guardianship responsibilities and the right to speak for, represent, and make decisions regarding specific sea spaces, as will be exemplified below. Also embedded within these regimes are sets of norms and values that are drawn upon to circumscribe and manage a ‘multitude of relationships’ (ibid., p. xiii) and interactions with and, as Hviding suggests, ‘through’ these maritime domains and resources. They also strongly inform Islanders’ positions vis-à-vis the regional fisheries management and development structure and process, as well as their rapports with the various actors involved in this context.

The overlapping of Torres Strait Islander and Euro-Australian maritime traditions and sociocultural constructions of seascapes is a source of important tensions and conflicts between the parties concerned. This present chapter focuses more specifically on Masig Islanders’ marine tenure regime, but I will return to these interactions and conflicts in Chapters Eight and Nine respectively.

228 Including maps of the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (see p. 145). 236

Masig customary marine tenure regime

Masig Islanders’ marine estate covers approximately 460 square nautical miles (1,580 sq km); an area 950 times larger than Masig’s landmass (approx. 1.65 sq km). Standing at any point on Masig shores, gazing at the ever-changing seascape, there are always one or more islands in sight to break the line of the horizon. From that standpoint, it becomes rather manifest why Masig Islanders aren’t considering their small low-lying island in isolation, understanding instead their land-sea territory as an archipelago (see also Shnukal, 2000, p. 49).

Map 7.1, Masig marine territories. Thomassin and Markham, 2016. This map is approximative and not for Native Title purposes. While the extent of their maritime estate may have changed through time, Masig Islanders’ contemporary territory includes twelve neighbouring islets and sand cays, the reefs and seagrass beds, as well as the body of water encompassing them.229 Many of these sand cays are mutually visible and an outstanding variety of seascape features, including underwater

229 These islets are Koedal, Umaga (Keats), Igabu (Marsden), Mawar (Rennel), Aukane, Kebikane, Meimei (Mimi), Yoak (Layoak), Roag (Smith Cay), Damuth (Dalrymple) and Koei Dhadhathiyam/Bak Ailan (Bourke) (see Map 7.1). 237 structures and natural or man-made sea gardens and fish traps (known as garaz)230, possess vernacular names (see also Shnukal, 2004b, p. 319).

On these usually non-permanently inhabited islets, as on Masig itself, parcels of land are owned, visited, used, cared and spoken for by specific families who, in most cases, have inherited these zones from their ancestors.231 One of the Island’s Elders recounted how, until recently, community members have used their parcels of land on various islets to grow gardens or build sheds where people may spend an extensive amount of time. He himself was raising a few pigs on Meimei. Many of the fishers who use Meimei as a base to access their more distant fishing and diving grounds, have also indicated camping specifically on their, or their fishing partners’, family lands (see Chapter 6). As one of them explains, ‘any of the boys from that family, when they go camping that's where they go. […] It's not like fences, coconut trees232, it's just like they've always gone there, that's where they are always going to go’ (Inter., MC21, 2009). A few people on the Island explained that some trawler crew members occasionally have parties on the ‘uninhabited’ islands. At times, they have used, without permission, Masig fishers’ camps, angering some of them.

A simple stroll on any of these seemingly ‘vacant’ islets accompanied by a local custodian is enough to gain some insight on the relationships existing between specific persons or families and particular areas. For those who hold an intimate relationship with the area, the details of the landscape often prompt commentaries and stories about such connections.

From Masig Islanders’ standpoint, there are no such things as no man’s lands or mare nullius (Mulrennan & Scott, 2000). The sea, the land, the plants, animals, and people, even the sky and trade winds are all part of a socialised seascape that exists connected to each other.233 The human-land-seascape nexus is ubiquitous and what lies beyond Masig boundaries, in any direction, is known to belong to particular groups, including Papuan communities whose sea

230 Johannes and MacFarlane (1991, p. 83) referred to the garaz as ‘low rock enclosure’. 231 Land parcels are usually, but not exclusively, transmitted following the male lineage. In some instance outsiders with strong connections with the Island (tebud) have also been given parcels of land by Masig Islanders. This was the case of a few families from the villages of Sui and Parema in Papua New Guinea living on the Northern shore of Masig in areas controversially called Sui Village and Parema Village. 232 On Masig, coconut trees are often used as boundary markers. 233 See also Cordell (1989), Sharp (1998) and Mulrennan and Scott (2001) for similar accounts from other Torres Strait islands. 238 territories commence at the northern edge of Masig’s maritime domain. In other words, territories and peoples are indivisible.

Accordingly, proprietary rights, responsibilities and obligations associated with the land do not end at the water’s edge but continue seaward to include the reefs, seagrass beds and the body of water that unifies them. Yet, the Masig marine tenure system operates under rules that differ from those underlying their land tenure regime. Contrasting with the land, which, as mentioned above, is subdivided into parcels owned privately by specific families, Masig Islanders own and control their extensive saltwater estate collectively. Hence, as a collective, they share a variety of rights and responsibilities over most of their vast water territory. As discussed in Chapter Six, while some areas are named after or are associated with specific persons, living or deceased, most of this territory can be accessed and used by all Masig Islanders.

Masig’s sophisticated customary marine tenure system consists first and foremost in a social contract (for examples from other Melanesian contexts, see Hviding, 1996; Peterson & Rigsby, 1998; Scott & Mulrennan, 1999; Strang, 2009). Ownership of and interactions with Masig sea estate are both regulated by and ‘the product of social practices and processes’ and build on ‘relationships among people in regard to the object owned’ (Scott & Mulrennan, 1999, p. 148). Often locally glossed as ‘birth rights’, the sea rights and responsibilities associated with this tenure regime are primarily inherited through cognatic ancestry, usually including adopted kin. This inheritance includes rights to access, use, include or exclude outsiders as well as the rights and responsibilities to take care, share and reciprocate (with affinal relatives, for example), and, according to the circumstances, to speak for and make decisions about the territory. Also embedded in this tenure regime are duties to protect the territory from intruders, from overuses, as well as from what is locally regarded as inappropriate or bad practices. I will return to this in a moment.

It is perhaps over the liminal zones (i.e. beach, intertidal zones and territorial boundaries) that the contractual facet of this tenure regime is most evident. While, as highlighted above, Masig Islanders have unrestricted access over most of their saltwater estate, the rules underlying the use of the beach and intertidal zones reflect a balancing act between the Island’s land tenure

239 and sea tenure regimes. On the one hand, there is no restriction in term of access to these areas or fishing of mobile species. Thus, Masig Islanders and residents can circulate freely along the beach and ai (exposed seabed of the intertidal zone). They can swim, collect crabs for bait, throw lines and spears or cast nets to catch fish in the shallow waters. At night, they can hunt sugu (octopus), squid and warukaz (juvenile turtle) across the intertidal zone.

On the other hand, and illustrating the continuity existing between the land and sea, these zones are also locally recognised as an extension of the adjacent land or as people’s front yard. Hence, the landowners use these sections of the littoral as mooring areas for their boats and, when suitable, as a place where they keep their live cray cages while awaiting the buyers or where they temporarily tether live turtles. Various sub-ecosystems within these zones are utilised as garaz (sea gardens) where the landowners may gather from deeper areas and grow a range of sedentary species (e.g. clam shells, commercial species of bêche-de-mer, and bags of trochus shells). Small fish traps may also be installed in nearby intertidal lagoons, although none were used over the course of my fieldwork. On the Island, it is described as ‘common knowledge’ that any animal kept in garaz or caught in fish traps belongs to someone and therefore taking these without permission equates to stealing. A somewhat diluted version of these rules also applies to the intertidal zones surrounding the cays and islets within the wider Masig domain.

While there are no physical boundary markers demarcating landowners’ patches of littoral, Masig Islanders are, from a very young age, socialised into knowing the contours of everyone’s territories—which are not always uncontested—and the appropriate behaviours to display within each zone (e.g. respecting owners’ preferential rights, avoiding obstructing waterways leading to mooring points and refraining from installing permanent or semi- permanent structures in these areas).

The ‘social forms embodied in local inherited sea tenures’ (Sharp, 1998, p. 53), regrouped in this context under the notion of gud pasin, also include rules pertaining to fishing, hunting and distributing Masig’s common pool of resources. Acknowledging simultaneously the collective and finite nature of the marine resources and the fundamentally relational underpinning of their engagement with and through their marine domain, Masig Islanders’ fishing and hunting activities are significantly guided by what they commonly describe as a ‘take

240 only what you need’ ethos (see Menzies & Butler, 2007a). This relational, needs-based and circumstance-driven principle applies to both commercial and customary use of the marine domain and, while not antithetical to the tenet of ecological sustainability, it draws on a different axiological, epistemological and ontological standpoint.

This ‘take only what you need’ ethos is also associated with Masig Islanders’ relatively limited appetite for ever growing cash income and material wealth, which tends to translate into a decline in commercial fishing effort when prices are high, as fishers meet their cash objective faster on those occasions. This echoes what Scott et al. also observed on Erub, ‘production may decline if people can meet their cash needs earlier by producing less for a higher price’ (forthcoming, see also Mulrennan, 2002). Exemplifying this limited desire for endless profit is a comment made by one of Masig’s fishers about the closure of the bêche-de-mer sector in the early 2000s. His comment was that if the Tasmanian company that was buying the produce over that period had paid a better price per kilo for the species, they would have collected a lot less produce than they did as they would have achieved their targets in no time (Pers. Comm., MC2, 2009).

Taking more than what is considered sufficient or appropriate in given situations, commercially or otherwise, or failing to share when one has caught more than enough for oneself or one’s family is often associated with greed, selfishness and being a ‘lone ranger’. It is considered a lack of courtesy and a breach of gud pasin (i.e. bad pasin). Failing to share or perform one’s social responsibility as part of a broader family and community is likely to be frowned upon if noticed (see also Mulrennan, 2002). As what could be described as a breach of ‘basic sociality’ (Lahn, 2003), repeated failures to perform such duties may have deeper negative social repercussions for the person or group considered at fault. These repercussions may include pressure from Elders to change one’s behaviour, forms of public shaming or exclusion from reciprocal exchanges and community life—‘something for something’ as some say. Conversely, given the internalised view that one should offer part of his or her catch when coming across an extended family or broader community member, especially when being asked, people also occasionally draw on strategies to control what and how much they give and at times, keep the whole catch (for discussion on such strategies, see Lahn, 2006). People may be asked to share when coming across people on their way back home while carrying a lot of fish. The obligation

241 to give is also to some degree defined by the relationship of the person with the person met Elders, uncles, youngsters etc. As an Elder explains,

[c]ommercial fishing now you got your fish for yourself. How many catch you got, you got a good income. When you go fish for the house. Like up there when D and J and […] L. They were walking; exercise walking and they came along and D’s husband come and had three mackerels. He just gone for fish for the house. Three mackerels. He gave one to his daughter and keep one for the family and give J the other one. And J shared that fish. D came with the fish head part and L got the tail part and J got the middle part for himself. But he shared the fish. That’s because that lifestyle he grew up with. He would have felt bad because they were walking together and he gave J that fish. So they come to his place and he shared the fish between the three. He keeps a small piece for himself. D came with the head for soup. (Inter., MC3, 2008).

Embedded in the practice of gud pasin and underpinning Masig Islanders’ sharing ethics is the recognition that the resource belongs to everyone, but also that not everyone has either the physical or material capacity to fish and hunt—especially when a boat is required—or the opportunity to engage in such activities regularly. Therefore, when people go fishing they will often have in mind an Elder, family members or neighbours with whom they will share their catch or for whom they will target specific species. As a fundamental principle of Masig’s sociality in this context, sharing is particularly important when a dugong or large turtle or substantial catch are involved. Perceptions that the catch has been distributed unfairly are likely to trigger frustrations especially for those who have been or feel left out.

Exclusive zones, shared territories and the creation of relationships

I have mentioned above that Masig marine tenure relates to similar institutions in place across the Torres Strait. As custodians of their vast maritime domain, Masig Islanders have a detailed knowledge of their territorial margins. These boundaries are, however, not as sharply delineated as they appeared on previous mapping attempts (Johannes & MacFarlane, 1991). Instead, exclusive territories gradually merge into shared zones which, depending on the location, are controlled, and negotiated between the neighbouring island communities of Iama,

242

Poruma, Warraber, Erub, Mer and Ugar.234 Within the region, these inter-mediated sea-spaces, which stretch well beyond the Torres Strait Protected Zone boundaries, encompass important fishing and hunting territories for members of the island groups who jointly own these areas. For Masig Islanders, these zones comprise most of their tropical rock lobster, trochus shell, turtle, and bêche-de-mer commercial, subsistence and ceremonial fishing, hunting and collecting grounds.

Map 7.2, Masig marine territories and shared zones. Thomassin and Markham, 2016 The social forms embedded in Masig’s customary marine tenure regime also comprise rules and mechanisms guiding Masig Islanders’ relationships and interactions with members of other Island communities and trade partners. Whether within their exclusive zones or across the fishing and hunting territories they share with the communities named above, Masig Islanders expect from outsiders that they will respect their boundaries by seeking their consent before fishing or hunting in their waters.

234 There is no significant reef directly north of Masig. Masig Islanders have therefore no economic incentive to venture into Papuan waters other than when they travel to the Treaty villages. Papuans are however using the reefs located within the Torres Strait water south of the PNG/Australian fisheries jurisdiction both legally and illegally. 243

The possibility to make such request depends largely on the visitor’s existing relationships with members of the host community. However, embedded in Masig’s gud pasin and customary marine tenure regime are mechanisms to incorporate outsiders within their network of reciprocal relationships. Hence, in addition to kin and affines, tebud235 relations, that is, people with no or very distant family ties with Masig Islanders who have been adopted by local families236, are included among the people allowed to seek permission to fish in Masig waters. Thus, access to another group’s resources draws significantly on the maintenance and creation of reciprocal relationships237 between members of different communities including people from the ‘Treaty villages’238. In other words, and as Butterly suggests, ‘[i]t could be argued that the laws and customs of reciprocity link specific members of the larger Torres Strait society to others and to their [the others’] land and waters’ (2013, p. 251)

In his seminal essay on ‘the Gift’ (Essai sur le don), Mauss (2002 (1925)) explains how gift-giving and exchange practices, which in the present case take the form of hospitality and granting access to one’s territories and resources, are first and foremost a strategy to build alliances and solidarity between groups. The act of granting or asking permission for access to territory and resources is a binding social contract characterised by tacit obligations to give, to receive, and reciprocate. By granting or asking such permission, both side of the relationship are ‘involved in sharing and therefore connecting with multiple environmental and social identities (Scott & Mulrennan, 2010, p. 151). These ‘gifts’ are generators of social relations which have significant moral, political, and economic ramifications; they provide the right to demand, and likely be given access to resources beyond one’s boundaries.

Requests to fish in one’s area are usually accepted. Refusing such request without a good reason is likely to be interpreted as bad pasin and a possible threat to the relationships at play.

235 Tebud relations (adopted as brother or sister, a relationship akin to friendship) are different from garapuyi (adopted as son or daughter). 236 Such relationship creation is exemplified in this quote recounting earlier Papuan trading visits: ‘[w]hen they used to come from New Guinea […] Ol dem people coming there sitting on their mats coming to trade. Dempla used to stay for a month, trade for everything. Dempla stay with family or stay with people that adopted dem. That’s how you create relationships’ (Inter., MC8, 2009). 237 Shnukal talk about the creation of roads (see Chapter 4). 238 For example, Masig Elder, Aka Daisy Kabai mentioned during the Poruma Sea Claim hearing (2008) that “when they [visitors from the Treaty villages] come to Masig, they don’t dive for cray [don’t take commercial catches] but they ask if they can fish for food. When they go back home, they ask to take some back home’ 244

Visitors who have been granted the permission to fish or hunt within Masig sea territory will usually be accompanied on the water by a member of the community. This prevents eliciting the suspicion of other community members who may question the presence of these outsiders on their water. For the visitors, it also means that they benefit from their hosts’ intimate knowledge of the area.

The reality of fishing and hunting involves a certain level of serendipity. On occasions, outsiders may catch a variety of marine species while en route to, or passing through Masig territory for numerous reasons (gift for the host family, something to exchange against fuel or to bring to a feast, etc.). These catches are usually for non-commercial purposes and in most cases, at least part of what is caught in these circumstances will be shared with members of the community. As Victor Lui, Masig Turtle and Dugong Officer, explains, ‘[i]f you go and catch a turtle to say we go over Darnley and catch turtle on the way. We got to go and tell them we already caught a turtle there on their reef. And we have to cut the turtle there. Then, probably share some meat there and take it back. Show some traditional culture with each other. Sharing…’ (Inter., 2009). The system is thereby flexible enough to allow the visitors to take opportunities when they arise. This protocol, which Masig Islanders also abide by when travelling outside their territorial waters, is based on courtesy, mutual respect, and expectations of reciprocity. As stressed by one Masig fisher, people would not just travel to another community’s land or sea territory to fish, hunt or collect what they want. ‘You know the boundaries’, you are ‘exposed to them and you learn about them from when you are a kid… it’s mutual respect’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009).

‘In such a world’, Scott and Mulrennan remind us, ‘boundaries (both physical and social) are taken seriously’ (2010, p. 151). Depending on the circumstances, being caught breaching this protocol can lead to the eviction of the identified trespasser and, in some case to chases, disputes and violent arguments. Failing to practice gud pasin equates to breaking a social contract and relationships with members of the community. In the past trespassing on others’ land-sea territories and failing to ask permission was considered a hostile gesture and was likely to result in violent (and often fatal) altercations (Pers. Comm. MC26, 2009; see also Sharp, 2002, p. 3 for examples from Mer)

245

The Torres Strait Sea Claims Federal Court hearing held on Poruma in October 2008 was particularly insightful in exposing a broader and rather cohesive Kulkalgal perspective regarding sea territories’ boundaries and ownership as well as associated protocols of access and resource use. It also highlighted a common understanding among Kulkalgal peoples that the resources accessible within each of these territories are the preserve of the owner or co-owner group(s) for as long as they are within their frontiers.

In principle, the customary protocols regulating the access to and use of Islander groups’ maritime domains and resources also apply to non-Islanders, whether they are visitors from the ‘Treaty villages’, commercial fishers from Australia’s mainland and Papua New Guinea or marine and social scientists of various affiliations. Yet, and as I will explain in Chapter Eight and Nine, when it comes to controlling the movements and activities of outsiders, Masig and wider Torres Strait laws of the sea are consistently limited and overshadowed by Australia’s colonial laws, policies and practices.

Hence, despite Masig Islanders unremitting resistance and fights for their rights to make decisions on all matters concerning their territorial sea, the presence of non-Islander commercial fishers within these waters is sanctioned through a permit system stemming from Australia’s own claims of sovereignty over the Torres Strait waters, which overlook Masig sea tenure regime. Yet, notwithstanding a general disregard for Indigenous marine tenure regime and social institutions, non-Islander commercial fishing practices are not absolutely disconnected from Masig’s regime. The prolonged presence of several experienced sea folks in Masig’s waters—in some cases spanning over a few decades—has made possible the creation of nuanced relationships between Masig Islanders and these seasonal visitors as well as between these visitors and the region’s waters. Masig Islanders’ and TVH boats’ crew members interact occasionally, either at sea or on the Island over rare visits to one of the two small local stores.239

239 Dan Mosby explained that in the 1970s, he was running an informal laundry service targeting non-Islander fishing boats. When the company Skytrans had a route connecting Masig and Cairns, the airliner was frequently used by prawn fishers to travel to and off their fishing grounds. People from Masig also meet up with trawlers operators at times to get prawns. 246

During the 1990s, following the ‘Fishing War’ episode (see Chapter 5), ‘gentlemen’s agreements’240 were negotiated between TVH fishers and Island communities across the Strait. Based on these non-legally binding agreements, Islander communities conditionally assented to the TVH operators pursuing their activities in the region provided they remained outside a three to twenty nautical mile radius (depending on the island) of the communities’ home reefs and other areas of significance such as Maizab Kaur (Bramble Cay) (Inter. MC21, 2009; MC23, 2009, MC9, 2008; see also Arthur, 1997; Haigh, 1999a, 2000; Noah, 2000; Mulrennan, 2002; Loban et al., 2012). The extent to which these distances were accepted by non-Islander commercial operators is another question (Pers. Comm. Scott, 2016).

From a Masig Islander perspective, such agreements, while involving significant compromises, constitute an exercise and an assertion of their customary responsibilities and rights to control and circumscribe which practices are acceptable or not within their vast unceded marine domain. It is an affirmation that regardless of the licensed ‘rights’ to fish obtained from the PZJA by non-Islander commercial fishers, these fishers are required to respect Masig’s customary marine tenure regime (or at least aspects of it). As one of the Island’s representatives stressed, ‘[y]ou just can't come and drop your anchor here without having us say something’ (Inter., MC21, 2009).

From the standpoint of at least some TVH operators, these agreements represent an acknowledgement on their part, of the importance of these resources for the Island communities (see Aguillar statement in Noah, 2000).

Gentlemen’s agreements, like the relationships between Masig Islanders and the various TVH operators in place in 2008-2010, remained rather precarious and characterised by sporadic tensions. As Mulrennan reminds us, ‘there is nothing in official licensing or regulation to prevent entry even into the ten-mile zone, so incidents at sea have continued’ (2002). Hence, many community members have suggested that there is a need for formal arrangements and exclusion zones to be put in place; a position at the base of the regional Sea claims (see also Sharp (1998)

240 A gentlemen’s agreement consists in an informal contract based on the good faith of the parties involved. Such agreements are not legally binding.

247 with regards to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders seeking legal empowerment in relation to their marine territorial rights). ‘No more shaking hands and nodding heads’, argued Masig’s CFG (Inter., MC21, 2009). ‘You got to have it in black and white so if it’s being infringed it can be liable you know’ (ibid.). Further, Masig Islanders remain wary of the scale of non-Islanders’ commercial activities in their waters and frustrated to watch a large quantity of resources being fished away without generating profit for local businesses and councils. These concerns notably extended to external proposals for aquaculture projects in Masig waters (Pers. Comm., MC23, 2014).

While not directly involved in extractive activities yet strongly influencing fisheries management strategies and marine policies (including the creation of ‘paper fish’ (Minnegal & Dwyer, 2011) discussed in Chapter 2 and 9), researchers and scientists whose studies focus on marine environments or fisheries related issues are also expected to obtain permissions from (and work with) the relevant Island community members and institutions if they wish to undertake research in the Torres Strait.

Akin to the non-Islander commercial fishers, fisheries scientists’ presence in Torres Strait waters has, for a long time, been commissioned and justified by the colonial bureaucracy. Anchored in a decolonisation process, the expectations and demands for the scientists to engage significantly with the customary custodians of each sea territory involved in their studies was a salient topical issue at the time of my fieldwork. This is not to say that Masig Islanders or other Islander communities were opposed to the conduct of all marine research. On the contrary, many on Masig were interested in, or were already engaging with various scientists and had worked alongside some of the research teams (Inter., MC5, 2009; MC4, 2008; MC9 2008). Requests from the Islander side to be appropriately consulted, but also to have the integrity of their territories respected gave rather clear demonstration of their right and responsibilities to control what goes on within their respective sea domains which draw on their marine tenure regimes. Such expectations also apply to scientific teams who work solely from their boats without having to set foot on any island communities. Again, failure to engage with the owners of these saltwater territories is considered bad pasin and generates frustrations in the communities concerned. This shows that marine domains are integral elements of each Island group’s estate. At the time of my fieldwork, some researchers involved in the Torres Strait, notably those who

248 are monitoring the prawn and tropical rock lobster fisheries, have little if any interaction with Outer Islanders while conducting their survey off their boats. Many marine scientists were also unsure of the protocols they needed to follow (see Chapter 9).241 Other teams, however, such as the sponge research team from the Australian Institute of Marine Science (AIMS) who have lasting and multilayered engagements and collaborations with Masig colleagues and community members were highly regarded on the Island.

Relational ‘hybrid’ economy

On Masig, being a fisher is not so much a job or a profession but an integral part of the Island’s lifeways. As demonstrated through this thesis, it is something that Masig Islanders are socialised into from a very young age, which they can turn to in times of need, which puts food on the table, and provides a main or extra source of income, while producing and strengthening social relationships. Combining commercial, subsistence, and ritual fishing and hunting practices across the Island’s sea domain, Masig’s fisheries are a key constituent of a broader socioeconomic system that can be approached as a relational hybrid economy.

In the early 2000s, Jon Altman theorised the hybrid economy model to make sense of Indigenous Australians’ diverse economies. Stemming notably from his long-term engagement with the Kuninjku people of Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory, Altman postulates that Indigenous economies in remote Australia comprise three interdependent sectors—not only the state and the market sectors but also the customary sector; the latter often overlooked in conventional development models and official statistics (Altman, 2001b). It is important to note here, as Altman also argues, that empirically, none of these three ‘highly interdependent’ sectors ‘exists in isolation in some “pure form”’ (2009b, p. 8).

241 Over that period, Martin and Vicky Nakata were commissioned to produce a formal protocol for the researchers working on fisheries related issues (Nakata & Nakata, 2009). 249

Fig. 7.1 The hybrid economy model, Source: Altman (2006)

This interdependence between sectors is one of the prime foci of Altman’s model as most of the significant productive activities occur where these sectors overlap. Another aspect of the model strongly emphasised by Altman is its high plasticity—its iterations ‘differ[ing] from place to place and from time to time’ (2006, p. 6). The articulation and size of each sector and overlap vary depending on the socioeconomic context,242 on seasonal changes and political climate, on the nature of the interconnections between these sectors and on a range of other internal and external factors including political changes. I would argue that the dynamic and locally tailored articulations and interdependence between these three sectors, as well as Islander flexible engagements with them, constitute a strength of Masig’s economic system. Masig Islanders’ dynamic economic strategies are also a mechanism that both facilitates participation in commercial, subsistence and ceremonial fisheries and reduces the pressure on local marine ecosystems through their capacity to offer alternatives to fishing.

242 For example, in 2009, with the looming decommission of the Community Development Employment Projects (CDEP Masig Islanders were expecting to see important changes happening in the articulations of these three sectors. 250

I have argued elsewhere (Thomassin, 2016) that Masig’s hybrid economy is a vessel for, as well as an expression and activation of, local ‘life projects’ or, as Gibson-Graham put it, of ‘performative ontological project[s]’ (2008) and ‘site[s] of economic differences’ (1996). Over the last two decades, a number of Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars and activists worldwide have come to embrace the concept of life projects as a holistic, local and dynamic alternative to the dominant paradigm of development (Blaser et al., 2004). Emerging in the late 1990s, notably through the work of Gow (1997) and Escobar (1998), the notion of life projects is described as ‘being about the possibility [of Indigenous peoples] defining the direction they want to take in life, on the basis of their awareness and knowledge of their own place in the world’ (Blaser, 2004a, p. 30). These projects, Blaser suggests, are ‘always in the making’ (2004a, p. 38), and can be considered as ‘a politics and epistemology of resilience that assume relations, flows and openendedness as their ontological ground’ (2004b, p. 54).

Bound to local agendas, standpoints and aspirations, these life projects exist in ‘relative autonomy’ (Morphy & Morphy, 2013) from exogenous timeframes, objectives, and associated constructions and measures of development. They are independent of attempts by government and non-governmental organisations to improve abstract and generic socioeconomic indicators and remedy statistical gaps. As relatively autonomous Indigenous articulations,243 these life projects reveal the ‘possibility of participating in economic or cultural activities that enable them to engage with aspects of the [wider society] without changing or compromising other aspects of their way of life or their beliefs’ (Morphy & Morphy, 2013, p. 176; see also Shnukal, 2004b). Hence, without diminishing the numerous constraints and disempowering impacts of ongoing colonial processes at play in this context, Masig Islanders drive and articulate their life projects, economic hybridity and engagements with their fisheries largely in accordance with their own ethos and their dynamic societal, cultural, ecological and economic circumstances.

243 I am using the concept of articulation in the sense conveyed by James Clifford and not in reference to the marxist theory of articulation of the modes of production. In Clifford’s words, ‘[a]rticulation […] evokes a deeper sense of the “political”—productive processes of consensus, exclusion, alliance, and antagonism that are inherent in the transformative life of all societies’ (Clifford, 2001, p. 473). As Agrawal suggests, ‘[t]he strength of the concept of articulation in relation to Indigenous claims is that it allows one to move away from rigid notions about what constitutes oppositional interests and politics in favour of greater attention to the contingencies involved in crafting a common front’ (2005b, p. 80). 251

A few authors have referred to the hybrid economy model in the context of today’s Torres Strait, mostly to underline the synergy between commercial and subsistence fishing, government transfer payments and paid work in the private or public sectors (Arthur & Davis, 2004; Marsh et al., 2004; Arthur, 2005a, 2005b; Grayson et al., 2006; Kwan et al., 2006; Busilacchi et al., 2013). Busilacchi et al. write that ‘[e]ven though Australia is a developed nation, indigenous people in Torres Strait still rely on what has been defined as a “hybrid economy”’ (2013, p. 2; italics added). While it may not have been the authors’ intention, rather than making visible and envisaging the potential of these economic alternatives, the emphasis on the developed nation status of Australia and the use of the word still appear to position contemporary Islanders’ economic strategies as an intermediate phase on a continuum progressing from purely ‘traditional’ to fully-fledged capitalist economies.

I suggest, in line with Buchanan (2014, p. 12), that local hybrid economies are ‘more than merely transitional to capitalist incorporation’. Instead, local hybrid economies may be better understood as alternatives to development (e.g. Altman, 2011), as performances of diverse economies (Gibson-Graham, 2006) and expression of Islanders’ ‘contemporaneities’ (Poirier, 2000). They are the upshot of local Indigenous groups’ positions, decisions and conditions about the nature and desired level of adherence to the capitalist system and mainstream norms. As such, Torres Strait Islanders’ contemporary hybrid economies may be approached as enacted and emerging individual and collective life projects and as expressions of Islanders’ self- determination, resistance, resilience, aspirations, ownership of and connections with their lands and sea. Entangled in uneven power relations characteristic of the ongoing colonisation processes at play in this context, these other economies may not fully achieve Islanders’ aspirations. Yet, as Escobar suggests, referring to the scholarship of Gibson-Graham, Islander economies may provide guidance to ‘liberating the economic imaginary from its sole reliance on the languages of capital, individuals, markets, and the like’ (2008, p. 74).

Hence, and in line to some extent with other alternative economic movements and practices examined by Gibson-Graham, Altman’s hybrid economy model allows for ‘resocializing [and ‘repoliticizing’ as they subsequently add] economic relations’ (Gibson- Graham, 2006, p. 79 and 88) upholding economic systems such as Masig’s. This process, they argue, ‘involves making explicit the sociality that is always present, and thus constituting the

252 various forms and practices of interdependence as matters for reflection, discussion, negotiation, and action’ (Gibson-Graham, 2006, p. 88).

In the customary marine tenure regime section of this chapter, I have begun, although rather simplistically, to outline aspects of Masig Islanders’ ‘ethics of connection’, to borrow again from Gibson-Graham (2006, p. 88). Masig Islanders’ relational ontology, which places the collective (which itself includes relationships with non-humans) rather than the individual at the centre of their sociality, is a fundamental aspect defining their hybrid economy. It defines the nature of the relationships between peoples and between peoples and their land, their sea and everything they encompass. As detailed earlier, the sea is tied into a web of relationships and associated with underlying rules of relationality. It is a sentient seascape with which Masig Islanders are deeply connected through mythical and recent ancestry. Their relational ontology guides the way Masig Islanders interact with and through their maritime domain. The rights to fish, hunt, and make a living from the sea across Masig’s domain are predicated upon specific relationships and delineated by the encompassing principle of gud pasin. Their interactions with their marine domain are tied to specific responsibilities towards the sea and towards other Masig Islanders and obligations to reciprocate through various channels. This underlying relationality shapes Masig Islanders’ rights, responsibilities and obligations towards each other as owners, kin or tebud, towards their sea domain and the species that live there, and towards outsiders, structuring their hybrid economy and their personal engagements within it.

The moral responsibility to share is also an expression of Masig’s relational ontology. Fitzpatrick (1991, p. 336) stressed that ‘among Islanders, the sharing ethic particularly associated with kinship, remains strong even within the contemporary competitive and escalating entrepreneurial setting of the Torres Strait region’. Masig Islanders share the responsibility to look after each other. Personal income and material gains earned from their participation in the various sectors of their hybrid economy are likely to be distributed, to a certain extent, among direct or extended family members and friends. In the words of one of the local fishers: ‘here especially everyone got commitment for family. You know all that kind of stuff takes money off your pockets too. Everyone wants to get ahead but sometimes even when you are getting ahead a lot of things are coming out of your pockets. […] It's totally different the custom of living in this region’ (Inter., MC21, 2009). Also illustrating this point is Masig Elder Gabriel Nai’s response to

253 the Standing Committee on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Affairs: ‘[w]e island men have a different way of looking after one another. […] If you do not have a power card244, I will give you one. That is how it is on the island. We say, ‘If you run out of sugar, come and ask me. I’ll give you sugar. I’ll give you milk. I’ll give you peanut butter’ (2009, p. 41). Feasts also epitomise these responsibilities to relate, share and reciprocate (i.e. perform gud pasin).

Masig small-boat fishery system in their relational hybrid economy

Masig Islanders’ relational ontology and hybrid economic system have a central influence on the way local fishers conduct themselves on the water, how they use and distribute their marine resources and how they relate through them. Masig’s fishery system is at the core of the Island’s broader economic system. As alluded to in Chapter Six, most active fishers on the Island fish commercially on a part-time basis; combining marine work with other types of land- based employment including work through CDEP.

Masig’s fishery system itself dynamically articulates the three sectors of the Island’s hybrid economy; operating largely at what Altman coined ‘the bliss point’ (e.g. the point where the 3 sectors overlap (centre of the Venn diagram presented above). During most, if not all, fishing trips, multiple species are caught simultaneously for commercial and non-commercial purposes using a combination of techniques and gear chosen according to changing environmental circumstances and personal preferences. The fuel consumed over these trips may have been purchased using wages earned through land-based employment or through participation in CDEP activities. Participation in the commercial and customary fisheries is also supported by small business grants obtained from the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA). These enable Masig Islanders to buy boats and outboard engines. As explained in Chapter Six, fishers involved in commercial activities take seafood for their own sustenance over the course of fishing excursions and will also fish, hunt or collect a variety of species to share with their household.245 Depending on the size of the catch, the fishers may also share with members of

244 On Torres Strait outer island communities, electricity costs are paid in advance through a swipe card system. 245 This includes so-called ‘commercial’ species like tropical rock lobster or coral trout. A variety of fish, crustaceans, and molluscs are taken for subsistence. Masig Islanders’ fishing methods do not usually produce by- catch. Thus, species taken for consumption are usually targeted as such. 254 their extended family and neighbours. In other words, the market, state, and customary sectors act in synergy with each other.

A Masigalgal mixed economy was in place in the precolonial era, combining trade, subsistence and ceremonial economic sectors. Their involvement with the monetised market sector began around the mid-1860s while the state sector emerged in the early 1900s. As Ganter (1994), Nakata (2004), Mullins (2012) and others have documented for the wider Torres Strait region, Islanders have creatively modulated their participation in the marine industry based on their needs, values and lifeways as well as on the caprices of the regional commercial fisheries.

During over 150 years of involvement in the commercial fisheries, Masig families have lived through the boom and bust of this industry. Their responses to this highly variable context have been to change their target species when needed, to look for employment on the land, or to migrate to Thursday Island or further afield on the mainland, with many joining the cane-cutting agricultural labour force in Queensland, railway construction, or pearl farm operations in Broome (Western Australia). The collapse of the trochus shell industry in the 1960s, combined with newly granted rights for Indigenous Australians to claim welfare benefits (1967) and the expansion of the CDEP scheme to the Torres Strait region in early 1980s, contributed to increased Islanders’ use246 of government subsidies and programs (e.g. CDEP) and money from relatives living on the mainland (Arthur, 1998). While not design as such, CDEP operated like a basic income (Altman & Klein, 2018) for the fishers, and other participating community members.

In 2008–2010, Masig Islanders were primarily employed in land-based activities247 as public servants, as workers for the few private employers, as participants in the CDEP scheme,

246 I have deliberately chosen the word ‘use’ over words with more negative connotations such as ‘rely’ or ‘depend’. This choice reflects the historical financial deprivation and dispossession imposed by some marine entrepreneurs (from the mid-1800s) and the colonial administration (from the early 1900s), including the appropriation of Islanders’ marine territories, the stripping of their marine resources, the control of their labour and movements, as well as the underpayment, control and misuse of their wages. These acts of wide scale dispossession and disempowerment maintained Islanders in conditions of poverty and rendered them vulnerable to fisheries and market collapses that notably underpinned their need to turn to government subsidies (in the absence of government compensation for the harms caused and appropriation of resources and territories). 247 The part-time fishers who collaborated in this research where also employed in a range of occupations (sometimes cumulatively): police officer, custom and immigration officer, taxi driver (on Thursday Island), operational diver (sponge farm), teaching aid, carpenter, CDEP officer, IT trainer, Council elected member, freezer operator, CDEP participant, etc. 255 or a combination of the above. Masig Islanders of working age tend to be occupationally mobile, many of them holding multiple paid roles and positions—often concurrently but also over time.248 In addition, many were earning regular or occasional extra income through commercial fishing as independent, small owner-operators or fishing partners of one of the Island’s boat owners. Over the period covered by this research, Masig had up to three men who derived their income solely from commercial fishing, despite the Island freezer and processing plant not being in operation over this period.

When CDEP was the principal source of government transfer payments in the Torres Strait (until 2011), many Masig Islanders saw it as paying the bills, but regarded the ‘real money’ as being in the sea (Inter., MC8, 2009). Land-based paid work (including CDEP) provided people with a certain economic stability which was complemented by a flexible level of engagement with the fisheries. While the community had only a few full-time fishers and a variable number of part-timers, the commercial and subsistence harvesting of marine resources was nevertheless considered as economically significant for most, if not all, community members and to contribute to the resilience of their whole socioeconomic system.

As described in Chapter Six, the Islanders’ multispecies and multipurpose small-boat fisheries are greatly limited by weather conditions, seasonal migrations and market accessibility. Islander fishing efforts tend to fluctuate with the seasons and the presence of buyers. For Masig Islanders the ability to combine or alternate between species or to shift to land-based activities constitutes a way of maximising returns from each excursion and securing a minimum income all year round. This flexible approach allows fishers to make the most of any circumstances. Such an approach reduces reliance on a particular species or single source of income, results in periods of rest and rotation for the target species and increases the resilience of the whole system. This enables fishers to adapt to the vagaries of the markets, fuel prices and availability, family circumstances and obligations, and other socioeconomic factors. The combination of land-based and sea-based work allows the fishers to stay close to their family, a desire seen as contrasting

248 Arthur and David-Petero’s survey on Torres Strait youth career aspirations has revealed similar patterns from 1999 to 2003 (Arthur & David-Petero, 2000). 256 with more intensive fisheries models that require fishers to remain at sea for long periods of time.

From its introduction on Masig in 1985, CDEP has played a supporting role for the local fishery system (for discussions about the articulation between CDEP and Torres Strait fisheries see Altman et al., 1994b; Arthur, 2005b; Kwan et al., 2006; Busilacchi et al., 2013). On Masig, a large number of regular commercial fishers combined work on the CDEP scheme and fishing activities.

Debates about CDEP are too complex to detail here. However, it is important to note that sentiments about the scheme were mixed. While there is a sentiment that CDEP has helped supporting the local fishery system, there is also a view that the program may have impeded the local fishing effort. Arthur (2005b, p. 11) states, ‘in part because of CDEP, the Islander fishery may not be (or need to be) as intensive as the non-Islander fishery’. Some of the Elders who lived during the pre-CDEP period partly attributed the ‘laziness’ of younger Masig Islanders to the scheme; highlighting that the younger generations don’t have the pressure they used to have before such a program existed. Looking back at their own life, they linked their general hardship to their appetite for hard work as well as the dedication and work ethics of their forebears involved in the marine industry (Inter., MC23, 2009). As one of the local fishers argues, ‘that's the main idea about CDEP on the Island... It’s [there] so if there is a cultural thing up on the Island so everybody get involved... but to fish we need the whole community... to fish to get the industry going we need everyone...’ (Inter., MC7, 2009).

I have been told on many occasions that ‘CDEP is for the rent and the bills, fishing is for the rest’. For many years, to accommodate fishers, the CDEP schedule was designed around two teams working in rotation (one week on, one week off) to allow fishers to go to sea. Arthur (2005) also suggests that, as a form of income support, CDEP helped relieve pressure on the fishery. Indeed, the disappearance and reappearance of commercial options can destabilise the local economy. CDEP helped to minimise the impacts of such ebbs and flows and therefore constituted an important and stabilising dimension of Masig’s hybrid economy.

The schedule of having CDEP participants working alternate weeks was implemented to increase participation in fisheries and make the freezer profitable. Nevertheless, in most cases,

257 aspirations to increase the fishing effort were circumscribed by fishers’ preferences regarding levels of extraction and the accumulation of capital. In other words, Masig Islanders’ fishing behaviour tends to be governed more by variable and finite needs and by the collective nature of the resource than by aspirations to make as much money as possible by using the fisheries to their optimal yield.

Other community members were happy with a combination of part-time or occasional participation in various fisheries with land-based work, as opposed to larger-scale approaches. This model allowed them to be there for their families and participate in community life. It also meant that people could go fishing when money or seafood were needed for various celebrations, funerals and weddings, to send their teenagers to high school on the mainland, to buy a car or a freezer, and so on.

There was a shared view among Masig Islanders and across the Torres Strait that increasing returns from commercial fisheries were the main means by which they could achieve economic independence and political autonomy. Yet, despite the small size of Masig community, people’s aspirations for future development of the fisheries were diverse. Some Islander leaders and some of the more intensive fishers wished to see participation in commercial fishing increase significantly. Among them, a number hoped to see a small fleet of 8–9 metre boats developed, possibly in collaboration with the other three communities of the Central Strait. Along these lines, one of the Island representatives stressed that a ‘new breed of professional fishermen’ was needed for the Island’s existing commercial freezer to be cost-effective and to get a better fuel price (Inter., MC23, 2009).

Others supported the existing dinghy model, which gives a lot of independence to each fisher, but wanted to see the Island’s most able-bodied men (some also included women) taking part in the fishery in order keep the freezer going. As one of the full-time fishers interviewed mentioned, ‘some people only use it when it’s Christmas period’, emphasising that if they shifted to full-time fishing, they would benefit from the freezer’ (Inter., MC2, 2009).

Hence, the desire to increase individual levels of participation in fishing was not shared evenly among the community’s fishers. Given the small size of the population, this diversity of views poses some challenges for the development of the fisheries on a larger scale. Yet, as

258 happened during the pearling era, arrangements between custodians of the broader Kulkalgal region and beyond may be a way to increase recruitment. Other avenues for increased participation are being envisaged. For example, Masig’s hybrid economy was drawn upon to develop locally-owned and -based aquaculture projects, such as a pilot sponge farm, providing part-time employees to support the project. The project was born out of a collaboration between sponge scientists, Masig project managers, and divers, the latter supported by the CDEP scheme. It notably responded to increased global demand for sea sponge associated with the collapse of the sea sponge (bath sponge) stock in the Mediterranean Sea.

Conclusions

In line with Gibson-Graham (1996, 2008), Escobar (2008), Blaser (2004a, 2009b) and others, this chapter aimed, first and foremost, at making visible alternative economic forms which draw on other socialities and ontological perspectives. By examining Masig Islanders’ customary marine tenure regime and relational hybrid economic system, my aim has been to repoliticise, and resocialise the seascape, local economy and fisheries and show the intricate interrelations and interdependence between Masig Islanders sea- and land-based economic activities. This chapter also proceeded to unpack some of the rules, rights and responsibilities underpinning Masig Islanders’ engagement with their marine domain and their ramifications for the local fisheries and broader economy. What emerges, is a portrait of the Island fisheries, economies and wider lifeways that are strongly centred on the wellbeing and wealth of the collective rather than individuals. It also began to outline how the Australian state has located itself and non-Islander industrial fishers outside Masig Islanders’ social contract over which it is superimposing new values and relationships with the seascape.

In this chapter, I have necessarily simplified the Masigalgal socioeconomic, political and ontological standpoints. Whether the focus is on the local fishery or on the Island’s broader economic regime, Masig Islanders (as individuals, families or community) modulate the market, state, and non-monetary sectors of their economy in ways that are informed by and foster their social relations and lifeways. Since the early 1900s, if not earlier, customised juxtapositions and superimpositions of these three economic sectors have, to a certain extent, allowed Masig Islanders to interact with their land and sea territories and resources on their own terms, that is, in accordance with their values, tenure regime, needs and aspirations. This strategy, to

259 paraphrase a collaborator from another island, reveals their tendency to privilege lifestyle and families over a relentless pursuit of profit and accumulation of wealth (Pers. Comm. Lui, 2010). This strategy is also driven by the political objectives to regain control over their waters and resources, to continue living in and off their maritime domain, and to secure a future for those among their descendants who may wish to live on Masig.

Like several remote localities in Australia, the Island offers very few mainstream employment opportunities. In such circumstances, Masig Islanders’ capacity to weave together the customary, state and market sectors of their local economy enables them to deal with the caprices of the weather, fish stocks and markets, and the quirks of the job market with its waves of shortages and opportunities.

As a vessel for diverse life projects, a way to seize opportunities, and a means to respond to economic, demographic and political challenges, Masig Islanders’ flexible hybrid economy, while entangled with colonial processes, can be described as an expression of their self- determination and relative autonomy. Accordingly, it seems wise to approach these economic strategies and underpinning systems and regimes as salient foundations and drivers of each island community’s alternative to development.

260

Chapter Eight: Fishing and hunting as management: the everyday life of managing, taking care of and speaking for Masig saltwater domain, resources and small-boat fisheries

Masig Islanders’ contemporary marine resource management is a complex of practices defined by their marine tenure regime, economic rationale, kinship relations, intimate and relational socio-ecological knowledge, and values (gud pasin). Islanders’ participation in the fishing industry since the 1860s and interactions with the western bureaucratic style of management also influence and circumscribe their fishing practices and management strategies. Various dimensions of Masig Islanders’ management practices, such as seasonal rotations, forms of fallow and rules of access to and use of resources, have already been introduced in Chapters Six and Seven though not explicitly presented as such.

As discussed in Chapter Two, and to be examined in more depth here, the concept of ‘management’ is ‘riddled with assumptions and contested meanings’ (Nadasdy, 1999, p. 13). On the Island, the term ‘management’ is strongly associated with the practices of marine scientists and government departments or with processes that occur at formal institutional levels rather than relating to local mechanisms or institutions. Hence, when, at the early stage of my fieldwork, I questioned Masig Islanders across age groups and genders about their ‘traditional’ marine resource management or conservation practices, their remarks were generally that they were not sure if such practices existed.249

This response to my ill-formulated question illustrates how semantically loaded and constraining terms such as ‘management’ can be. Most importantly, I would argue that it expresses Masig Islanders’ measure of the distance and differences existing between their engagement with their marine environment and the principles embraced by and promoted through the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA), its related institutions and

249 Regarding ‘traditional’ conservation practices, Johannes and MacFarlane speculated that there was ‘no evidence among Torres Strait Islanders of marine conservation ethic’ (1991, p. 205). They posited that Islanders may not have experienced human induced depletion of marine resources before colonisation, which they explained being partly due to the small and ‘controlled’ size of pre- and early contact populations, and Islanders’ usage of low impact fishing and hunting technologies. This absence of human-induced depletion would have prevented Islanders from developing an ethic of conservation. There is, however, evidence to the contrary. For example, Mulrennan (2002), who notably refers to Haddon and the myth regarding the formation of Maizab Kaur (Bramble Cay), provides an example of the existence of conservation practices and ethics in the region. Participation in industrial fisheries from 1860s also gave Islanders direct experience of fragility of the resource. 261 associated managers and researchers. As Scott argues, the nature of human-environment (and I would add human-human) relationships embedded in these concepts and corresponding practices, is informed by radically different metaphors whether we are talking about western bureaucratic or Indigenous forms of engagement with the natural world (Scott, 2011).

The term ‘management’ itself does not convey the depth, complexity, and relationships defining Masig Islanders’ interactions with their saltwater domain. Yet applying this ostensibly apolitical category to Masig people’s ways of using and controlling access to their territories and resources helps to highlight the points of convergence, divergence and zones of contention between their and the PZJA’s positions regarding the governance of sea territories and resources. It is useful to differentiate between their underlying standpoints as well as social, economic and political ‘projects’ and objectives (see Chapter 9). Further, given the prominence of ‘management’ in western bureaucracies as the preferred way to interact with the environment, I have chosen to use this term instead of concepts such as stewardship and custodianship that are often proposed as alternatives. Speaking in the language of management is speaking ‘in a language that power understands’ (Handler, 1991, p. 71 quoted in Nadasdy, 2003, p. 236).

Owner-fishers as managers

Nadasdy writes that the notion of resource management in western bureaucratic thinking ‘refers to the attempt by “managers” to use a particular resource rationally, based on their knowledge of that resource. Use of the term “management,” therefore, implies not only the existence of “knowledge” as separate from practices, values, and social relations, but also of a formal institutionalized system of management complete with specialized managers’ (1999, pp. 13-14). The creation of distinct and hierarchical categories of actors and knowledge bearers (e.g. the ‘managers’ and the ‘users’ or ‘stakeholders’) is a defining principle of formal fisheries management systems in Australia where, as McPhee notes, the objective of fisheries managers is to control the ‘harvesting behavior of the participants’ (2008, p. 51). This is also a foundational principle of the PZJA’s managerial structure discussed in Chapter Nine.

This separation of ‘managers’ and ‘users’ is at odds with Masig’s marine resource management system. To quote the late Awa Daniel Mosby, ‘when you go fishing you do a bit of management, you know what’s there and how the reef change and when you need to stop so it’s

262 sustainable’ (Inter., 2009). On the Island, management responsibilities, in a fashion similar to land-sea territory ownership and resource rights, are inherited through cognatic, adoptive and, to some extent, affinal kinship relations as discussed in the previous chapter. Based on Masig’s marine tenure regime, every customary owner has the moral authority and responsibility to take care of, speak for and control both access to and use of marine habitats and species found in their waters (including territories shared with neighbouring island communities). As custodians of their sea estate, Masig Islanders have the duty, when necessary, to defend their vast marine territory from intruders, misuses and misappropriation using various strategies ranging from institutional political pressure to direct action. This also extends to controlling the knowledge gained or produced about their territory, whether by non-Masig Islander commercial fishers or by scientists.

‘Sea knowledge and sea territory are reciprocals’, emphasised Nietschmann (1985, p. 135). Masig Islanders’ intricate knowledge of their saltwater territories procures important advantages for manoeuvring in trade or commercial networks and building relationships between local custodians and outsiders. Controlling the acquisition and diffusion of knowledge about their territory has been a way to control the ‘means for efficient and productive access to sea areas and sea resources’ (ibid., 1985, p. 136) since before colonisation.

Masig’s customs, lifeways and ethos provide the template that guides most of Masig Islanders’ interactions with their sea estate. Their contemporary marine resource management strategies draw on their emic perspectives and knowledge as well as on the collective, decentralised, yet exclusive nature of their rights to specific resources and territories. These strategies are also integral dimensions of Masig Islanders’ everyday fishing, hunting and collecting activities and broader interactions with the sea. As mentioned before, from a very young age, Masig’s custodians are socialised into knowing the correct behaviour to adopt on the water, including rules pertaining to the access to various territories, the appropriate intensity of fishing effort (‘take only what you need’), and suitable use and distribution of the catch— considering that some of their kin have limited or no capacity to fish and hunt. As detailed in Chapter Seven, the ‘take only what you need’ principle is a highly contingent principle; the choice of species and quantities depending on the purpose underpinning the catch (earning

263 money for a specific event of purchase, family dinner, a feast, a tombstone opening, etc.). It is, as I have explained, a principle oriented towards minimalising waste.

Many aspects of Masig Islanders’ fishery system, such as the responsibility to share part of the catch and their seasonal multispecies strategy have strong conservation value; they contribute to reduce the pressure on the local species and ecosystems while decreasing the risk of wasting produce. Masig Islanders’ pressure on their domain’s marine ecosystems is also further controlled and limited by the fact that their commercial and customary fishing activities are integral parts of the local relational and flexible hybrid economy discussed also discussed in the previous chapter.

At the core of Masig’s endogenous management practices are preoccupations concerning the preservation of their marine environment as well as the reproduction and renewal of their society and lifeworld250 including the safeguarding of their economic bases and their knowledge system. As owners, stewards, and inhabitants of their fishing and hunting territories, their objectives are not limited to sustaining their ability to extract enough resources and generating profit from them. Their goals are mainly to maintain the community’s social cohesion and ensure their and their descendants’ capacity to live within and from their land and sea estate in ways that are respectful of both their environment and kinfolks.

As a social contract largely informed by ‘pamle251-based relatedness’ (Lahn, 2003, p. 122), Masig Islanders’ contemporary management practices aim at satisfying individual as well as collective needs and aspirations while reproaching ‘lone ranger’ or self-serving behaviours and the accumulation of financial and material wealth beyond a certain point (see Chapter 7). In this context, and as Scott also observed at Erub, ‘it becomes difficult to separate respect for oneself, or one’s fellows, from respect for the natural world’ (2004, p. 265). Thus, local resource users’ responsibilities towards their land-sea environment are also responsibilities towards fellow Masig Islanders past, present and future.

250 This echoes Hviding’s writings about the Guardians of the Marovo lagoon. ‘The daily practice of engaging with the environments of reef and sea is closely involved with more general processes of cultural reproduction and transformation, particularly with the maintenance of […] group identity…’ (1996, p. 356). 251Pamle means Family in Torres Strait Creole. In this context, it included the extended family. 264

Masig contemporary marine estate management system

Masig Islanders’ contemporary marine estate management system revolves principally around two axes. The first concerns matters internal to Masig’s community and regroups a range of practices and rules of etiquette guiding local fishers’ interactions with their sea territories and resources. Nietschmann (1985) speaks of local cultural and social controls regulating the selective exploitation of marine animals. The second axis relates to the exercise of their ownership and sovereign rights to control outsiders’ presence and activities across their sea estate.

Internal management and fishing etiquette

Masig’s management system draws on internalised norms regarding work ethics and responsibilities towards the marine milieu, their kinfolk and broader community of owners; as well as intimate socio-ecological knowledge and know-how and their actualisation through their fishing, hunting and collecting activities. Informed by their relational ontology, this aspect of their engagement with their marine environment predominantly takes the form of self- management or self-regulation (whether as individuals or collectively). The system also includes a range of mechanisms that can be deployed when a community member or group of members adopt reprehensible behaviours.

Masig Islanders learn the behaviours and fishing etiquette underpinning their interactions with the sea through an ongoing process of knowledge transfer that begins in early childhood. For the young Masig Islanders, but also for outsiders incorporated into local families, this socialisation process occurs while on the reefs, lagoons and deeper waters alongside experienced family members or close acquaintances. This process consists of learning by observing their kin and by replicating and adapting their practices while internalising responsibilities and appropriate conduct at sea.252 Taboos253 and religious rules framing people’s interactions with the

252 Many on Masig have emphasised that people are not ‘taught’ in the sense of being formally told about something or shown what to do. The focus is rather on the learning side of the process. The young apprentice must be an active participant in his or her learning and responsible for it. She or he needs to become an acute observer and experimenter. The process is about learning by observing and doing; figuring out what to do, replicate and innovate. I have often heard that you’re not being told what to do. You just know, and you know by being there, by observing, and by doing. 253 Taboos and totems are likely to have had an important influence on Masig Islanders’ fishing activities in the past. In many cases, their observance has nevertheless been severely impacted by the arrival of the missionaries and the 265 sea are also involved. I have mentioned in Chapter Six that pregnant women have to stay out of the sea as a breach of this taboo will result in a change of tide (‘cut the tide’). Another example is associated with their Christian faith, which requires them to refrain from fishing on Sundays. People would therefore fish on Saturday if they want to eat fish on Sunday (Inter., MC3, 2008).

On the Island, contrary to Johannes and Macfarlane’s rationale for the ostensible absence of marine resource management among Islanders, people have experienced first-hand, over 150 years of commercial fisheries, booms and busts and the negative impacts of overfishing on their local economy. A few Elders notably discussed why their forefathers had to dive deeper and deeper to find pearl shells as the shallower seabeds were becoming depleted. This eventually led their ancestors to dive down to 40 fathoms in the terrifying Darnley Deep, exposing them to the bends and other dangers (Inter., MC9, MC27, 2008). Masig Islanders have also witnessed the impacts of over 50 years of trawling on their seabeds (Inter., MC9, MC4, 2008). These historical and recent experiences illustrate the potential for damaging impacts of overfishing and industrial technologies.

Masig lifeways encompass a plurality of interconnected social, economic and ecological mechanisms contributing (directly and indirectly) to limiting the pressure on their marine environment. A fundamental aspect of their engagement with their marine territory, as discussed in the section on Masig customary marine tenure, is that all Masig Islanders own this territory communally. Social obligations to share and reciprocate, a shared limited appetite for wealth accumulation, but also responsibility to limit the impacts of their fishing and hunting practices over their common territory are among the most important values and mechanisms governing their overall fishery system.

As part of their ethics of working their saltwater environment, Masig fishers, hunters and free-divers are expected, by respect for the sea and their folks, to avoid or limit the disruptions of the various habitats (ous) where they work (whether commercially, for subsistence, feasts or ceremonial purposes). This includes avoiding damaging the reef structure by being mindful of

adoption of the Christian faith, which itself brought new taboos (e.g. no fishing on Sundays). The totem system was slowly being revived when I was on the Island and some taboos (e.g. around pregnancy) are still largely respected. 266 what lies beneath the surface when anchoring their boats or when one need to move stones in the process of catching crays.

Another expectation is to turn empty clamshells upside down on the seabed once they have been cut to remove the meat, to create habitat for other species. There is a shared understanding among Masig Islanders that one has the responsibility to leave the reef as one finds it or, at the very least, in a state that is hospitable for the resident species and enhances the reef’s capacity to host a rich and diverse marine life. Along those lines, many fishers also raised the need to avoid taking everything. For instance, when they go for turtle eggs, they leave nests intact; if they catch female lobsters with eggs, they release them and so on.

As mentioned in Chapter Six, Masig Islanders engage with their marine environment based on a rotational use254 of fishing areas and species driven notably by seasonal patterns and socio-economic needs.255 The seasonality of reef conditions induced by cyclical changes in dominant winds and currents dictates most of their fishing and hunting activities. Species migrations and condition also influence what, where and when these species will be targeted (e.g. the mullet and pekoo examples in Chapter Seven). Masig Islanders often know when the species they are craving have reached the desired state by observing changes in the landscape, looking at indicator species, and in the dominant trade winds. When the fruit of the wongai are ripe (around August), it is the ideal time to catch sabai. Many of the Elders interviewed noted, however, that seasonal weather patterns are now harder to predict than in the past (Inter., MC28, MC23, MC10, 2008-2009).

254 Nietschmann (1985) makes the analogy between Islanders’ rotational fisheries system and agricultural system of fallow. 255 As explained in chapter 5, Masig Islanders buy permits for each commercial species present over their territory to allow such rotation between species. 267

Fig. 8.1, Torres Strait Islander Seasonal Calendar: Source Steve Foster

Because they operate from vessels no larger than six meters in length, Masig Islanders’ capacity to go to sea depends heavily on weather conditions. The sager tonar (south-easterly) and Kuki tonar (north-westerly) trade winds, which blow respectively between May and September and between December to April, often pose unfavourable conditions for fishing on reefs located further afield. The Island’s adjacent reefs are especially important during these periods, particularly regarding subsistence fishing. Local fishers who own boats generally leave the home reefs and fishing grounds to rest when the weather is clement. As they explain, this is a way to ensure that they can rely on these zones when outer reefs are rendered inaccessible due to prolonged bad weather conditions or water murkiness, occasional fuel shortage or other limitations. As one of the local fishers pointed out: ‘you know you’ll find crays on the home reef because most of the time you’ve left it to rest’ (Pers. Comm., MC16, 2009). Masig Islanders’ commercial fishing activities are also circumscribed by formal season closures in the tropical rock lobster fishery and size requirements for all species.

268

Masig fishers often share their knowledge and observations of reef conditions and variations of the fish stocks amongst one another. There is therefore a common awareness of the general state of the resources across their territory. To allow the populations of fish, crays or other species to recover, Masig fishers tend to avoid some areas when signs of stress begin to appear or when an area is known to have been worked somewhat extensively over a period. As they say, there is no reason to waste fuel by travelling to areas where it is known there will not be much to catch. This is an example of the ways economic interest and longer-term conservation interest intersect, perhaps incidentally, in decision-making about where to fish.

Local fishers regularly adapt their choices of gear if they perceive impacts on the species and habitats targeted. Because they are in continuous interactions with the marine environment, they are in a privileged position to observe changes and assess the impacts of their own and outsiders’ practices on the various species found across their territory. For several years now, Kulkalgals and Eastern Islanders have banned the use of hookah breathing apparatus within their territories (Mulrennan, 2002; Dennis et al., 2006). By enabling the fishers to dive deeper and for a longer period, the hookah is considered to put unnecessary pressure on the targeted species (tropical rock lobster, trochus and bêche-de-mer) while, in the case of the lobster fishery, interfering with the movement of lobsters from the deep to the shallower parts of the reefs where the free-divers work, although at least one former trochus diver perceived some ecological advantages of using the hookah.256

Given Masig territories’ clear waters, the Island’s hunters have also largely discontinued their use of whaps (harpoons) to catch turtle, although some might occasionally use it if they are hunting alone. Today, most hunters are free diving from their boat to hand-catch them instead. Particularly appreciated by the younger generation because of its athletically challenging character, this practice allows the hunters to select for fat turtles, and to release unwanted specimens unharmed.

256 According to Awa Dan Mosby (Inter., 2009), the use of hookah could be beneficial for that fishery. Not so much to increase the catch (which remains limited by the size of the boat among other things) but to pick up only legal- size specimens and to permit putting the shell back in place nicely. 269

Overseeing quantity and variety of seafood for feasts

Feasts represent a salient feature of Island lifeways and Masig Islanders manage the quantity and variety of seafood hunted and fished on those occasions. Feasts, big and small, are planned events. Over 2008-2010, they were either organised by the Council Office, the school (graduations), or a specific family or families for a range of reasons. For special events (large celebrations, weddings, tombstone opening, etc.) whoever oversees the event usually assigns tasks among the participants so that all the desired species will be found around the table while making sure that there will not be too much of one type of seafood or store-bought food and not enough of another. Parties of a few men are typically sent to hunt for turtles with specific orders regarding what is needed; a couple of large females or smaller males depending on how many people are expected to attend. Other fishers will be sent to net parsa and mullets. Men are usually in charge of preparing and cooking the meat in kupmary and on barbecues while women take on cooking the curries, rice, pakalolo (dumplings in coconut milk), sopsop and other favourites, and baking the scones, dampers, cakes and other sweets. On Masig, feasts are not an occasion to assert one’s social status (other than by showing off their culinary skills), as is the case in some other Melanesian and Polynesian contexts. Although Masig Islanders certainly always make sure that there will be more than enough food for everyone, ostentatious display of surplus foods in feasting is uncommon and therefore, is not a factor in pressure on marine resources.

Community control of individual practices

Inappropriate behaviours at sea (e.g. by taking more than is necessary, damaging the reefs and polluting, trespassing, etc.) or failing to show gud pasin (e.g. by not sharing appropriately, being greedy, or being a ‘lone ranger,’) is likely to anger the wider community if noticed. Based on their customary marine tenure regime, Masig Islanders are entitled to intervene in various manners when someone, or a group of people, fail to uphold their responsibilities regarding the sea and the community. Akin to Canadian First Nations, ‘[p]ractices are governed by not just a principle of sustainability for survival’s sake, but by a moral sanction against waste or greed’ (Menzies & Butler, 2006, p. 10).

Masig Elder Awa Dan Mosby told this story from his young days about catching too many fish. On one fine day during naigai tonar, he walked across to Koedal at low tide to go and 270 catch a few pekoos. He was lucky and caught quite a few. Proud of himself, he tied them together using a signé (a piece of rope completed with a wood or bone needle used to thread fish together) and made his way back to his Athe’s (grandfather) home on Masig. The weight of the fish made his journey home rather strenuous. When he finally arrived at his Athe’s house, the latter was not impressed. ‘What are you trying to prove?’ he asked him. Awa Dan had caught a lot more fish than his family could eat and at the time there were no freezer to preserve the fish. ‘I was tired’, Awa Dan said, ‘but he made me go house to house to give fish to families’ (Inter., 2008).

While I was walking on the beach with another Awa, he expressed his frustrations towards a couple of hunters who had taken two turtles more than they really needed for a feast, keeping the animals tied in shallow waters in front of their picnic place for longer than socially acceptable. He had seen the turtles one afternoon and noticed that they we still there a few days later so he decided to intervene. ‘I cut the rope and let dem turtles go’ (Pers. Comm., 2009).

Another fisher explained he could sense people’s discontent towards him after a member of his family failed to distribute an important catch as prescribed; omitting to give important extended family members their expected share. Despite not being responsible for this breach of gud pasin and duty to share, he stated feeling greatly embarrassed by the whole situation. In addition to the social value of sharing, this expectation also has conservation effects. If people choose to invest time, energy and resources in making a big catch, they cannot hoard for themselves. They will have to share and will therefore be working for others. At the very least, this discourages waste, spreads fishing effort over time proportional to need, and has the effect of leaving fish stocks in the sea until they are needed. The multiplication of dinghies with outboard motors, domestic refrigerators and freezers since the mid-1980s has nevertheless contributed to transforming the sharing practices (see Chapter 6). Sharing catches is certainly still a prevalent and salient aspect of Masig Islanders’ lifeways but, with more people being able to go out on the reefs and capacity to store the food for longer, the practices has become more focused on family and immediate neighbours rather than the whole community. Nevertheless, if someone has caught a dugong, there is still an expectation that the meat will be distributed fairly among the wider community. A few middle-aged and older members of the community have lamented this erosion of the sharing ethics, which they perceived somewhat as an erosion of the Island’s social

271

fabric. As late Awa Daniel Mosby mentioned, not so long ago, when hunters would come back with a turtle, every family would send someone with a dish to the freezer house and everybody would get their share (Inter., 2009). Masig’s fisheries are largely focused on relatedness. Accordingly, interactions with the marine environment are essentially a social interaction.

Participation in mainstream monitoring efforts and development of a community-based turtle and dugong management plan

The internal management of Masig marine resources is guided simultaneously by Masig Islanders’ enduring and dynamic value system, knowledge of the sea and by their knowledge of and relationship with more mainstream forms of knowledge (including various disciplines) of this environment. Over the years, a few Masig Islanders have acquired training in aspects of western natural resource management as well as formal and informal interactions and exchange of knowledge with the continuous flow of scientists visiting their territory.

The sponge farm pilot project and collaboration with a team of researchers from the Australian Institute Marine Science (AIMS) provided an occasion for around ten people (including one women) to obtain occupational scuba diving licences. Others, like Athe Francis Nai (then Chair of the Prescribed Body Corporate) and Awa Dan Mosby have formal aquaculture training, while Awa Daniel Mosby studied fisheries management in Tasmania. Moreover, Awa Victor Lui, the Island’s first Turtle and Dugong Officer, received training in turtle and seagrass monitoring. This was a new position which was filled in 2009.

In 2009, Masig Islanders were in the process of developing a turtle and dugong management plan. This community-based project, connected to a Torres Strait regional initiative, was an occasion for the local Elders, leaders, fishers and wider community to get together and discuss their concerns and formulate possible solutions regarding the impact on turtles of their own hunting practices and those of outsiders. As Lui mentioned, the participants of the turtle and dugong management plan meeting stated that the catch of warukaz (juvenile turtle) should be minimal. At this meeting, the Elders, fishers and other community members also asserted that they should not be restricted in their rights to share and send turtle meat with family member

272 living in Cairns and beyond.257 The matters and solutions discussed in successive meetings informed the production of the Masigalgal Dugong and Turtle Management Plan 2011- 2016 published a few years later.

Controlling outsiders’ entries and uses

Regulating outsiders’ presence and activities across the Masigalgal’s extensive marine domain is one of the main purposes of their customary marine tenure regime. Prior to colonisation, this facet of local maritime governance aimed predominantly at maintaining their strategic position within the extensive trade network existing between Cape York Aboriginal communities and Papuan groups via the Torres Strait (see Chapter 3). Further, controlling outsiders was, and still is, a mechanism aiming at building binding relationships and extensive networks.

The legal and administrative practices of the colonial state, which contradicted several dimensions of Indigenous tenure (Mulrennan & Scott, 2000, p. 682), fundamentally interfered with Torres Strait Islanders’ ability to govern and control exogenous commercial fishers’ activities in their saltwater domains. International treaties and agreements, and federal as well as state policies, regulations, management arrangements and licensing procedures258 over Torres Strait tenure systems have superseded Islander owners’ rights to control and negotiate directly with outsiders the conditions of access to their territories and resources. As I will discuss in greater details in Chapter Nine, by relegating Islander groups to the status of ‘stakeholders’, albeit ostensibly significant ones, these colonial institutions and processes have disempowered them; both in their capacity to directly negotiate reciprocal agreements with non-Islander fishers (except perhaps for the ‘gentlemen’s agreements’ discussed in Chapter 7) and by depriving them of the potential benefits that could accrue from such negotiated arrangements.259

257 In 2010, the Torres Strait: Bridge and Border report stated that: ‘Understandably, because traditional fishing has such strong economic, cultural and social significance for Torres Strait Islanders, they will not accept unquestioningly restrictions on the exercise of these activities. Thus, their active involvement in decisions about, and support for, the conservation of threatened marine life in the Torres Strait is critical to the sustainable management of these species’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2010, p. 136). 258 Examples of these are the Protection period, the Torres Strait Treaty, Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984, as well as some Native Title clauses. 259 Since mid-2000s, however, a complete buy-back in the finfish sector has provided Islanders with some decision- making power over non-Islanders access to the fishery (see Chapter 9). 273

Today, notwithstanding the absence of formal recognition or support for their institutions and tenure regime, Masig Islanders maintain their sense of entitlement to intervene when they observe behaviours and practices that encroach on their values, laws, and livelihood. Several of the formal and informal interviews and discussions I have had with Masig Islanders happened by the seashore; at the freezer facilities, by the jetty, on someone’s picnic area under the shade a mekay tree, and at times on and in the sea. Meeting people at such locations made me aware of the level of visual surveillance people apply over their saltwater territory. Conversations on the beach were regularly punctuated by comments about the boats, big and small, appearing and disappearing on the horizon. My collaborators usually attempted to identify the people who were passing by, noting the directions they travelled to and from, trying to read the boat registration numbers in the case of Islander boats, or to make sense of people’s silhouettes.

Masig Islanders are applying the same level of scrutiny when working on the reefs or travelling across their waters. Concerned about poaching activities, a few local fishers affirmed having attempted to intercept outsiders—often in the ‘banana boats’ typically used by Papuan small-scale fishers—who appeared to be fishing illegally in Kulkalgal territory. In most cases, such attempts resulted in the foreign fishers retreating while still out of reach. During the first fisheries meeting I attended on Masig, the local Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service (AQIS) officer, Aunty Hilda Mosby, invited the local fishers to help her protect their marine environment by reporting anything unusual while out fishing, including the landing of foreign vessels (Fisheries meeting, 2008).

Through the Torres Strait Treaty, authorised Papuan commercial fishers are entitled to a percentage of Article 22 fisheries’260 total allowable catch within the Torres Strait Protected Zone (including Australia’s waters within the zone). At the time of my fieldwork, Papuan fishers had never used their entitlement, making their allowable catch in these fisheries available to their Australian counterparts on a yearly basis. In 2009, Papuan officials announced their intention to start using their share of the fisheries. Although they knew this would eventually happen, some

260 ‘Article 22 fisheries’ are managed jointly by Australia and Papua New Guinea according to the terms of the Torres Strait Treaty. The commercial species concerned are the tropical rock lobster, prawn and pearl shell for which PNG is entitled to 25 per cent of the TAC; and the Spanish mackerel fishery, for which PNG is entitled to 40 per cent of the TAC. (http://pzja.gov.au/the-fisheries/catch-sharing-with-papua-new-guinea/#.VguGCJe2V1A, last accessed on 24 March 2019) 274 among Masig fishers were apprehensive about the looming presence of Papuan boats on or near their territorial waters. There were also mixed feelings about the imminent arrival of Papua New Guinean vessels in Masig waters. ‘I have my fears’, said one of the local fishers, ‘knowing their history in PNG of their own exploitation’ (Inter., MC21, 2009; see also Chapter 9 on CFG concerns about PNG boats fishing in their waters and lack of compliance monitoring capacity). On Masig, many acknowledge the high level of poverty suffered by their neighbours on the other side of the invisible border. Many were concerned that the Papuan industrial fishers (who are not necessarily people who are related to them, nor people from the Treaty villages) would overfish Torres Strait resources the same way they appear to have overfished their own marine environment. Hence, fears were expressed that the Papuan commercial fishing activities could impact Masig Islanders’ livelihood.

Both due to the observed presence of foreign poachers261 and because of the imminent arrival of Papuan vessels in Kulkalgal territories, Awa Gavin Mosby, Masig’s CFG representative at the time, was putting pressure on the PZJA for an increase of patrols in the Torres Strait and better policing of their waters. He also expressed support to help PNG manage their fishery. ‘It’s water so there are no boundaries, the species they travel north and south’ (Inter., 2009).

Another aspect that preoccupied Masig Islanders was the development of aquaculture projects in their waters. They were not opposed to sustainable aquaculture projects, having themselves a few aspirations in this regard as well as some expertise in this field (Awa Dan Mosby was involved with the turtle farm in the 1970s and Athe Francis Nai had just completed aquaculture studies). They were not, however, ready to accept anything less than joint ventures. A few years following my fieldwork, a few projects were aborted because Masig Islanders saw that they would be employees and not equal partners in the proposed projects (Pers. Comm. MC23, 2011).

261 In April 2016, a crew of 10 PNG nationals were caught with 250kg of bêche-de-mer on the Australian part of warrior reef (Torres News 9-15 review of 2016). A media release from AFMA on 17 December 2015 reported that a total of 28 PNG fishers apprehended with approximately 350kg of bêche-de-mer, 5kg of squid, 3kg of octopus and a range of fishing equipment on board (Australian Fisheries Managament Authority, 2015). 275

Controlling the Australian TVH (Transferrable Vessel Holder) sector

From their island or while at sea, Masig Islanders are also wary of the non-Islander Australian commercial prawn, mackerel and finfish fishing operators’ movements across their seascape. Endorsed by the PZJA262, these commercial operators are reluctantly tolerated by Masig people across their marine domain when they respect the boundaries and arrangements set through the gentlemen’s agreements discussed earlier. Yet, according to the community members, breaches of such agreements have occurred over time and many unresolved issues, primarily associated with the prawn industry, still existed at the time of writing.

On Masig, many hold multiple grievances against the TVH sector. In addition to taking away their territorial marine resources while contributing next to nothing to the local economy263, the considerable pressure put on the local ecosystems by TVH operators significantly troubles members of the Masig community. Between 1993 and 1998, when around seven mackerel and five coral trout boats operated in Kulkalgal waters, Masig Islanders noticed a decline in mackerel, coral trout and other reef fish stocks and specimen size which they attributed to non- Islander finfish sector overfishing (Inter., MC4, 2008). In 2009, the finfish fleet was reduced to one boat (with associated tenders) for each fishery. According to the freezer manager, while Masig fishers had not caught big fish for a long time264, they began to observe an increase in the size of fish following the reduction of the external effort (Inter., 2008).

Despite some issues associated with the finfish sector, it is the prawn industry that generated the greater concerns for Masig Islanders. As explained earlier, Masig’s seabed has been the principal zone targeted by the industry since its emergence in the early 1970s.

262 Licenses in the Torres Strait commercial fisheries are managed by the Queensland government. 263 This situation was also highlighted in the early 1990s (Mulrennan & Hanssen, 1994, p. 43). 264 As mentioned previously, Masig Islanders were rarely catching these species commercially at the time due to the freezer closure. 276

Map 8.1, Source: Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority265

Consequently, Masig Islanders have been in a position to observe and experience directly the negative impacts of this non-selective fishing practice on their local marine environment and fisheries. The impacts detected by Masig fishers include substantial decline in the numbers of sardines and tropical rock lobsters.266

On Masig, some of the Elders who dived across their saltwater domain prior to the emergence of the prawn industry have mentioned that a number of species they used to encounter when scouting the seabeds now appear to be absent from their waters (e.g. the ‘black coral’ mentioned in Chapter 5). The prawn trawl-gear footprint is large. There are ‘no more rocks, just sand’ (Inter., MC4, 2009), observes one of the Island’s commercial fishers, noting the damage caused by the trawlers’ constant raking of their seabed. Further, until by-catch reduction devices (BRD) and turtle exclusion devices (TED) were made compulsory in 2002, the

265 Retrieved from https://www.pzja.gov.au/the-fisheries/torres-strait-prawn-fishery on 20 March 2019. 266 Poiner and Harris (1991, p. 117) who documented aspects of the Island’s fisheries between 1984 and 1986, also reported Masig Islanders’ complaints against the prawn trawler operators whose activities were linked to the decline in lobster, mackerel, and other reef fish stocks. 277 community was highly concerned by the fact that turtles, among other species, were also caught by the trawl nets.267

Together, these concerns prompted Masig Islanders, alongside other Kulkalgal and eastern Islander communities also touched by the prawn industry’s activities, to put pressure on the fisheries authority, demanding a significant reduction of the trawlers’ operations in their waters and the prohibition of the selling of by-catch.268 They also fought at the PZJA level for seasonal rotations and closures269 of the prawn trawling activities to be imposed in order to keep the trawlers away for the lobster migrating lines.270

As one of the Island’s former community fishers’ representative explains, ‘[t]here were heaps of trawlers back then.271 Since the reduction in number of fishing nights, the crays started coming back’ (Inter., MC5, 2009). The ‘cray fish stock was decreasing but we found out that it was the trawlers’ emphasises former Councillor John Mosby (Inter., 2009). ‘Now’, he added, ‘there are less trawlers and more crays. In the 80s crays were not good.272 The trawlers are also [now] operating more south so we’ve seen improvement in our catch’.

Frustrations and worries associated with the prawn industry are not, however, limited to its impacts on the lobster and other species of significance for the Masig Islanders. Notwithstanding the introduction of new devices (BRDs and TEDs) to reduce the catch of non- target species, a reduced fishing effort, tighter regulations related to gear and boat sizes, and scientists reporting on the sustainability of current prawn industry’s practices. Masig Islanders still regarded the prawn fishery as highly destructive and a threat to their livelihood and lifeways

267 The prawn industry is described as a high by-catch fishery with an estimated ratio in the order of 6 tons of by- catch (including by-products) for 1 ton of prawn (Kaye, 1997, p. 58). Part of this by-catch (e.g. bugs, squid, cuttlefish, octopus, and scallops (Turnbull et al. p.13-14) can be retained and sold as by-products. The rest (consisting in a large volume of fish and crustaceans) is returned to the sea, often in bad condition and with little prospects for survival (find CSIRO research mentioned in the PZJA document). I would add that sponges are also removed from the seabed through the trawlers’ operations. This may have adverse effect on Masig Islanders’ capacity to obtain sponges for their farm. 268 Until the 1980s, there were no restrictions imposed on the selling of by-catch by the trawler operators. For a while, trawler operators were purposely crossing tropical rock lobster migration lines until the selling of this by- product was made illegal in the mid-1980s. From Masig Islanders’ perspective, this represented unfair competition. 269 From March 1 to November 30, they are part of the Island seascape. 270 A ban on daylight trawling was implemented in 1981 to protect migrating lobsters (Wilson et al., 2009, p. 236) 271 See Cockling and Turnbull (2014) for figures on the reduction of boats and effort. 272 The PBC Chair highlighted that, in the 80s, they would get a maximum of 70 kilograms of cray per boat per fishing trip. In 2009, it was more in the order of 150 to 170 kilograms (Inter., MC18, 2009). 278 and were opposed to expansion in this sector (Bodsworth & Houghton, 2014).Some fishers were also doubtful of the scientists’ capacity to assess the impact of trawling on the seabeds as they have no baseline knowledge to compare the present state of the local ecosystems with, for example, the pre-trawling era ecosystems.

One local Elder, who unfortunately has since passed away, mentioned in a local fisheries’ meeting that he was gravely concern about the fate of the by-catch returned to the sea by the trawler operators; emphasising that the survival rate of these species—which are important parts of the food chain—appeared dismal (Fisheries meeting, MC22, 2008). ‘When trawlers are here it not as good’, highlights former Councillor John Mosby, adding nonetheless that ‘some [trawler operators] do make sure there are no disturbance, [and] take good care’ (Inter., 2009).

The risk of oil spillage273 associated with the presence of trawlers and larger shipping vessels274 over their reef-strewn waters is of particular concerns for Masig people. In addition to the devastating consequences that such incidents would have on their marine ecosystems and species, oil spills represent a significant risk to Masig Islanders’ current and future aquaculture projects. The sponge farm venture Masig’s Kailag Enterprises Ltd275 embarked on in the mid- 2000s is one example of the assets that Masig Islanders seek to protect against possible ship wreckage or navigation mistakes. Sponges are said to be particularly vulnerable to such environmental accidents.

273 Impacts on aquaculture installation by oil spills have been reported in Babbage (1990, p. 39). Babbage notably discusses the connection that some observers made between the decline in the oyster stocks and pollution resulting from the sinking in 1970 of an oil tanker close to Thursday Island’. 274 Masig is located along Torres Strait’s main international shipping channel. 275 Masig community’s non-for-profit company. 279

Masig Islanders’ fears regarding such a scenario worsened following an accident that reminded them of the genuine risks posed by the presence of industrial vessels in their waters.276 In April 2009, a trawler sank in the waters connecting Masig and Erub after one of its trawl nets got tangled on a reef. This accident cost the lives of two crew members.277 Only a few months later, in August 2009, another trawler got too close to Masig’s sponge farm and pulled out one of its boundary markers. For the community, these incidents, in addition to the sadness induced by the loss life in their waters, confirmed how vulnerable their aquaculture site and broader marine environment are to exogenous commercial activities. As Masig CFG representative explains, some non-Indigenous commercial vessels were passing too close to their sponge farm and anchoring too close to the home reef increasing the risks of damaging important local infrastructures and nearby reef habitats (Inter., 2009). He has since conveyed the community concerns multiple times to the PZJA.

Photo: Thomassin, 2009, discarded ‘ghost’ net washed out on the northern side of Masig

276 This is in addition to another capsized trawler incident that occurred 30 km northeast of Poruma in October 2008 (See Torres News 29 October to 4 November 2008). 277 https://www.abc.net.au/news/2009-04-24/men-trawler-still-missing-in-torres-strait/1661948, (last accessed on 24 March 2019). 280

Other concerns associated with the industry include pollution, marine debris, and ghost nets. Parts of ghost nets occasionally land on their beaches. Local divers involved with the sponge farm have found such net tangled on Koedal’s reefs. ‘It was like 7 meters 8 meters,’ reported Turtle and Dugong Officer Awa Victor Lui who participate in removing the ghost net from the ocean (Inter., 2009).

Scuba divers also uncovered evidence that trawler operators have dumped waste (microwaves, fridge doors) at the Crab Pot, which has been the privileged anchoring zone for the trawlers for decades. Masig CFG representatives have raised the matter with PZJA’s agencies on multiple occasions to little effect. This problem was notably put forward to the PZJA during the first PZJA fisheries meeting I attended (prawn meeting in July 2008). Later, Awa Gavin Mosby was told that the industry denies any wrongdoing. At the time, Mr Mosby wanted to PZJA to bring divers in that area to investigate the matter (Inter., 2009).

The stress of losing control of your territory and livelihood

Despite their elaborate marine tenure, knowledge and value systems, Masig Islanders have little power to control state-sanctioned exogenous commercial operators’ presence, practices and fishing intensity across their vast seascape. At best, they can discuss their concerns with their community fishers’ representative, so he can raise the matter with the PZJA. The socioeconomic and environmental pressures the industry and fisheries management put on their community, livelihood and saltwater domain generates ‘stress’ among Masig Islanders. As mentioned earlier, there is a shared feeling that the non-Islander commercial sector represents unfair competition and constrains Masig Islanders’ capacity to steer their own involvement in commercial fisheries according to their institutions, values, and aspirations.

On the one hand, their stress is associated with the possible impacts these exogenous practices may have on their marine resources and livelihood and the possibility to secure a livelihood for younger and unborn Masig Islanders. Generations of Masig Islanders (and Torres Strait Islanders more broadly) have lived through the booms and busts of the commercial fisheries. When the stocks collapse, the non-Islander commercial fishers shift their focus further south. As several community members explain, when the species become rare due to poor practices and overfishing, when the season is over, when an oil spill occurs, when the market

281 collapses, these fishing grounds remain Masig Islanders’ home. When the stocks collapse, they have no choice but to redirect their focus towards another species if possible. They have done so in the past when, for example, following the pearl shell industry collapsed (see Chapter 5). Yet, there might not always be a market for alternative species.278

Masig Islanders’ standpoint is one of a people who dwell in their environment with whom they entertain an interdependent relationship. They, therefore, have a deep connection with, and responsibility towards their maritime domain. This underpins their goal is to regain control over their territory and management of the fisheries across their territory, which they were pursuing via multiple avenues including their participation in the PZJA management structure and through the Sea claim court case, which was already seven years old in 2008. ‘Our territory is also really entwined with our fisheries’ commented Awa Gavin Mosby (Inter., 2009). ‘We got to start honouring the territories of the Indigenous [peoples]. I think that for the fisheries’ (ibid.). The ‘fisheries need to respect us, our sea’ commented Cr John Mosby (Inter., 2009); a comment that reflects the broader community perspective.

Managing the knowledge, managing the management

Significant stress and frustration among Masig Islanders revolved around aspects of scientific research and monitoring activities occurring in their waters. While Masig Islanders are working at ensuring the sustainability of their fisheries and while they have regularly supported and assisted researchers with their work, their relationships with the latter are at the same time characterised by a certain level of distrust. From experience, they are aware of the interconnections between scientific research and the bureaucratic process, with some findings from the former being used by the bureaucracy to legitimise their centralised control over Masig Islanders’ resources, livelihood, lifeways and knowledge. For example, marine biology’s premises and findings have been instrumental in establishing the permit system for the commercial fisheries through which the PZJA controls Islander and non-Islander fishers’ access to Torres Strait waters and the intensity of their respective fishing effort.279 Drawing

278 Even when there may be abundance of reef fish, buyers may not necessarily be willing to get to the Torres Strait to buy these. 279 According to Henry Garnier from neighbouring Poruma, Torres Strait Islanders did ‘not fully understand’ and were suspicious of the arrangements underpinning the licensing system implemented in 2004. They believed at the time that they could ‘lose their traditional fishing rights should licensing arrangements be implemented’ (Garnier, 282 simultaneously on biological and market considerations, this permit system is superimposed on local institutions and marine tenure systems that are overlooked in the process. I will discuss this further in Chapter Nine.

In 2008–2010, this permit system still excluded the so-called ‘traditional catch’, which continued to be managed solely by local fishers (with the exception of the turtle and dugong which were under PZJA management). However, based on qualms shared by marine biologists and PZJA fisheries managers that ‘unmonitored’ fisheries are at high risk of depletion (e.g. Busilacchi, 2008), there has been contentious propositions that the non-market sector of their fisheries should also be the object of formal monitoring. When outsiders have visited Masig with the aim of monitoring fishing effort in the non-commercial sector, they have often met silent resistance from the local fishers and broader community. One of the Island’s Elders recalled the visit of a team of researchers who investigated Masig fisheries in the 80s. She explained how the community members used to hide from them. In her words, ‘when they started to study fish […] you know first time the blokes be come, we used to hide from them (laugh). Why they come and chase us, you know. […] We always wanted to hide from them’ (Inter., MC3, 2008). According to her, and others, this was not the last time they ran away from researchers. Many were worried that such research would lead to the extension of the license regime to their daily subsistence and ceremonial fishing activities. As on Masig, and across the Torres Strait, people were largely unhappy with having to pay for a license to fish their own (commercial) resources and have been working for years at regaining control over their territories and resources (Pers. Comm., AGL 2017, see also Chap 5 and 9), the looming expansion of the PZJA’s and colonial bureaucracy’s intrusion and control over their lives and livelihood was unwelcome.

Even when performed by a community member, people tend to be apprehensive of government-related monitoring activities. Masig’s Turtle and Dugong Officer280 (employed by the TSRA’s Land and Sea Management Unit (LSMU)) suggested, for instance, that in spite of the strong local desires and needs to see their marine species thriving, many community members were afraid that such practices would drastically reduce their control over their

2004, p. 61). For Garnier, ‘[t]he situation highlighted] the need for our people to take control of our own fisheries so that we can make decisions that are best for the future of our people and do not threaten our traditional rights’ (ibid.) 280 On Masig, the position of Turtle and Dugong Officer was filled for the first time in June 2009. This position was eventually to be replaced by a number of community ranger positions. 283

‘traditional’ fisheries and possibly result in the interruption of turtle hunting in their waters. Lui estimated that at least half of Masig community members ‘understood’ his role but some did not agree with the monitoring activities he had to perform through his work.

Sometimes they sneak behind my back, but I find out sometimes after, or a couple of days after, and I go and question them […] I mean I have to know… this is part of my job, I have to know. […] If I don’t do this, we’re losing count of the numbers [of green turtles] we catch. […] I’m telling them we are not stopping you from hunting we are just managing it properly rather than not managing it properly and will lose everything here (Inter., 2009).

This resonates with another issue highlighted in particular by one of the local fishers and Elders, who condemns the fact that their knowledge system, despite receiving more attention now than in the past, remains overlooked by the management authorities and subordinate to 'expert' knowledge when it comes to government understanding of the resources and reef dynamics at play within their territory. He notably referred to the practice of a research team assessing the state of the stock for various bêche-de-mer species as an example. ‘We've been telling them to do the research everywhere in the Torres Strait... We can't argue the point... there is plenty of product on this side, why put a ban on bêche-de-mer without looking at the other reefs?’ (Inter., MC18, 2009). Another fisher on Masig questioned the value of a trochus survey conducted by CSIRO on Halfway Island. This fisher was frustrated and worried about the fact that there is no trochus around this particular island and that they chose a ‘sauce pan diver’281 to help them with the survey; implying that the local diver selected to help with the task didn’t have the right knowledge (Inter., MC2, 2009). Some of the scientists involved in the bêche-de-mer surveys discussed here defended the geography of their monitoring strategies during a workshop aiming at exploring ways to reduce the impediments to Islanders’ participation in research (23- 24 February 2009) Their position was that Torres Strait Islanders lacked the understanding of how such surveys are conducted.

Yet, the Torres Strait Islanders’ position draws on past experience. In Western Torres Strait, traditional owners and dugong hunters contested the assessment by Marsh and her team regarding the size of the Torres Strait dugong population (Marsh et al., 1997). They were finally

281 Someone who dive only occasionally to put food on the table. 284 proven right after years of debate (and stigmatisation in the press) when Professor Marsh admitted to an undercount of the population due to the limited monitoring tools they had access to (2015).

In the early 1980s, Poiner and Harris (research published in 1991) had already underscored the lack of knowledge on the impact of trawling on targeted-species and broader marine ecosystems. For many within Masig community, the absence of baseline studies for scientists to draw on casts doubt on the ability of prawn researchers to assess soundly the extent of the environmental impacts of the industry. As mentioned earlier, those among Masig Elders who have dived in their waters prior to the arrival of the trawlers speak of richer seabeds in terms of biodiversity, noting the disappearance of coral trees and sea fans (Inter., MC9, 2009). One of the Island’s Elders explains that the subordination of their knowledge in the management process impacts negatively on Masig Islanders’ agency and capacity to influence decisions. ‘We know the answer’, he stressed, ‘but our answer is neglected’ (Inter., 2009). The tendency not to take Islanders’ knowledge seriously (regardless of affirmation of its validity) has disempowering repercussions for Masig Islanders. During the first local fisheries meeting that I attended on Masig (August 2008) one of the men asked if it was possible to get scientists in their waters to evaluate the suitability of developing a tuna fishery. As a response, Toshio Nakata, then TSRA Land and Sea Management Unit’s Fisheries Coordinator, encouraged local fishers and representatives to be confident in the value and importance of their own knowledge and observation.

The last few paragraphs point out to the potential of collaborations between researchers from various agencies and Islander communities, focusing on the complementarity of their knowledge and goals. Such collaborations indeed already exist (e.g. AIMS, or the Torres Strait wide ICC-led collaboration behind the Marine Strategy for the Torres Strait in the 1990s); there was a desire on the Island for deeper conversations on the ways Masig knowledge and management practices and scientific knowledge can be mutually enhancing, rather than subordinating. This was especially important in a context where the impact of climate change (e.g. coral bleaching, warmer waters, etc.) on the reef ecosystems generates a lot of unknowns. Speaking about changes in the local population (perceived to be growing) and local interest in developing their commercial fisheries ‘to ensure employment for future generations, one of the

285 local Elders mentioned fearing the depletion of local resources. ‘Before [when he was younger] we were not thinking about it. Now it became a preoccupation’ (Inter., MC20, 2009). A better understanding of the strength of both knowledge systems and understanding of Masig Islanders’ social values and life project could lead to fruitful collaborations and conservation outcomes.

Change of attitude towards research and researchers

I have mentioned earlier in this chapter that Masig Islanders’ customary marine tenure regime comprises sets of rules regarding the production and ownership of knowledge associated with their territory. Over the years, on Masig, but also in the wider Torres Strait region, local community members have become increasingly sensitive to the presence of natural and social scientists in the region. Former Cr John Mosby explains that they have progressively changed their approach towards research proposals. At first, he said, ‘we didn’t understand the word “proposal”. We said yes to everything, but the “reports” talk lied to us’, he added, noting these reports have at times contributed to encroach on or limit their power to make decision for their fisheries. Others, like the Chair of Masig PBC, talked about the need to improve the feedback mechanisms and channels of communication for the research findings: ‘maybe they have copies of these reports at TSRA. We never get the chance to have a look at the report to make comment on it you know’ (Inter., 2009). At times, some of these reports were presented or given to some in the community but the channel chosen may have kept some people in the dark, pointing to the need to have clearer guidelines regarding the appropriate ways to return the information to each community. I have on a number of occasions witnessed people’s frustrations when, for example, they find out after the publication of research reports or other papers that photos were misused or used without permission, or ideas and concepts were misrepresented.

In other words, Masig Islanders wished to see an increase in researchers’ engagements with and accountability towards them, as rightful owners of these waters and as people whose everyday life in connected with the place, and not just accountability towards external institutions including governmental agencies and university departments. Research can significantly influence management decisions and policies, which in turn affect the lives and livelihood of Islanders and affect their chances of regaining control over their territories and fisheries. Thus, Masig community members were adamant in their demand for deeper and more meaningful engagement with the scientists who come their way, from the elaboration phase of

286 research projects to the dissemination of research findings. Such engagements are desired to make future research projects more respectful of and relevant to Islanders’ realities, needs and aspirations. As an Islander representative reminded them, ‘scientists must respect your views, engage you. Not just be accountable to the government’ (Fisheries meeting, 2008).

In 2008-2009, fisheries research and cultural protocols were progressively emerging as tools to increase community control across the Torres Strait over the kind of research conducted on fisheries related issues within their saltwater territories (see Chapter 1: Methodology). The PZJA’s Torres Strait Scientific Advisory Committee (TSSAC) commissioned Professor Martin Nakata to develop a formal fisheries research protocol for the Torres Strait. As stated in the report, the prime objective of this protocol is ‘to uphold and protect Indigenous rights and interests while facilitating cross-cultural engagements at the intersection of scientific and Indigenous understandings and practices’ (Nakata & Nakata, 2009, p. 10). This protocol also addresses a concern voiced notably by one of Masig’s fishers who suggested that there was a need for the scientists to engage more meaningfully with the fishers before choosing local community members to help them with their research activities (Inter., MC2, 2009).

Positive partnerships

Over the years, several Masig Islanders have collaborated with researchers and research teams examining various aspects of their territory’s marine ecosystems; describing some of these interactions and collaborations in more positive light than others. The collaborations and research projects locally considered as constructive have in common that they responded, in some way or another, to local needs and aspirations and therefore were to various degrees based on reciprocity and mutually benefits. Direct relationships between Masig Islanders and researchers have led, in some instances, to multidirectional exchanges of knowledge and skills.

Over time, some of these collaborations have also allowed local priorities and interests to permeate the research design. In other cases, researchers, drawing on their relationships with Masig Islanders, took heed of matters that were outside their research focus but were known to be of relevance for the local community. Masig Islanders also highlighted the enduring friendships emerging between some of the people involved as positive outcomes of such partnerships.

287

In the mid-1980s, Warwick J. Nash produced a report for Yorke (Masig) Island Council on the feasibility of trochus aquaculture at Masig (Nash, 1985). Nash’s research findings strongly inspired a range of local entrepreneurs to embark on such venture. While trochus farming projects had not eventuated in 2008-2010, at least one of the local fishers, Athe Francis Nai, had completed a certificate in aquaculture through TAFE282 and undergone the business training offered by the TSRA to pursue his dream to start a multispecies (including trochus) aquaculture farm.

Applied Ecology Pty283 Ltd’s controversial turtle farm initiative in the 1970s has been described as positive in some respects. For Awa Dan Mosby, who was coordinating the project on the behalf of the enterprise, this initiative, while unsuccessful, enhanced the skills and confidence of a few people on Masig, himself included, to undertake aquaculture projects on their own.

Another example, and perhaps the most positive and significant one so far, is the collaboration between Masig Islanders and a team of marine scientists from the Australian Institute of Marine Science (AIMS). This collaboration, which spans more than a decade, has also markedly transcended the purposes of the initial project. Collaboration between AIMS’ researchers and local sponge farmers has been important beyond the research and development phase of the pilot farm. The project is mutually beneficial in the sense that there is a genuine engagement on both sides to support and look after each other’s interests. The team of researchers works with local divers who have been trained in association with this project. Masig divers were regularly involved in monitoring support for the research and continue monitoring the various survey sites in the absence of the ‘sponge mob’ (AIMS sponge research team). The project hired the services of a local dinghy owner to access the various sites and benefits from the expert navigational skills of these skippers. There was continuous exchange of information on the project and of knowledge. Based on mutual respect and reciprocal arrangements, this professional relationship has been perceived as positive and enabling. One of the divers involved

282 TAFE stands for Technical and Further Education Colleges. These Colleges are present Australia wide. 283 Applied Ecology’s turtle farming project was an initiative developed by Dr Robert Bustard from the Australian National University. It received support from Queensland Department of Native Affairs (QDNA). The aim of the initiative was to provide employment and sustainable cultural food source for Torres Strait Islanders. The project was unsuccessful, stricken with illness and high mortality rate of turtles, and was discontinued by 1979 (Daley, 2014). The project was also linked to a decrease of the sardine stock on Erub (Scott, 2004). 288 in the monitoring activities admitted not fully understanding the reasoning behind some of the procedures linked to this project but finds enjoyment in the job and in his interactions with the research teams. As he says, ‘…they are bloody good bloke… We get along easy!’ (Inter., MC4, 2009). The research team took time to sit down, listen and discuss with people. One of the team leaders was happy that people were really positive about the project and saw the sponge farm as a good thing (Pers. Comm., SW, 2009). In regard to another research project and management decision, former CFG Awa Lota Warria also noted that establishing size limits for the TRL fisheries has played an important role in replenishing their reefs (Inter., 2008).

Representating Masig’s fishers and community in management committees

Akin to the systems developed by the peoples of the Marovo Lagoon in the Solomon Islands described by Hviding (1996), Masig’s customary marine and land tenure regimes encompass a series of rules delineating who is ‘empowered to speak for’ and make decisions about specific land and sea territories. Hence, while the Masigalgals communally own the seascape within the boundaries of their maritime domain, individuals’ power to influence and make decisions about this space varies according to a number of factors and circumstances. In most cases, decisions concerning the sea, including rights to allow access and temporary fishing permissions to outsiders, draw on a consultative process. In this context, there is little scope for unilateral decisions.

Here, it is important, as Agrawal and Gibson (1999), Waylen et al. (2013), and others have argued, to pay heed to the structural complexity underpinning the notion of ‘community’. The imagined and ‘idealised vision of sociality’ (Lahn, 2003, p. 2) implied in the description of Masig community as ‘wan big pamly’—referring simultaneously to a sense of belonging to specific territories and groups while highlighting the direct or diffused genealogical ties shared among many on the Island—conceals a somewhat heterogeneous and decentralised civic structure, ‘organised in terms of “families”’ (Fuary, 1991, p. 206, see also Beckett, 1983; Lahn, 2003).

The formal system of representation associated with the federal and state government agencies and departments (including the PZJA) is at odds with the customary local structures on which it is superimposed. Created by an amendment to the Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984 in

289

2002 (Commonwealth of Australia, 2002), the CFG was established as a consultative mechanism allowing for a representative from each Torres Strait community to provide input for PZJA’s fisheries advisory committees and working groups (Commonwealth of Australia, 2009). When the CFG284 was in place, the fisher representatives were elected by their respective community and financially supported through the Community Development Employment Projects (CDEP) scheme. In the same way that Masig Islanders do not generally feel entitled to speak on the behalf of another island community or the entire Torres Strait, the PZJA’s idea that a ‘community’ representative is empowered to speak or make decisions on the behalf of other family groups, even when democratically elected, is often met with resistance.285

Masig’s representatives are subjected to continual scrutiny; there are strong pressures on Masig Islanders elected to formal community representative roles to engage with and push forward (at times competing) interests, perspectives and aspirations held by the Island’s family groups and local key figures. On occasions, some community members have been critical and have raised doubts concerning the ‘real’ motives underpinning a given person’s decision to take on representative roles (e.g. questioning whether they are really working for the benefit of the whole community, or rather for the status associated with such positions, or to push their own interests and their family’s agenda). To borrow the words of one of the community members, ‘…some people are still there today trying to make a name for themselves’ (Pers. Comm., 2009).

As one of the Island’s Elders highlights, Masig’s representatives must take time away from the community in order to attend meetings (Inter., MC9, 2009). This, he suggests, is perceived negatively by a number of community members. Commenting on criticisms voiced towards local representatives, former Councillor John Mosby was disappointed that some ‘focus

284 The Community Fisher Group was decommissioned in 2011 after facing recurrent criticisms regarding the efficiency of the group (see for example Performance audit). This will be discussed further in chapter 9. The CDEP scheme began to be phased out in the Torres Strait from 2013 and replaced by the Remote Jobs and Communities Program (RJCP) and was to be fully phased out by 30 June 2017 (see http://www.humanservices.gov.au/customer/services/centrelink/community-development-employment- projects visited on 23 December 2014). 285 As Ross et al. discussed, ‘the requirement of Western bureaucracies for individuals or small groups to represent entire sociocultural entities creates additional problems, especially if bureaucracies do not have the capacity to develop multiple management outcomes to meet the dissimilar needs…’ (2011, p. 272). 290 on absenteeism but don’t look at this big value of this one man being there for the community’ (Inter., 2009).

To take stock of the different interests and visions expressed by different individuals and families, the Island representatives have the duty to engage with a range of community members through various platforms; from one-on-one conversations with Elders and key members of various families, to specialised meetings and community wide forums and consultations. On the Island, the Elders, both men and women, play significant advisory roles when it comes to making decisions on issues concerning the Island such as matters pertaining to the management of their marine domain. The duty to consult the Elders is both a mark of respect towards these key community members and of recognition of the breadth of their knowledge and experience stemming from historical relationships with this fluid environment. This body of knowledge and experience includes the set of social norms and values delineating how to be within, and to relate to and through the seascape.

Compared to Elders, younger Masig Islanders, even those who are active fishers, tend not to feel entitled to speak or to attempt influencing decisions regarding Masig’s territory, particularly during public meetings or gatherings. In the course of an informal conversation, one of the local fishers, in his twenties, expressed his desire to see the fishers within his age group voicing their views and ideas on fisheries matters, and being encouraged to do so. He was adamant that their contributions would be valuable in complementing inputs by community members who, despite their sound knowledge of the seascape, may not have interacted directly with the sea for some time or be abreast of newly employed gear or techniques (Pers. Comm., MC29, 2015). This said, and in line with what Menzies and Butler described for the Canadian context (2006, p. 12) younger holders of knowledge will often consult with Elders or get Elders’ approval before making a contribution to research projects or public forums.

There is also a significant gendered aspect of such community engagements. As most of the discussions about the use and management of Torres Strait marine environments focus on the commercial aspects of the local fishery system and on turtle and dugong hunting, dominated by male fishers (see Chapter 6), a larger proportion of the people who are consulted and feel empowered to speak on fisheries issues were also male. Over the period covered by this study,

291

Masig fisheries meetings were generally attended by a small group (often less than 10 persons) of men in their mid-30s to mid-50s and chaired by Masig’s Community Fisher Group (CFG) representative. On one occasion, the meeting was attended by Aunty Hilda Mosby286 in her capacity Officer for Australian Quarantine Services (AQIS). Fisheries related matters were also discussed during community meetings hosted by the Council. For Lota Warria, this was a way to reach more people. Most meetings were held in the covered open area adjacent to the Council Office building at the centre of the village. Often the CFG had to do without the help of a secretary.

I have been told and have observed that the work of the CFG also consists of numerous informal, one-on-one conversations with various community members who may or may not have attended formal fisheries meetings. Hence, the Island’s CFG representative consultation process involved ongoing conversations with the community various community members (one-on-one or as groups).

AFMA’s287 representatives have visited the communities directly in the past to discuss various fisheries related issues, but no one visited Masig between July 2008 and January 2010. During my fieldwork, the TSRA’s Land and Sea Management Unit’s Fisheries Coordinators did visit Masig on two occasions to discuss matter pertaining to the finfish sector. In general, the CFG representatives were more or less the only connection between the community and the PZJA.

Over the years, the position of CFG has been filled by four local fishers. Awa Lota Warria occupied that position from 2003 (serving as occasional proxy since 2002 and stepping down in 2009 for work and personal reasons, alluding notably to the fraught nature of the role). Awa Gavin Mosby stepped in and stayed in this role until the PZJA controversially dismantled the Community Fisher Group around 2011. Before them, two other men held that position; the late Awa Daniel Mosby and Awa John Mosby.

286 Later on she became the Chair of Masig Fishers Association. 287 AFMA is the Federal agency implementing fisheries management arrangements in the Torres Strait fisheries (Ref http://pzja.gov.au/about-us/who-we-are/#.VnOCmpe2V1A, last accessed on 24 March 2019). 292

The four men strongly believed in the necessity to represent their community at the PZJA level and for that reason, attended virtually all the advisory committee and working group meetings they were entitled to attend. Noting the importance of institutional knowledge, John Mosby commented that he consciously tried to avoid sending proxies as much as possible. Given that each commercial fisheries sector operates within their territories—and as an activation of their customary marine tenure rights— all Masig’s CFG representatives also emphasised their community’s rights and responsibilities to be part of each of the PZJA’s fisheries working groups. This included attending the prawn fisheries management advisory committee, as this fishery, despite being exclusively owned and operated by non-Islander fishers, is mainly active within Masig waters and shared territories.

Across the Torres Strait, the CFG representatives played the challenging role of mediator. They were responsible for communicating their community’s standpoints and concerns on various issues to the PZJA while providing their community with feedback on outcomes of fisheries committee meetings and decisions taken by the PZJA and consulting them on the behalf of this agency. Like other delegates on Masig (whether the Island Councillor, Island Manager, or Chair of the PBC), the Island’s CFG representative sat uncomfortably at the interface of local customary institutions (with their norms and values) and the superimposed TSRA’s and PZJA’s bureaucratic apparatus. Having to meet the various expectations of their community members and PZJA’s agencies, they also received support and criticisms from both.

On one hand, members of the CFG were criticised by the PZJA for their apparent inefficiency when it came to inform and consulting their community on matters emerging from the various fisheries meetings. On the other hand, members of Masig community felt, at times, that their representative only repeated what was discussed and proposed at the PZJA level while failing to push forward the issues of concern to them which, from their perspective, was the main purpose of the CFG representative. This perception was likely heightened by the difficulty of the task for the CFG representatives of translating scientific and managerial explanations (Inter., MC5, 2009; see Chapter 9).

In spite of the various issues associated with the definition of this exogenous CFG representative position and role, Masig Islanders generally agreed that they have to be

293 represented on the PZJA fisheries committees. One of the local fishers, who recognised the importance of the CFG, emphasised nevertheless that the strength of this role rested on the skills and personality of the person elected to fill the position and its relationship with the whole community. ‘CFG no just go out on a trip come back with what has been said. Has to take what is being said here there…’ (Fisheries meeting, MC2, 2008). For him, the CFG representative must be there for the community, not for the position, ‘the person filling that position ‘must have a strong voice and be community-minded and not there for the status and travel opportunity’ (Inter., MC2, 2009). Further, the CFG must strongly object to propositions that are not in line with the community’s interests or detrimental to its livelihood and lifeways (ibid.).

For both Mr Warria and Mr Mosby, defending their community’s interests was the main reason motivating their decision to take on the role of fishers’ representative for Masig. Lota Warria wanted to see Masig’s fishers benefit more from the fisheries so they could provide for their family (Inter., 2008). For Gavin Mosby, the principal motivations came from the kids; ‘trying to make the management good so them got things in the future that we have now’ (Inter., 2009).

Despite their good intentions, multiple obstacles hampered their ambitions. When they were elected as Masig’s representatives, both Mr Warria and Mr Mosby were experienced fishers but had limited experience when it came to navigate the bureaucratic structures and management relations. Both Mr Mosby and Mr Warria received short inductions and occasional training sessions associated with the role. Yet, as Mr Mosby explained, ‘I sort of just got thrown into it at first… that's the way to go, going cold. It’s taking me a while but I'm going to get there. […] I'm learning every day and I'm learning at every meeting. Every meeting I learn what I can ask for, who I can ask, when I can ask for it, what time I can ask for the meeting to be of a maximum benefit’ (Inter., 2009). Similarly, Awa Lota Warria described his first year in the role as ‘a learning experience’ (Inter., 2009).

Awa Gavin Mosby also criticised the lack of resources available to the CFG representatives.288 ‘Look here… I'm a fishermen representative but I have to line-up and take a

288 The Chair of the Prescribed Body Corporate also voiced similar grievances. 294 number at the council office to use the Internet, we have to line-up, wait and ask, can I use your computer...’ (Inter., 2009).

In 2008-2010, there was no fishers’ association on Masig; the last association dated from the early 2000s during the late Don Mosby’s Chairmanship. The reestablishment of such a representative structure was the focus of many discussions over successive fishers’ meetings, interviews and informal conversations. One of the main objectives justifying the creation of a new association was the development of a mechanism dedicated to support Masig’s CFG representative, by generating a deliberative space for the local fishers, which would thereby strengthen the voice, claims and overall credibility of the local representative when participating in management meetings.

As Awa Gavin Mosby mentioned:

I could be just taking orders from them [fishers association], advices from them and give it to them [PZJA]. And they are the one [fishers association] to say hey Gav, this is our opinion, this is what we want, take it back and deliver it to them [PZJA]. I should be the messenger boy, you know what I mean. Not the person making the decision. The people that make the decision should be the community and I should be the one taking it’ (Inter., 2009).

Mr Mosby also indicated that the association could further support his role by providing a secretary who could be responsible to document the exchanges, claims, concerns and recommended actions emerging from fisheries meetings (notably by taking the minutes). Mr Mosby, Mr Warria and others also anticipated a broader mandate for such association. As Awa Lota Warria explained, a fishers’ association on Masig would provide the local fishers and wider community with ‘support when applying for funding, looking for better price, negotiate deals and get approval from fishermen in any decision-making process’ (Inter., 2009). The association could also deliberate on the development of infrastructure and marketing. As for Mr Mosby, his aspiration was ‘to get some funding for infrastructure for a live tank. That's what a fisheries corporation should be doing. Not me’ (Inter., 2009).

Conclusions: Masig voices through the seascape

Aswani advocates for fisheries policy to ‘pay heed to existing right-based fishery management systems before assuming that contemporary processes have erased all forms of

295 local control’ (2006 p. 304). In this chapter, I have demonstrated how Masig Islanders’ customary marine tenure regime, relational hybrid economy and their positions in terms of rights and responsibility to represent their Island are indeed fundamental dimensions of their contemporary fisheries management practices. They also represent the foundation on which their project to both regain control over their maritime territories and decolonise their fisheries rests. A salient part of the Island’s lifeways, Masig fisheries and their management are based on a holistic value system (gud pasin) which is anchored in a relational ontology that governs Masig Islanders’ relationships with their territories, with each other, and include rules framing outsiders’ access to their territories and uses of their resources. The environmental and social impacts of non-Islanders’ industrial fishing operations—especially those engendered by the prawn industry—observed by Masig Islanders in their waters reinforced their determination, as owner-managers, to fully enforce their marine tenure regime. Elder Henry Garnier insists that Torres Strait Islanders need to take control of their fisheries to be able to ‘say no to any development that may endanger our environment’ (Garnier, 2004, p. 62). Yet, their capacity to control peoples’ actions and movements across their seascape is heavily curtailed by the PZJA’s interference.

For nearly three decades, authors such as Johannes and Macfarlane (1991), Hviding (1996), Mulrennan et al. (1993; 1994), and Scott and Mulrennan (1999) have advocated for customary marine tenure regimes to become a foundation for local fisheries management. The provisions of the Torres Strait Treaty making Torres Strait Islanders’ traditional way of life a core preoccupation of the region’s fisheries management and the form of fisheries co- management that emerged from 2002 appeared to suggest a greater Islander involvement and influence on fisheries decisions. By exploring the mismatch between Masig Islanders and non- Islander perspectives on marine ownership and appropriate forms of representation, this chapter has begun to unveil some of the issues underpinning the relationship of fisheries co-management in the Torres Strait. In Chapter Nine, I will demonstrate how, despite including Islander representatives in management committees and working groups, the PZJA largely fails to take endogenous management systems, socio-ecological knowledge and economic rationales, and life projects seriously.

296

Chapter Nine: ‘Co’-managing Torres Strait Fisheries: partnership or collision of root metaphors?

I started to be frustrated because our voices were not being heard… my people’s voices were not being heard and there was a lot of bureaucracy […] It took the wind out of my sail too.

Torres Strait Islander civil servant, Inter., TI2, 2009

Over the last three chapters, my aim was to illustrate various aspects of Masig Islanders’ quotidian, their dynamic lifeways, their livelihood, and their life projects. In these chapters, I have focussed on Masig’s contemporary fishery system as well as on a range of interconnected values, economic rationales, tenure regime, and socio-ecological knowledge systems underpinning Masig Islanders’ engagement with their land- and seascape and lifeways. These chapters documented and discussed multiple facets of Masig Islanders’ fishing practices and marine resource management, including the customary tenure regime framing their interactions with their marine territories.

In these chapters, I demonstrate that, despite constant colonial pressures, Masig Islanders have maintained a relative, yet significant, autonomy289 in their day-to-day engagement with and management of their marine estate. At the same time, Masig Islanders’ interactions with their seascape and related institutions, knowledge system, and body of practices are entangled with superimposed statutory fisheries management regimes and state-sanctioned non-Islander commercial fishing operations.

As previously mentioned, in the Torres Strait, the Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA) is the statutory entity responsible for the management of the commercial fisheries operating within the Protected Zone and adjacent areas (Map 5.1).290 From its establishment through the Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984, the PZJA has been vested with the concomitant—and, as I will

289 See (Morphy & Morphy, 2013). 290 The Torres Strait Protected Zone does not encompass the entire fishing and hunting territories of number of Islander groups. This is certainly the case of Masig and Poruma. As alluded to in Chapter Five, some interpret— Islanders and non-Islanders—these discrepancies as an expression of the Commonwealth’s lack of understanding or preoccupation for local marine tenure regime. 297 explain towards the end this chapter, conflicting—mandates of protecting Islanders’ ‘traditional way of life and livelihood’ and the region’s marine environment, while promoting the ‘optimal sustainable’ use of the region’s commercial marine resources.

Here, I depart from the specific case of Masig fisheries system and lifeways to pay heed to Torres Strait’s ‘formal’ fisheries co-management regime, scrutinise the social relations underpinning the PZJA’s structure and unpack the ‘root metaphors’291 coexisting in this context. My objective is to make visible the power relationships at play in this setting along with the institutions and structures supporting and reproducing them. I will do so by addressing a range of assumptions and standpoints that shape the region’s fisheries decision-making, management and development.

This chapter shows how the PZJA’s dominant ontological and epistemological postures heavily impede genuine dialogues and collaborations between the various actors involved, hinder alternative perspectives, and inhibit Islander lifeways, livelihood and life projects. Stemming from a particular construction of the marine environment and the role of humans within it, these postures declare certain forms of fisheries management and development to be desirable and effective. They largely frame the terms of engagement between ‘stakeholders’ and impose a specific definition of Islanders’ ‘traditional’ fishing practices (officially excluding commercial fishing) and knowledge.

Hence, while co-management strategies promised to empower Islanders, this chapter reveals some of the disempowering effects of this partnership. Drawing partly on Nadasdy’s analysis of co-management processes (Nadasdy, 2003b, 2003a, 2005a, 2007), I will demonstrate how Islanders’ voices, knowledge, and institutions are, in the PZJA context, consistently subjected to processes of compartmentalisation and distillation which tends to ignore or filter out important dimensions of Islanders’ contributions that does not sit well with Western-styles of resource management. These processes hinder Islanders’ capacity to influence fisheries management decisions, strategies and directions.

291 I borrow the term from Colin Scott (2011), who in turn drew on the work of Max Black (1962), Sherry Ortner (1973) and Mary Hesse (1980). The term ‘root metaphor’ can be understood as synonymous with ‘paradigm’. 298

Regarding the PZJA’s purportedly primary legislative mandate to protect Torres Strait Islanders’ traditional way of life, this chapter examines how this responsibility has influenced the development of formal fisheries management strategies. In the same vein, it investigates why Islanders’ participation within and beyond the PZJA structure have largely failed to translate into a shift of management philosophy and economic development orientations. My concern is with the social relations, paradigms, and politics governing the PZJA’s co-management processes, not with evaluating their successes or failures in terms of conservation and economic objectives.

This chapter draws on empirical data collected during PZJA, TSRA, and Australian Fisheries Management Authority (AFMA) meetings, workshops, and working group sessions between July 2008 and January 2010. It is also informed by interviews and ad hoc conversations with Islander and non-Islander participants in these official events and associated informal meetings. Bringing together a range of ‘stakeholders’, these meetings and workshops yield a diversity of perspectives on Torres Strait fisheries management structure and directions, marine property, resource rights, and fisheries development aspirations. As ‘contact zones’ (Pratt, 1992), these meetings and workshops were also the theatre of significant tensions. Indeed, frustrations from all angles were vented via these platforms; non-attendance and withdrawal were played as strategies to signify distrust, discontent and lack of faith in the co-management process, while perspectives on (im)possible292 futures for the region’s fisheries and economy converged and collided.

To supplement the information emerging from this institutional ethnography, I also examine meeting minutes, annual reports, consultancy reports, and other documents produced (mainly but not solely between 2008–2010) by the agencies involved in the co-management of Torres Strait fisheries (e.g. PZJA, TSRA, AFMA, CSIRO, etc.).

The management and development directions and strategies endorsed by the PZJA and affiliated institutions are also analysed in the light of ethnographic material presented so far. Masig provides an ethnographic illustration293 of locally-anchored counterpoints and counterpraxis, a critical edge from which to deconstruct the PZJA’s understandings and

292 Again, borrowing the term from Altamirano-Jiménez (2013). 293 It must be kept in mind that one Island case study does not sum up Torres Strait Islanders’ lifeways as a whole. 299 positions. This contrast offers competing perspectives on economic rationales, property regimes, fisheries systems, socio-ecological knowledge systems, desirable development outcomes—and their respective impacts on management directions.

I will begin, in a first section of this chapter, by outlining the PZJA’s structure in its 2008 and 2010 iteration; the agencies and consultation platform that supported it, the mandates and management arrangements that delineated and drove fisheries management and development outcomes. I will also present the actors involved at the multiple levels of the PZJA, and their roles within this structure. Then, in a second section, I will provide an ethnographic account of fisheries management meetings; looking notably at who is involved, how the agendas are decided and by who, how different perspectives are voiced and taken into account (or fail to be) and so on.

Understanding the concept of ‘management’ as a social relationship, paying attention to the power dynamics among actors and institutions, range of assumptions and communication challenges rather than the focus of management itself, is helpful to decipher some of the root metaphors and assumptions—or, to borrow from Barber and Jackson words, the ‘multi-valency of both objects and actions’ (Barber & Jackson, 2014, p. 670)—that this context harbours. The third section of this chapter focuses, from this vantage point, on converging and conflicting paradigms, traditions and conventions. In particular, I will discuss how the PZJA’s dominant standpoint is enacted through processes of compartmentalisation and distillation (Nadasdy, 2003a)—bringing about a peculiar ‘operationalisation’ of Islanders’ socio-ecological knowledge systems, values and economic rationales and perception of Islanders’ capacity to bring about changes in management directions. I will explain how this process, anchored in a bio-economic paradigm which tends to reduce the management of the fisheries sector to a problem of resource allocation based on scientific assessment of stocks, brushes aside incommensurable positions on, for example, the question of ownership of the sea. My aim is to re-politicise the management process by making visible the incongruities inherent in the PZJA’s concomitant objectives of protecting Islanders’ way of life and livelihood while promoting the optimal sustainable use of the resources within the Zone.

300

The power of a structure: Inside the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA)

As alluded in Chapter Five, the PZJA is the decision-making body responsible for monitoring, formulating policies and developing management plans for traditional and commercial fishing activities in the Torres Strait Protected Zone (hereafter TSPZ) and designated adjacent areas (including the five Article 22 fisheries jointly managed by Australia and PNG). The objectives and management priorities of the PZJA conferred by the Torres Strait Treaty are enshrined in Section 8 of the Torres Strait Fisheries Act (1984) (TSFA). These priorities are:

• ‘to acknowledge and protect the traditional way of life and livelihood of traditional inhabitants, including their rights in relation to traditional fishing; • to protect and preserve the marine environment and indigenous fauna and flora in and in the vicinity of the Protected Zone; • to adopt conservation measures necessary for the conservation of a species in such a way as to minimise any restrictive effects of the measures on traditional fishing; • to administer the provisions of Part 5 of the Torres Strait Treaty (relating to commercial fisheries) so as not to prejudice the achievement of the purposes of Part 4 of the Torres Strait Treaty in regard to traditional fishing; • to manage commercial fisheries for optimum utilisation; • to share the allowable catch of relevant Protected Zone commercial fisheries with Papua New Guinea in accordance with the Torres Strait Treaty; • to have regard, in developing and implementing licensing policy, to the desirability of promoting economic development in the Torres Strait area and employment opportunities for traditional inhabitants’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 1984).

From its inception in the mid-1980s until November 2002, the PZJA presided over what can be described as a conventional top-down managerial model. Solely composed of the Commonwealth and Queensland Ministers holding the Federal and State fisheries portfolios294, the Authority was, at the time, essentially devoid of local representation. As stakeholders in the region’s commercial fisheries, Torres Strait Islanders had a few representatives on the PZJA consultative committees and working groups, alongside industry representatives.

294 In 2008-2010, these positions were occupied by Tony Burke then Commonwealth Minister for Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry, Tim Mulherin, then Queensland Minister for Primary Industries and Fisheries; and John T. Kris, then Chair of the Torres Strait Regional Authority. 301

In 2002, eight years after the establishment of the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA), a bill amending the Torres Strait Fisheries Act made the Chair of the TSRA295 a permanent member of the PZJA. According to the authors of the Bill, the TSRA Chair’s inclusion within this decision-making body aimed at ‘facilitating further dialogue between the TSRA, and the Commonwealth and Queensland Governments about [fisheries] related matters’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2002, p. 3).

This legislative amendment marked a shift in management style and a move towards a more collaborative approach to managing the region’s fisheries, with the TSRA gaining some decision-making power in the process. These changes occurred after years of sustained pressure and direct actions by Islanders (and their allies)296 for the recognition of their ownership rights over vast sea territories, their rights to control these territories and, at the very least, to be an integral part of the fisheries management processes and decisions (Mulrennan & Scott, 2005).297 At the time, the TSRA welcomed this positive move towards co-management (Commonwealth of Australia, 2003, p. 3) as a framework for Torres Strait Islanders to ‘effectively meet [their] aims of greater involvement and ownership of the regions’ fisheries, for the benefit of [their] people’ (ibid, p 10).298

In mid-2000s, the PZJA began to show some openness and explore the possibility to formally implement a ten nautical mile radius exclusion zone ‘for all non-traditional inhabitants fishers within the Finfish Fishery in waters surrounding Murray (Mer), Darnley (Erub), Yorke (Masig) and Stephens (Ugar) Islands’ (see O’Donnell, 2006) which appears to have been subsequently tested as a management strategy (Williams et al., 2011).

295 At the time, this position was filled by the Late Terry Waia for . 296 These allies include number of academics and broader scientific community through forums such as the Marine Strategy for Torres Strait, the Mabo case, the sea claim, etc. In terms of direct actions by Islanders, the Fishing Wars and the Torres Strait Cultural Summit ultimatum which demanded to halt non-Islander commercial fisheries in the region until resolution of question of traditional ownership (English, 2001; O'Donnell, 2006; Loban et al., 2016). Issues with the management structure were also noted in AFMA, Annual Report 2000-01 and PZJA, Meeting 14, 2002. 297 See for example fishing wars case (Haigh, 1999a, 2000; English, 2001; Mulrennan & Scott, 2001; Loban et al., 2016). 298 As mentioned in previous chapters, many Torres Strait Islanders aimed for regaining full control over their territories and resources. 302

PZJA’s Supporting and Consultative Structure (2008–2010)

In 2008–2010, the PZJA was supported by a Standing Committee, an advisory body composed of four governmental agencies, each of which advised the Authority on specific aspects and issues pertaining to Torres Strait fisheries management. In a nutshell, AFMA oversaw the general management of the Torres Strait Fisheries. The Queensland Department of Primary Industries and Fisheries (QDPI&F) managed the compliance issues and licensing of commercial (Traditional Inhabitant Boat (TIB) and Transferrable Vessel Holder (TVH) fishing vessels and activities in the TSPZ as well as aquaculture (Minutes, TSSAC Meeting 46)299 and fisheries marketing matters. The Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry (DAFF) supported the development of policies and programs addressing the by-catch issues and evaluating the impacts of fishing activities on non-target species in line with Australia’s National and international obligations and agreements (e.g. RAMSAR, Convention of biodiversity, etc.). As for the TSRA, its role was to implement programs focusing on improving the lifestyle, wellbeing, socioeconomic and health status of Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal people living across the region (including the Northern Cape York Peninsula’s communities) (PZJA, Annual Report, 2008-2009).300 The role of the TSRA was strongly entwined with regard to the Council of Australian Governments (COAG) ‘Closing the Gap on Indigenous Disadvantage’ neoliberal initiative (see Chapter 2).

The complex administrative arrangements of the Steering Committee allowed a broad range of perspectives, skills and expertise to inform Torres Strait fisheries management. Yet, they have also been regarded as contributing to the inefficiency of the management process (Commonwealth of Australia, 2010, p. 18).

299 https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja-and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/torres- strait-scientific-advisory-committee-tssac/torres-strait-scientific-advisory-committee-tssac-meeting-46 (last accessed on 24 March 2019). 300 https://www.pzja.gov.au/resources/publications/annual-reports (last accessed on 24 March 2019). 303

Fig. 9.1 Source: (Australian Fisheries Management Authority, 2008) In addition to this Standing Committee, the PZJA’s decision-making process was supported by a consultative structure composed of Commonwealth, State and TSRA managers, scientists, technical experts, traditional inhabitant301 community fisher representatives, and non- traditional inhabitant fishing industry members. Also established by the TSFA 1984, the main purpose of this consultative platform was to advise the PZJA on fisheries related (and often species-specific) ‘scientific, technical, and economic matters302 (PZJA, 2008, p. 4). This platform provided a deliberative space where the ‘stakeholders’ listed above exposed their positions and aspirations in regard to Torres Strait fisheries management and development directions. To some extent, this space is also part of the ‘contact zone’ (Pratt, 1992) or ‘cultural interface’ as theorised by Nakata (1997); that is, a space where knowledge and information systems intersect.

The PZJA’s consultative structure was composed of Management Advisory Committees (MACs), a Scientific Advisory Committee (SAC), a Resources Assessment Group (RAG), and Fishery Working Groups (WGs), with interrelated functions. Each of these forums acted

301 Islanders from each of the outer and inner island communities as well as Aboriginal representative from the Northern Peninsula (Cape York) communities of Bamaga, Injinoo, New Mapoon, Seisia and Umagico. 302 I’d like to note the omission of ‘cultural’ or ‘social’ relevance or appropriateness as matters for which advice was needed. 304 exclusively in an advisory capacity and was responsible to ‘provide expert advice that best pursues PZJAs (sic) legislative and policy objectives’ (PZJA, 2008, p. 6). In addition to this advisory structure, the PZJA could also seek advice from other government agencies, independent consultants, various fisheries operators and broader Torres Strait community members (e.g. Elders, Prescribed Body Corporates (PBCs), Councillors, etc.).

While none was vested with decision-making power, these forums’ respective ability to influence the PZJA’s decisions was unevenly distributed following a pre-established hierarchy. The MACs were the PZJA’s main source of recommendations on management and operational matters on fishery-specific goals, strategies, risks, and management arrangements (PZJA, 2008). The Scientific Advisory Committee (SAC) identified and advised the Authority on research priorities and funding while the Resources Assessment Group (RAG) provided scientific bio- economic assessments on the individual commercial fisheries. The MACs, SAC and RAG reported primarily to the PZJA based on their respective expertise and exchanged information among themselves and with Working Groups devoted to specific issues (see Fig. 9.1). The species-specific Working Groups were essentially created to assist the MACs and, to a lesser degree, the SAC. Their role was to provide information on the competing interests within each of the Torres Strait fisheries (O'Donnell, 2006, p. 230) and to ensure that ‘the appropriate blend of knowledge and expertise is available to provide the required advice to a MAC’ (PZJA, 2008, p. 7). Having no direct interaction with the PZJA, the WG’s capacity to influence management decisions was limited and contingent on the MACs’ and SAC’s appreciation and incorporation of their contributions.

305

Composition of each consultative forum (Minimum requirements)

Management Advisory Committee (e.g. Torres Strait Fisheries MAC and Torres Strait Prawn MAC)

1 Chair; 1 Executive Officer; 2 Staff members from AFMA and 2 from QDPI&F; 1 Scientific member; 6 Traditional Inhabitant members (rotational from 24 communities); 5 Non-Traditional Inhabitants Industry members; 1 TSRA support member.

Scientific Advisory Committee

1 Chair; 1 Executive Officer; 1 Staff members from AFMA and 1 from QDPI&F; 4 Scientific members; 1 Independent industry member; 1 CFG nominated by TSRA; 1 Papua New Guinea Representative.

Working Groups

1 Chair; 1 Executive Officer; 1 Staff members from AFMA and 1 from QDPI&F; 1 Scientific member; 6 Traditional Inhabitant members; 3 Non-Traditional Inhabitants Industry members; 1 TSRA support member.

Resource Assessment Group

1 Chair; 1 Executive Officer; 1 Staff members from AFMA and 1 from QDPI&F; 1 Traditional fishing members; 1 Non-Traditional fishing members; 1 Scientific member; 1 Independent Scientific member; 1 Conservation member; 1 New Guinea Representative (National Fisheries Authority) member; 1 TSRA support member.

Fig. 9.2 Composition of the consultative forums (minimum requirements). Source (PZJA, 2008).

Composition of the consultative forums

Specific guidelines dictated the composition of each of the consultative forums (see Fig. 9.2). Several of the members and representatives listed above were involved in more than one forum (e.g. TSRA Fisheries Coordinator, AFMA manager, CFG and Islanders’ representatives, scientists from various agencies (CSIRO, Northern Prawn Fisheries (NPF), James Cook University (JCU), etc.). The chairs had to ‘be independent of commercial or other interests with the particular fishery/fisheries, including industry association(s)’ (PZJA, 2008, p. 15) and MACs couldn’t be presided over by staff members of PZJA agencies. Each forum was attended by scientists with ‘specialist knowledge’ of the targeted species. The number of scientists and the weight of their expertise—as opposed to the expertise of Islander fishers and communities and non-Islander fishers—also dominated the SAC and the RAG.

306

Torres Strait Islanders in the structure

Torres Strait Islanders’ inputs and participation within the PZJA structure were minimal for the first eighteen years of the Authority. During that period, Islanders were consulted when deemed appropriate by the PZJA.303 In November 2002, the PZJA’s decisional body and consultative structures were amended to incorporate the TSRA Chair (as discussed above) and a Community Fisher Group (CFG) (see Chapter 8); a move that was described as an effort to facilitate Islanders’ involvement in ‘all management and decision-making processes impacting on Torres Strait fisheries’ (O'Donnell, 2006, p. 225). Created in the context of this restructuration, the CFG’s main purpose was to liaise between the PZJA and the islands represented by its constituents while offering advice on specific fisheries. The CFG was the main interface between its members’ communities, the government, and the non-Islander fishing industry. It is also a main point of contact between Torres Strait communities around fisheries matters.

Since 2002, Torres Strait Islanders have been sitting in various capacities at every level of the PZJA-led fisheries management structure (e.g. CFGs, TSRA Chair and Officers, AFMA and QDPI&F Officers, Island Councillors, etc.). In 2008-2010, Islanders’ presence in the consultative structure (mainly as CFG representatives)304 was heavier at the species-specific Working Groups level. They could also have up to six CFG representatives on the Torres Strait Fisheries Management Advisory Committee (TSFMAC). On the SAC and the RAG, where scientists played a central role, Islanders had only one or two representatives: a CFG member chosen by the TSRA and a TSRA representative (Fig 9.2). The CFG members chosen to participate in these different forums were often selected based on the presence of the species targeted and commercial fisheries operations in the vicinity of their respective island communities. For instance, CFG members from the Kulkalgal and Eastern Islands attended the

303 According to section 39 of the Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984, the PZJA ‘shall, where it considers it appropriate to do so, seek the views of members of the Joint Advisory Council established under Article 19 of the Torres Strait Treaty who are traditional inhabitants and Australian citizens on any matter relating to a Protected Zone Joint Authority fishery where that matter may affect the interests of traditional inhabitants who are Australian citizens’ (emphasis added). 304 Ibid. 307

Finfish Fisheries Working Group while the Tropical Rock Lobster Working Group would involve representatives from the Western Islands where most of the fishery operates.

Torres Strait Islanders were also part of this structure as employees and representatives of government agencies (e.g. within TSRA, AFMA or DPI&F). While having Torres Strait Islander representatives within the various governmental agencies was considered important, those holding these positions were nevertheless subjected to significant pressures. The ‘dual’ nature of their bureaucratic engagement—being simultaneously traditional Inhabitants and government representatives—generated, at times, a challenging level of distrust on the part of some Islanders and non-Islanders alike. For example, a number of Torres Strait Islanders nourished sporadic doubts towards the LSMU’s Fisheries Coordinator and TSRA elected Fisheries Portfolio Holder (FPH), suggesting that they were not always convinced of whose interests they were fighting for; the Torres Strait communities’, the government’s or the industry’s (Pers. Comm., TN, 2008). As one of the Islanders employed by a PZJA agency explains, while the Fisheries Coordinator listens to the communities’ aspirations and grievances, these need to be negotiated with all the stakeholders involved. Hence, ‘there have to be a bit of give and take. […] When you ask for something, they [the PZJA, the industry, etc.] are going to ask for something in return’ (Inter., IPS, 2009). Being camped in the position of stakeholder in this process and not in a position of control, these representatives have limited negotiating powers.

Torres Strait Islanders within the government apparatus were well aware of this as these concerns were often voiced publicly. For example, during one of the CFG meetings held in 2009, a CFG representative asked the TSRA Fisheries Portfolio Holder to clarify his role, inquiring whether he had ‘much power to meeting CFG aspirations’ or the capacity to ‘endorse things against CFG wishes’. The then FPH explained that he had ‘no authority to override CFG decisions’ and had ‘not done this’ adding that his ‘role is to steer decisions and record disagreements and help debate along the way.’ And that ‘[j]ust because [he is] in the position of Fisheries Portfolio member and with the TSRA, [his] agenda has not changed and [his] interests are still with Torres Strait Islanders’. Another CFG member considered that the FPH was indeed doing his best to support Torres Strait Islanders’ fishers (CFG meeting minutes, July 2009).

308

Such distrust was also directed at the TSRA itself. For example, the Office of Evaluation and Audit (Indigenous Programs) documented the CFG’s suspicions that the ‘TSRA ha[d] ‘taken sides’ with other PZJA agencies’ and had not always ‘acted in the best interests of Torres Strait Islanders’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2009, p. 35). Some of the Torres Strait Islanders employed by various government agencies have mentioned having experienced stress and frustrations because of this situation (Pers. Comm., TI1, 2009). Incidentally, and as mentioned in Chapter Eight, CFG representatives faced similar scrutiny from members of their respective communities.

On inclusion and ‘equality’

While many within the Torres Strait Islander communities welcomed Islanders’ increased appointments within the PZJA structure as a step toward the co-management and eventual self- management of the local fisheries (TSRA, Annual Report, 2002-2003)305, this move was not, as O’Donnell also argues, necessarily ‘indicative of greater conditions of equality, participation or representation between the participants involved within the PZJA structure’ (2006, p. 226). A fundamental aspect of the PZJA-led fisheries management structure was that Torres Strait Islanders were not involved in the design of the PZJA and its management structure. They were instead included in a structure already eighteen-years-old at the time, with its predefined rules, hierarchy, objectives, assumptions, and categories (e.g. traditional [subsistence] v commercial fishing306, species-specific focus, traditional inhabitant v non-Islander fishers, etc.)307 with the necessary process of translation that such inclusion imply (see Vaughan, 2012; Weir, 2012). From 2002 onwards, Torres Strait Islander fisher representatives were incorporated as a user group or a stakeholder within PZJA’s various species-specific management committees alongside non-Islander industry members.

Strang suggests that ‘[t]he construction of the new groups reflects an underlying political agenda to position indigenous communities as being no different from any other stakeholder or

305 http://www.tsra.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0020/1739/anrep0203.pdf (last accessed on 24 March 2019). 306 For example, some managers have used the term ‘subsistence -commercial’ to describe part-time Islander fishers (Pers. Comm., AE, 2009). Hand (2008) uses the term ‘lifestyle’ fishers, which may be misleading and diminish the importance of small-scale occasional fishing activities for the local economy (see the section on Hybrid economy in Chapter 7). 307 This situation is similar to the one described by Nadasdy (2005a). 309 interest group’ (2009, p. 102; see also Ross et al. 2011). While the Torres Strait Treaty requires that Torres Strait Islander ‘traditional’ and, to a lesser extent, ‘commercial’ fisheries308 be given precedence over non-Islander commercial interests, Torres Strait Islanders are nevertheless defined as one of the groups or stakeholders309 (namely the TIB) for whom the access to commercial resources and interactions with the marine territory are managed by the PZJA.

As I will discuss toward the end of this chapter, the specific bio-economic posture and unchallenged categories adopted and used by the PZJA have allowed it to skirt around a range of political and legal issues—in particular, the unresolved question of sovereignty in Torres Strait waters and associated rights to allocate the regions’ marine resources; leaving aside, by extension, Islanders’ rights of self-determination.

The Torres Strait Treaty cautiously defined Torres Strait Islanders as the region’s ‘traditional inhabitants’.310 Hence, it is as a user group (or stakeholder)—albeit with special status and rights—and not as owners or even co-owners of the region’s waters and resources that Islanders have been incorporated in the PZJA. In this context, Islanders’ customary marine tenure regimes and territorial boundaries are treated as largely irrelevant, notwithstanding the Torres Strait sea claim filed in 2001, and High Court Recogntion of persistent native title in 2013 (Akiba v Commonwealth).

The asymmetrical social relations underpinning the PZJA’s operations are evidenced by the fact that the ultimate decision-making power is in the hands of the Commonwealth Minister; the Authority’s only member holding the right to veto decisions. To this day, and based on the text of the TSFA 1984, neither the Minister nor the PZJA is under any legal obligation to act on the recommendations emerging from the consultative process. This limitation on the power of the TSRA and CFG to influence decisions is itself seen by many Islanders to hinder their aspirations to control livelihood and marine resources, fuelling distrust in the process.

308 To use the categories defined by the Treaty and used by the PZJA. 309 This stakeholder status is especially apparent and problematic in the context of the quota debates (Hand, 2008; Hand & Siobhan, 2010). For example, stresses the importance of ‘striking a balance between the needs of different stakeholder groups when allocating the rights to harvest natural resources. (Hand & Siobhan, 2010, p. 25). 310 The term ‘Traditional Inhabitant’ also includes Papuan individuals from the Treaty villages (South of PNG Western Province) and Aboriginal peoples with ties to the Torres Strait (e.g. Kaurareg people who are Traditional Owners of the Inner Torres Strait Islands). 310

On the other hand, the PZJA could not simply disregard the grievances and aspirations of Islanders. Unpopular unilateral decisions would face stark resistance, and possibly civil disobedience, by communities across the region, as happened in the past (e.g. fishing wars, etc.). In some instances, Islanders have even sought support from the international community (e.g. calls to the UN Special Committee on Decolonisation in the 1970s and 2000s (Scott & Mulrennan, 2010). Many Islander representatives have been uncompromising on issues such as heading towards 100 per cent ownership of marine resource and territories, a situation which non-Islander industry representatives describe as politicking that destabilises Torres Strait fisheries (see below). The PZJA consultative structure’s meetings were a space where such tensions and resistance mechanisms were at play.

Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority in action

The PZJA fisheries management apparatus revolves principally around annual cycles of consultative meetings. According to the Fisheries Management Paper (FMP) No.1, the members of each consultative fisheries forum were expected to meet face to face at least once a year to debate ongoing or emerging issues in their respective sectors (PZJA, 2008). In addition, and until 2011 (see TSRA, Annual Report, 2010-11) when the CFG was dismantled311, the TSRA also had the responsibility to coordinate quarterly meetings bringing together the entire community fisher group.

Before the creation of the CFG in 2002, AFMA managers used to make regular trips to the Outer Islands to consult the local fishers and communities, but such visits became rare after that period. ‘AFMA used to come all the time’ noted one of Masig Elders, ‘Today, we got representatives…’ (Inter., MC10, 2009; see also O’Donnell, 2006). When this fieldwork was conducted, it was common practice for the CFG constituents to travel to central meeting locations rather than hosting such meetings in their respective island communities. An exception was the traditional turtle and dugong fisheries management group, for which TSRA agents visited the communities to consult directly with the Elders, local rangers and other key actors.

311 In a controversial and divisive motion following a review of the CFG, the TSRA replaced the group by skill- based Indigenous Fisheries Advisory Committee (IFAC). See TSRA, Annual Report, 2010-11, p. 107: http://www.tsra.gov.au/news-and-resources/annual-reports/annual-report-2010-2011. (Last accessed on 24 March 2019). 311

Typically, the PZJA’s consultative forums and TSRA’s CFG meetings were held outside Torres Strait Islander territories, either on Kaurareg’s Thursday Island in TSRA and AFMA boardrooms or in various locations in Cairns and Brisbane (see Table 9.1) with stakeholders’ travel costs covered by the PZJA. The working groups and MAC, which comprised the largest number of Torres Strait Islanders, generally had their meetings on Thursday Island. The RAG, MACs and SAC meetings, dominated by fisheries managers and marine scientists, commonly occurred in Cairns, with occasional SAC meetings in Brisbane. As for the PZJA itself, it did not hold face-to-face meetings between April 2008 and April 2014, making instead a series of decisions ‘out-of-session’ via teleconference or other medium. This situation was criticised by some CFG representatives. As noted in the minutes of a CFG meeting in July 2009, the group expressed its wish to ‘work in partnership with PZJA and be informed of out of session decisions so [it] can scrutinise these decisions and forward [it] support of these decisions’.

312

Number of PZJA committees’ meetings per location Forums between July 2008 and January 2010 Thursday Island Cairns Brisbane Teleconference TS Hand Collectable 2 Working Group TS Finfish Working 1 Group TS Fisheries Management 1 Advisory Committee TS Prawn Fisheries Management 3 1 Advisory (+5 Out of Sessions) Committee TS Tropical Rock Lobster 3 Resource Assessment Group TS Tropical Rock Lobster 0312 Working Group TS Scientific Advisory 2 3 Committee Table 9.1 Meeting number per locations for the various committees and working group between mid-2008 and early 2010 according to the meeting minutes. Where these bodies had significant overlapping memberships, the PZJA and TSRA often scheduled adjacent consecutive meetings, partly to minimise travel costs.313 Each of PZJA’s forum meeting agendas was prepared by an Executive Officer appointed by AFMA; usually selected among PZJA agencies’ staff members. The agendas and documents prepared for each meeting were to be emailed to participants at least 10 days in advance, with minutes drafted and circulated to all participants within two weeks. Depending on the circumstances, the CFG

312 The Tropical Rock Lobster Working Group (TRLWG) did not meet between July 2008 and January 2010. This working group usually meet on Thursday Island. 313 There has been a proposition that face-to-face meetings could be replaced by video-conferencing as a measure to reduce management costs. PZJA’s forum meetings have provided occasions for Islanders’ representatives to meet and discuss issues among each other. Morning, lunch and afternoon breaks along with evening get-togethers when staying overnight offered informal spaces for further discussions and venting of frustrations outside the formal setting. 313 representatives may have been requested to consult with their community members on specific agenda items so that their views could be presented at the meetings. CFG members were at time participating in a series of consecutive meetings and therefore had to be abreast of their community’s perspectives on a range of issues across agendas.

English, whether in its plain, bureaucratic, or technical (scientific) forms, is the lingua franca of the PZJA structure. Meetings and workshops, agendas, minutes, reports and maps were almost exclusively conducted and produced in English, with some Islander nomenclature and place names occasionally appearing in written documents314. As part of a multilingual society, Torres Strait Islanders mainly used Torres Strait Creole, their own lingua franca, to converse among each other. At times, Islanders fluent in Kala Lagaw Ya or Meriam Mir spoke in their langous (languages), followed by an English translation to produce various effects—for example, to assert one’s identity and deep connections with the Torres Strait or affirm the strength of one’s culture and cultural knowledge. This practice can also be interpreted as a form of resistance or symbolic defiance; a way to upset the power asymmetries and the homogenising techno- bureaucratic processes at play.

It is important to note here that for several Torres Strait Islanders involved in the co- management process, English is often their second if not their third language. Moreover, CFG members’ level of fluency in English and degree of familiarity with the technical and bureaucratic jargons dominating this context varied significantly. Hence, some community fisher representatives were highly vocal in the PZJA forums while others barely said a word. The language issue, that is, the muzzling effect of the use of English or highly technical terminology, was raised in a few meetings I attended, notably in a workshop aimed at reducing impediments to Islanders’ participation in research (February 2009).

As mentioned in Chapter Two, Spak (2005, p. 234) heralded the need to examine the ‘power relations within which co-management boards operate’ and the various ways these relations frame, for example, Indigenous and non-Indigenous participation within these institutions. In line with what she suggests, the ‘strong reliance on scientific and bureaucratic

314 It worth noting that the maps produced by the PZJA are largely using colonial rather than Islanders place names (although there has been some progress remedying this in recent years). 314 jargon’ (p. 237)—contribute to create an environment familiar to government managers, scientists, most industry representatives and some Islanders with prolonged engagement with the bureaucracy (Rockloff & Lockie, 2006). The formal decorum of the ‘performance space’ (Morphy, 2008, p. 105) in which co-management occurs, that is the meeting venues (boardrooms, hotel conference rooms or classrooms) are ‘constructed ritual space’ (ibid.). Such classic bureaucratic settings are symbolically charged and their narrative and spatiality tend to induce a sense of hierarchy among the participants, contributing to the reproduction of power asymmetries and subjectification of the various constituents.

In the PZJA context, the generic boardrooms, the occasional PowerPoint presentations filled with tables and graphs, the table and chair arrangement, and the position occupied by the forum’s Chair and his or her team at the table, even the selection of sandwiches or wraps provided over lunch breaks and the way the tea or coffee are set, are all expression of the Euro- Australian bureaucratic culture.315 This material organisation and the specific language (including the profuse use of acronyms) supporting social relations of management contribute to making ‘other’ those who are not familiar or at ease with this culture and act as a constant reminder of their otherness.316

While talking about fisheries meetings (especially those held in Cairns or Brisbane), Masig’s CFG member, Awa Gavin Mosby, jested about the way Islander representatives often appear out-of-place in this context, contrasting the formal dress code and overall behaviours embodied by many non-Islander participants with the CFG members’ casual attire. ‘You'll have ex-trawler boys, spokesmen, old fellows, you know, grey hair and with nice glasses and clothes and their laptop. We come from the Torres Strait. We are sitting there with our footy jerseys and our sunnies you know (laugh)’ (Inter., 2009).

Islanders’ engagement with bureaucratic culture does not appear to have a great influence on how management meeting ‘rituals’ are performed. This situation is certainly not specific to the Torres Strait. Spak, for instance, noted that, despite Dene, Metis and Inuit membership on a

315 Among the range of venues, the TSRA meeting room was probably the most symbolic of Islander locality, with its walls covered with a series of prints representing ancestral figures executed by Badu artist Alick Tipoti and windows opening on Torres Strait turquoise waters. 316 On the Masig, Council members would hold meetings in similar settings as mentioned in Chapter 6. The fisheries or other community meetings however, were usually convened outside in the undercover area in Creole. 315

Caribou Management Board in Northern Canada317, ‘little seemed to distinguish this meeting from any other Euro-Canadian bureaucratic meeting’ (2005, p. 237). The only exception, she notes, was the opening prayer; also a feature of Torres Strait fisheries management meetings when they occur on Thursday Island. The prayer concluded, the Chair initiates the meeting process, inviting the constituents to revise and approve the meeting’s minutes and agenda, before addressing one by one the numbered list of agenda items.

Likewise, the first forum I attended—a Prawn Management Advisory Committee (TSPMAC) meeting held at the Northern Fisheries Centre in Cairns on July 10–11, 2008—had all the characteristics of a classic bureaucratic meeting. The hefty agenda was an extensive list of administrative and procedural items, industry updates and presentation of prawn research results. The first and only item associated with the TSRA and CFG—a draft proposal for the formalisation of anchorage exclusion zones around important reefs— appeared in the Other Business section; the last item on the agenda.

This meeting was attended by 17 persons comprising the independent Forum’s Chair, two members from AFMA, two from the QDPI&F, one from Queensland Boat and Fisheries Patrol (QB&FP), two scientific members (from CSIRO and QDPI&F), the TSRA’s Fisheries Officer and CFG members from communities in whose waters the prawn industry operates: Masig, Poruma and Iama. In addition, three permanent observers, including two PNG National Fisheries Authority representatives, and a further four observers (I was one of them) also attended.

Epitomising the general distrust and tensions existing in this context, the prawn industry representatives (TVH sector) decided to protest against their perceived lack of voice by boycotting the meeting. In emails sent only a few hours before the meeting, they expressed their frustrations vis-à-vis the bureaucratic process. As reported in the minutes, ‘they were of the opinion that the recommendations made by the TSPMAC [were] not properly considered after the TSPMAC meetings by higher level PZJA officials’ (TSPMAC Meeting 5, Minutes 2007). They highlighted that the TSPMAC had no power to disagree with government policy and therefore requested to meet face-to-face with the PZJA Standing Committee.318 No less

317 The board then comprised 13 members of which 8 were Dene, Inuit or Metis (Spak, 2005, p. 36). 318 The decision of the Industry to pull out of the meeting was condemned by the TSPMAC and judged ‘detrimental to the desired collaborative management approach for the fishery’ (TSPMAC Meeting 5, Minutes, p, 3). 316 frustrated by the process, CFG representatives wondered whether the industry had ‘opposing objectives to concerns of the Indigenous sector’ (TSPMAC Meeting 6, Minutes).

Over the day and a half of this otherwise rather uneventful meeting, five to six persons dominated the discussions, namely the TSPMAC Chair, the members from AFMA, QDPI&F and DAFF, and the scientific members invited to present updates on their respective research. The TSRA-LSMU Fisheries Coordinator, Mr Toshio Nakata, was the most vocal on the Islander side. Overall, the three CFG members remained rather quiet. They intervened on very few occasions, supported by Mr Nakata, to obtain clarifications on practical points such as the efficacy of the Turtle Exclusion Device (TED) and By-Catch Reduction Device (BRD) now installed on the trawl nets. They also expressed their concerns and requested that actions be taken in regard to marine debris, ghost nets, and rubbish, which are partially associated with the prawn industry operations in Masig and Poruma waters. These concerns made it to the list of actions but the problem still remained in 2017 (Pers. Comm, 2016-17), despite being raised on multiple occasions, including directly to the PZJA board, before and after this meeting (e.g. TSPMAC Meeting, Dec 2007319, PZJA Meeting 22, 2008320, TSFMAC Meeting 10, 2008321, TSFMAC Meeting 11, 2009322, TSPMAC 9, 2009323, TSPMAC 12, 2010324).

Two scientists presented their work during this meeting. One of them, from CSIRO, was investigating the impact of trawling on the Torres Strait seabed. I was somewhat taken aback by the highly technical language used by this researcher. I especially remember a long enumeration of species listed in both English and Latin325, meant to give a sense of the relatively low impact

319 https://www.pzja.gov.au/sites/g/files/net4491/f/content/uploads/2011/06/TSPMAC-Meeting-5-4-December- 2007_Papers_Meeting-Administration.pdf (last accessed 25 March 2019). 320 https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja-and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/protected- zone-joint-authority-pzja/pzja-meeting-22-30-april-1-may-2008 (accessed 25 March 2019). 321 https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja-and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/torres- strait-fisheries-management-advisory-committee-tsfmac/torres-strait-fisheries-management-advisory-committee- tsfmac-meeting-10, (accessed 25 March 2019). 322 https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja-and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/torres- strait-fisheries-management-advisory-committee-tsfmac/torres-strait-fisheries-management-advisory-committee- tsfmac-meeting-11, (accessed 25 March 2019). 323 https://www.pzja.gov.au/sites/g/files/net4491/f/content/uploads/2011/06/TSPMAC-Meeting-9-8-December- 2009-Chairs-Summary.pdf (accessed 25 March 2019). 324 https://www.pzja.gov.au/sites/default/files/tspmac_12_minutes_ratified.pdf, (accessed 25 March 2019). 325 Similar to the one presented on p. 13 of Pitcher (2013). 317 of trawling on diverse species while conveying a sense of authority and enforced boundaries between those belonging to this field, and those who do not.

This presentation and other interventions over this meeting provided ample examples of the communication challenges posed by this heterogeneous assemblage. Toshio Nakata suggested that some of the technical and scientific jargon used in some presentations, such as the CSIRO researcher’s talk or the discussion on the efficacy of the TED and the BRD mentioned above, needed to be translated into formats that can be disseminated to community members. This, he suggested, would involve using simple terminology accompanied by photographs and films instead of relying heavily on text and technical jargon. At times, the highly specialised language used throughout the PZJA meetings represented challenges for the CFG members who had to find ways to ‘break down the info with simple vocabulary’ (Inter., MC2, 2009) while reporting back on meetings outcomes to their communities (see also TSNRMRG et al. 2005, p. 40).

Notwithstanding that tensions were perhaps less intense than observed or documented in other instances, this TSPMAC meeting was in many ways archetypical of the PZJA’s consultative meeting processes and general atmosphere over the period covered by this thesis. Most agendas were imbued with scientific and technocratic abstractions consisting largely of updates on actions, processes, research outcomes, issues around compliance, regulation, accreditation, resource allocation, input and output controls, and so on.

Like the TSPMAC meeting example, the PZJA forum meetings tended to be dominated by procedural, compliance, stock assessment, and harvesting strategy matters, while the few items submitted by the TSRA and the CFG or of more particular importance to Islanders were often relegated to the Other Business sections326; discussed ‘at 4.30pm’ to borrow the words of one of the Islander who added: ‘everybody wants to get out at 5 o’clock on Friday’ (Inter., TI2, 2009).

326 See Torres Strait Scientific Advisory Committee (TSSAC) Meetings 45-46-47, https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja- and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/torres-strait-scientific-advisory-committee- tssac/torres-strait-scientific-advisory-committee-tssac-meeting-45 (last accessed on 24 March 2019). 318

Evoking a perceived lack of influence and growing frustration, CFG member Awa Gavin Mosby explained: ‘I pray one day that we’ll get to a place where we'll go in and have a meeting that will really be intense and really be productive. Right now, it hasn't been that intense. It's more of a just like an information, telling researchers […] pass recommendations... move on actions and actions on moving…it's slow...’ (Inter., 2009). His emphasis on the abstract and self- referential language of the bureaucratic culture highlights another aspect differentiating initiates from non-initiates. It reveals a process and structure largely disengaged from local contexts and lifeways. Akin to what Rockloff and Lockie have written about the broader Australian context, through the PZJA processes, Indigenous groups implicitly bear the onus of ‘cros[sing] the cultural divide by adopting and adapting to bureaucratic and European approaches’ (2006, p. 259).

The manner of recording meetings was also contentious. Some Islander representatives were wary of distilled accounts of what had been prolonged exchanges. Meeting minutes were written in a style that often conveyed a false consensus; reporting that the members ‘agreed’, ‘recommended’, ‘noted’ or called for ‘actions’ on specific matters. CFG member for Iama, Mr Charles David, suggested that the process lacked transparency, noting that the dissensions, objections, and anger expressed by Islanders were often omitted, and called for the situation to be redressed. When CFG’s views were recorded, they were not always reported accurately (as noted for example in TSFMAC 10, p. 15)327; a sentiment that was also shared by representatives of the TVH sector.

One may argue that writing a thorough account of what occurred at a meeting is not the purpose of minutes; their aim being to report ‘efficiently’ and clearly on decisions and meeting outcomes. Yet, this convention is not acultural and it clashes with Islander norms of communication, which put great emphasis, for example, on fidelity to detail when recounting events. Also, the choice of what is considered important to report is influenced by the writer’s standpoint (Nadasdy, 2005a).

327 https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja-and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/torres- strait-fisheries-management-advisory-committee-tsfmac/torres-strait-fisheries-management-advisory-committee- tsfmac-meeting-10, (accessed 25 March 2019). 319

While the existence of a heated negotiation process is part of the institutional knowledge of the participants, filtering out points of disagreement that lie beneath apparent consensus (a gloss that feeds into Annual Reports and other publications further down the line), renders detailed institutional knowledge inaccessible to external readers, new members and absentees. This gap may influence the capacity of new participants to make informed decisions, pushing them toward positions that appear accepted by all. This is of special relevance in the context of high turnover among meeting participants which have contributed to loss of continuity in knowledge of meeting decisions (Inter., TI3, 2010).

Uneven and fragile relationships at the management interface

As I have described above, the stakeholders involved in the PZJA co-management process were invited to partake in an ostensibly acultural and apolitical administrative structure (Orbach, 2011). Many of the Torres Strait Islander representatives did not, however, accept the bureaucratic culture of fisheries management—and, by extension the Euro-Australian approach to the management of their livelihood and lifeways—as neutral ground. They have thus consistently resisted and challenged this assumption, notably through the PZJA forums.

The interviews, informal discussions, and observations I garnered over 2008–2010, together with meeting minutes and consultancy reports reveal that unresolved issues of trust, equity among actors, and respect for Islander protocol and rights strongly tainted the social relations of fisheries management. For instance, the Torres Strait Prawn Management Advisory Committee (TSPMAC) discussed the need to build the communities’ trust in the industry; workshops were organised to improve Islanders’ confidence in the research conducted in the regions (e.g. workshop to reduce impediments…). In the Hand Collectables Working Group (HCWG) meeting minutes of August 2009, ‘[c]oncerns were expressed that AFMA had provided confidential catch information to other fishers.’ The LSMU also noted that ‘environmental scientists often pay little attention to, or dismiss completely, Indigenous people’s knowledge about their resources and environments, in the belief that it is of little scientific worth’ (Isherwood et al., 2005, p. 38).

On occasion, tensions around these issues culminated in direct verbal confrontations between Torres Strait Islander representatives and other members of the PZJA forums

320

(government agents, marine scientists, and non-Islander fishing industry members). For many CFG members, fisheries management meetings often felt like a waste of time. Their incessant efforts to seek resolution for their communities’ claims and concerns (e.g. complete ownership and control of Torres Strait’s resources, formalisation of exclusion zones, removal of marine pollution near Masig, etc.) had very little traction and did not seem to be taken seriously. The whole consultation process seemed a chronic imbroglio and characterised but mistrust.

One of the fundamental problems underpinning the CFG frustrations in 2008–2010 was that they were at a considerable disadvantage in this relationship. In addition to being incorporated within an unaccommodating structure that denied their status as owners and stewards of the regions’ waters, CFG members stated being critically under-resourced to perform their representative roles in the context of the PZJA.

Unlike their governmental agency or industry counterparts, who received a salary for their involvement in the management process, had office spaces, administrative support, computers and Internet access, CFG members were unpaid—with some having to take time off work to attend meetings—and had very limited access to key resources.328 Internet access was of great importance as the PZJA’s preferred channel of communication was by email and electronic documents. Unreliable Internet access on home islands (see Chapter 8) also affected CFG members’ capacities to search valuable complementary information, which could enhance their capacity to engage in the consultation process on their own terms. Moreover, Masig’s CFG representative also feared that his limited capacity to formally record outcomes of the fisheries meetings he was holding with his community was affecting his credibility and the weight of his community’s various claims and concerns when brought forward in PZJA forums.

Addressing this problem during a CFG meeting in May 2009, Mr Maluwap Nona, CFG for Badu, complained: ‘you [members of the PZJA agencies including TSRA] are fully resourced, we are blindfolded! Give us resources’ (CFG Meeting minutes May 2009; similar criticism from the CFG was reported in Australian National Audit Office, 2009 p.35). The CFG

328 In chapter 8, I discussed, for example, how Masig CFG member had to line up at the Council Office to use one of their computers.

321 requests also included the need to be ‘networked properly’ (Late James Bon, CFG for Mer, meeting May 2009).

Requests for and by the CFG members to be properly resourced were made repeatedly through the meeting cycles (and more specifically during CFG meetings) with Mr Charles David, CFG for Iama, noting that he has demanded to be equipped with a laptop and a mobile phone since 2003 (CFG meeting, May 2009). In addition, the absence of sitting fees or compensation for loss of income associated with their participation in the PZJA forums (e.g. due to the time taken off work, including as commercial and customary fishers), generated a shared feeling of being discriminated against among the CFG members (CFG meeting, July 2009). Yet, while genuinely frustrated by the situation, one CFG member mentioned being deeply concerned that this unresolved problem was also preventing them from dealing with other important issues regarding the fisheries. ‘Well, you've been to these meetings, fucking waste of time instead of throwing out the real shit. It's like "am I getting paid to be here today?" instead of "how's the fisheries going?”’ (Inter., MC21, 2009). Some Islanders representatives have pointed out that it was possible to go around this resource issue, either by using the Council Office facilities or using one’s own resources when possible. The situation described above nonetheless points to important power asymmetries and resource access at the core of the PZJA fisheries management regime.

For some across the government agencies, the CFG presented significant flaws and was failing to uphold its responsibility of liaising between the PZJA and the Outer Island communities, particularly when it came to returning information to the communities (CFG meeting, May 2009). A TSRA staff commented to me that the CFG members were ‘not all champions’, noting that some lacked the necessary skills to perform their role (Pers. Comm., 2008). For this manager, there were important communication issues at play. He explained that it was hard to assess if and how well the CFG were doing their job in their community while underlining that there were CFG members who did a lot with few resources while others attended meetings without contributing. On the other hand, one could also wonder how well government managers would fare if they too were under-resourced.

322

There were mounting criticism about the efficiency of the CFG which, according to the TSRA ‘was reportedly not functioning at an acceptable level’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2009, p. 10). One of the managers interviewed argued that it was difficult to find good CFG representatives and that the looming disappearance of Community Development Employment Project (CDEP) scheme, which meant that people would have to take on formal employment, was likely to make those with the ‘right expertise’ unavailable for meetings. In line with such concerns, the TSRA Board had commissioned a review of the CFG, which generated even more apprehensions amid members of this group.329 The TSRA also suggested the adoption of a code- of-conduct for the CFG in an effort to improve the functioning of the group and increase its members’ accountability towards the management processes.

Issues of accountability, however, did not lie with the CFG members only. Incidental findings emerging from a performance audit on Torres Strait finfish fisheries suggested that the TSRA Board’s failure to give a clear mandate to the CFG had likely hindered on the group’s capacity to function (Commonwealth of Australia, 2009, p. 35). CFG members have also underscored how the TSRA and PZJA committees often failed to uphold their responsibilities to circulate agendas, meeting minutes and other relevant documents to them in a timely manner, noting that it is useless to have laptops when the information is actually not available. This situation generated uneven levels of familiarity regarding various fisheries-related issues and decisions between the PZJA agency members on the one hand and the CFG members and their communities on the other. It is likely that this situation has affected the CFG’s capacity to play their mediating role satisfactorily and to speak on particular issues, which in turn may have been at time interpreted as CFG members’ incompetence or unwillingness to perform their function.

Usually, and since 2002, CFG representatives were the voice of their communities at the PZJA level. There have been occasions, however, when AFMA or TSRA staff members have travelled to specific island communities to consult directly on issues considered pressing. These impromptu meetings were considered problematic by some in the communities as it left them no time to plan. One of Masig’s prominent fishers emphasised that they need at least one-week

329 Their apprehensions were proven right with dismantlement of CFG in 2011. 323 notice: ‘[p]eople are shy to ask questions. They need to send something first so we can discuss’ (Inter., MC2, 2009).

Masig’s CFG added that one such consultation happened on a day where the weather was favourable for fishing so the main fishers either missed their chance to go out, resulting in a loss of income or were already at sea and therefore could not inform a process affecting their livelihood. The timeframe decided upon by the management agencies did not take into account the community’s realities and needs.

Most importantly, CFG representatives and other community members participating in the PZJA forums have voiced their frustrations for not being taken seriously. As Masig’s former Councillor points out ‘We [the Torres Strait Islanders] have a long history of not being taken seriously, so we are suspicious’ (Inter., MC23, 2009). An Islander representative participating in a hand collectible workshop in the early 2000s mention this insightful example.

At the workshop, they had a set agenda. They had to talk about bêche-de-mer but the main point at that stage was to talk about aquaculture of bêche-de-mer. Now right at the middle of all this, they asked the [Islander] fishermen… and there was only four or five of them and the rest were just government officials. And there was not much of us and I’m thinking… this is interesting, this is supposed to be for the people I don’t know how this is going to go […] They ask for his [a fisherman from the Eastern Island] opinion. They asked for everybody’s opinion about what they think is a good way to manage bêche-de-mer. And he’s got up and said, “Well we at **** Island […] we only fish certain parts of the reef and then we move on and then we fish another part of the reef while we are allowing it to restock” and he basically said “that was told to us by our fathers and our grand-fathers and we use that when traditional fishing” and said they want to apply that and they were doing it to bêche-de-mer and he said, “is that a good idea?” When he [the Eastern Islander Fisherman] was talking [the AFMA manager] was really not concerns about what he said… I looked at his body language and he was just flicking over some of the papers and then he stood up and said “ok yes that’s good. That’s the sort of things we want to hear. At this point I just want to invite a guest speaker from New Guinea” or… I forgot where it was […] “he wants to talk to us about bêche-de-mer aquaculture”. And they paid for that bloke to get there… the three of them. They gave a presentation. Uncle *** sat back down and he said “did anybody actually hear me?” and I was watching the whole time and I just said to the bloke […] “I need to go” […] “I need to go”. I think this was the first time I was exposed to that and I was

324

disgusted. […] He sat down and was nodding to what they were saying about the aquaculture […] Here was a bloke with a legitimate… who comes from this community and basically said this is what my community is willing to do… we’re proposing this… and then thank you! He [the AFMA manager] said step aside we want to tell you about a management arrangement that is proving a success in another part of the world. He [the Eastern Island fisher] just sat and I just thought. That’s a good indication of what is happening (Inter., TI2, 2009).

The PZJA forum meetings were also the theatre of tense, and occasionally hostile, interactions between CFG representatives and scientific members. As briefly addressed in Chapter Eight, Islander representatives shared the feeling that permissions were not sought and agreed by the appropriate authorities before research was approved and conducted.330 In the course of meetings I have attended, some researchers have admitted being confused and uncertain about the protocol to follow and who they had to obtain permission from on the various Islands. It was especially unclear for scientists who did not have to land on any island as their research occurred solely on the water. Drawing on managerial language, one of Masig’s Elders talked about the need for researchers to respect the ‘term of references for research to be conducted on Masig’ (Pers. Comm., MC10, 2010). ‘Researchers who are coming to the Island must be aware and respect the Island lifestyle’ (ibid.). CFG members shared concerns that research was authorised at the PZJA and TSRA levels without going through the appropriate channels at the community level (e.g. appropriate Prescribed Body Corporates, Councillors, Island Managers, etc.). Further, in spite of the SAC suggestions that Islanders’ ‘research needs’ be taken into account (see for example TSSAC Meeting 46 minutes, 2008), many Islanders were under the impression that they had little or no influence on the PZJA research agenda. To borrow the words of Mr Mosby once again, ‘Research priorities must come from both sides’ (Pers. Comm. MC10, 2010). This whole situation led to the commission and publication of guidelines for fisheries research in the Torres Strait mentioned in Chapter Eight (TSSAC Meeting 45, 2008, see also Nakata & Nakata, 2009).331

330 As mentioned in Chapter 1, I was also strongly questioned about my right to attend the meetings and conduct this research in the Torres Strait. Fortunately, former Cr John Mosby guidance helped me navigating the Island’s protocol. 331 https://www.pzja.gov.au/pzja-and-committees/what-pzja-committees-exist-and-who-are-the-members/torres- strait-scientific-advisory-committee-tssac/torres-strait-scientific-advisory-committee-tssac-meeting-45 (last accessed on 25 March 2019). 325

Industry (TVH) representatives have accused the TSRA of playing politics with the management process. In a submission to the Senate Inquiry on Matters related to the Torres Strait, the Queensland Rock Lobster Association Inc. asserts that ‘since 2007 progress on the Torres TRL Management plan and consultative process has been blocked and held to ransom by TSRA for political purposes...’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2010, p. 248). Another Industry representative’s contribution to the same inquiry contested the separation of the TVH and TIB sectors332 as well as the differential treatments of these two sectors; the TVH being limited and subjected to buybacks while the Islander sector is allowed to expand. ‘Needless to say, we have lost faith in the management agencies’ he says in his submission. ‘It appears that the management agencies are controlling the Australian non-Islander sector because this is the only sector that they can control. Introducing restrictions that make their operation inefficient and possibly uneconomical is not good fisheries management. […] The real problem is a political one’ (Commonwealth of Australia, 2010, p. 248).

The problem is certainly political. To borrow Nadasdy’s words: ‘Co-management is an extremely complex and culturally charged political undertaking’ (2005a, p. 220 emphasis in original). One of the main issues in this context, as I will now discuss, is an illusion to the contrary. Leaving unresolved the questions of ownership, control, and rights over the region’s resources based on the legal fiction of Crown ownership of these waters—the premise since colonisation—to pursue the seemingly neutral objective of ‘good management’, cannot render the process less political.

Depoliticisation: invisible lifeways, and parallel monologues

In chapter One, I asked whether the fisheries co-management arrangements in place in the Torres Strait provided Islanders with at least some power to indigenise the fisheries management processes. Fostering, in principle, the convergence of local, Indigenous and state management knowledge and practices, co-management strategies are often portrayed as

332 For Moore, the Torres Strait fishing industry has always been multicultural with Islanders working on non- Islander vessels since the pearling days. He also states that the TVH sector makes significant contributions to the Torres Strait community and suggests that more joint venture would improve the Torres Strait fishery sector as a whole (Submission 6, https://www.aph.gov.au/Parliamentary_Business/Committees/Senate/Foreign_Affairs_Defence_and_Trade/Complet ed_inquiries/2010-13/torresstrait/submissions, (Last consulted March 10, 2019). 326 supporting decisions and directions that are better aligned with Indigenous ways and aspirations. They have also been described as a source of empowerment for the groups involved and as more responsive to environmental crisis than centralised models. Thus, in theory, and hinging on the PZJA’s primary responsibilities to protect the traditional inhabitants’ lifeways, Torres Strait Islanders’ participation within the fisheries management process should have allowed for their knowledge, institutions, values and life projects to permeate and re-envision Torres Strait fisheries management and development strategies. The material provided in this chapter reveals, however, a persistent asymmetric relationship characterised by recurring tensions, unresolved frustrations and a shared333 subjective sense of being trapped in a biased, ineffective and damagingly stagnant process. It has also highlighted several ways by which the PZJA’s standpoint and bureaucratic culture frames Islanders’ and others’ participation and capacity to influence management decisions.

What further emerges from this research—especially when confronting the ethnographic material on the PZJA structure and Masig communities—is that, instead of providing deliberative spaces supporting the coalescence of Western and Islander management styles, institutions, knowledge systems and values, the PZJA-led co-management processes engendered forums where various views were voiced but not necessarily heard nor taken seriously. The PZJA, with its committees and working groups, provided conduits for a series of parallel monologues underpinned by rather conflicting standpoints (e.g. bio-economic perspective of the PZJA versus Islanders’ holistic and relational perspectives), which, although converging at the management interface, remained mostly deaf to one another. Located primarily at the consultative level on the co-management spectrum, with very limited power devolved to Islanders’ institutions and groups, the PZJA structure allowed for the bio-economic paradigm—and most significantly, for an external and blurred understanding of Islanders’ ‘traditional way of life’—to dominate and override Torres Strait Islanders’ positions.

Ferguson (1994) and Nadasdy (2003a, 2005a), stress that the subordination of local or Indigenous perspectives to Western bureaucratic approaches is often the unintended consequence of unchallenged assumptions—what Foucault referred to as ‘regime of truth’—governing

333 Shared by Islanders and non-Islanders actors. 327

Western management and development strategies. In this part, my objective is to challenge, and, as Escobar (1997a) recommends, defamiliarise the Western management orthodoxy. I endeavour to do so by making visible the interconnected processes of compartmentalisation, distillation (Nadasdy, 1999, 2003a, 2005a), and technicalisation (Ferguson, 1994; Nadasdy, 1999; Li, 2007b; Orbach, 2011) operated by the PZJA. I will further demonstrate how these contribute to depoliticise Torres Strait fisheries co-management practices by rendering Islanders’ lifeways, institutions, systems and life projects invisible or irrelevant. As Nakata astutely argues, ‘[a]lthough Islanders now occupy a different position within the broader body politic, our lives remain overlaid by external intrusions that shape and condition our actions and responses as well as the possibilities open to us’ (2004, p. 64).

Reconfiguring Islanders’ lifeways through techno-bureaucratic categories:

Nadasdy shows how, in co-management contexts, Indigenous knowledge systems and realities are often compartmentalised and distilled through bureaucratic and scientific categories, which retain only what is consistent with techno-bureaucratic assumptions about ‘knowledge’, ‘management’ or ‘traditions’. In the context of the PZJA, these procedures operate on multiple levels, constructing and enforcing a particular form of management for the region’s fisheries and fishers. As a form of ‘structural power’ that frames the political economy (Wolf, 1990) these processes also hamper the emergence of alternative development options. As discussed earlier in this chapter, Torres Strait Islander managers and community fishers’ representatives were not offered the opportunity to review the very structure they were invited to join. The very idea of Community ‘Fisher’ Group representatives rather than ‘community’ representatives is at odds with Islanders’ systems; the former stemming from a utilitarian standpoint while the second option recognises Islanders as traditional owners of the territories and resources concerned.

Thus, from the outset, Islanders’ participation has been largely constrained by the PZJA’s pre-established structure. This structure frames the management relations, bringing those involved to approach focus on the extractive dimension of the fisheries and address them through species silos and a range of dichotomies: ‘commercial’ versus ‘traditional’, ‘Islander’ versus ‘non-Islander’, ‘scientific knowledge’ versus ‘Islander knowledge’, ‘full-time’ or ‘serious’ fishers versus ‘part-time’, ‘lifestyle’, ‘casual’, or ‘weekend warrior’ underfishers, and so on. Guided by the PZJA’s bio-economic posture, practices of compartmentalisation and distillation,

328 while represented as relying on impartial, natural and rational categories, have serious ramifications for the co-management of Torres Strait fisheries and share very little in common with Islanders institutions and practices.

Perhaps the most radical and consequential instance concerns the PZJA’s interpretation of Islanders’ ‘traditional way of life and livelihood’ informed by the Treaty and the Torres Strait Fisheries Act 1984.334 While the PZJA does not clearly define these specific concepts, its published documents (PZJA, 2008) generally confine Islanders’ traditional lifeways and livelihood to their ‘traditional fisheries’ (which, according to the Treaty and the TSFA 1984, excludes commercial activities) and ‘rights to free movement’.335 Such a narrow focus represents an extraordinarily simplified, opaque and limited understanding of Islanders’ fishery systems, and their broader society. Most importantly, it obscures the existence and relevance of Islanders’ economic rationales and customary marine tenure; blurring these fundamental dimensions and masking the incongruities embedded in the PZJA’s dual mandate of protecting Islanders’ way of life while promoting the optimal utilisation of the marine resources. I will return to this particular point towards the end of this chapter.

The commercial/traditional filters

The compartmentalisation of Torres Strait fisheries through the apparently discreet commercial and traditional336 categories and further subdivision into species specific silos (TRL, finfish, hand collectables, prawn, etc.), completely disregards Islanders’ complex fishery systems which, as exemplified in Masig fisheries, involve a customary-commercial spectrum targeting simultaneously multiple species for both monetary and non-monetary purposes. By sifting Islanders’ fishing activities through the bureaucratic species-specific ‘commercial’ and less

334 As Mfodwo and Tsamenyi remind us, the region’s traditional inhabitants interests are ‘to be advanced or protected through the agency of the state (PNG or Australia) rather than principally through direct action by the community themselves’(1993, p. 30). Moreover, according to the Torres Strait Treaty, the Federal Minister has the power to determine which of Islanders fishing methods, gear or boat is traditional or not. Part 1, section 3 article (2) of the Torres Strait Treaty stipulates that: ‘The Minister may, by legislative instrument, declare that the taking by traditional inhabitants of fish by a method, or with the use of equipment or a boat, of a kind specified in the instrument is not traditional fishing’. 335 Some of the documents published by the TSRA, see for example Isherwood et al. (2005), bring extra dimensions. They nevertheless do not explicitly discuss the question of customary marine tenure despite highlighting the importance and relevance of the holistic ailan kastom or ailan wei for land and sea management practices. 336 One could make the point that, in the case of the Torres Strait and especially post-Akiba, Islanders commercial activities fall within the ‘traditional’ category. 329 specific ‘traditional’ filters, the PZJA notably fails to address the interconnectedness of the two ‘sectors’ as a key constituent of the traditional lifeways and livelihoods it ostensibly aims to protect. Moreover, the distillation of this salient dimension of Islanders’ fisheries gives the impression that this interdependence is an anomaly rather than the norm and consequently discounts its significance for Islanders’ economies.

The following extract from the minutes of a Torres Strait Fisheries Management Advisory Committee meeting epitomises such misconceptions and the possible repercussions of decontextualising Islanders’ ways for the formulation of policies and regulations. During this meeting, a representative for the Queensland Boating and Fisheries Patrol (QB&FP) alluded to a change in practices among the local fishers. As reported in the minutes, ‘[…] there has been a change in the dynamics of Torres Strait fisheries as fishermen are now targeting several fisheries in a single trip. There are also recurrent difficulties in distinguishing commercial catch from traditional catch which hinders the enforcement of management regulations’ (TSFMAC, Meeting 11, 2009, n.p., my emphasis).337

Between mid-2008 and January 2010, this was the only mention made about the intersection of the commercial-traditional fisheries as an Islander economic practice during PZJA board and forum meetings. This is not to say that the interactions between the two fisheries sectors were unknown to managers, but that the Authority had mainly directed its attention to particular aspects, rather than their interdependence. Drawing on its protection mandate, the PZJA has been mainly preoccupied with the possible impacts that species-specific commercial endeavours338 could have on traditional activities (e.g. regulation of by-catch in the prawn and finfish industries) and with how the traditional catch of species targeted by both sectors would affect the commercial allocation. Little attention has been placed on the non-commodified stocks339 (the sector being largely unmonitored340 by scientific agencies, see Busilacchi, (2008))

337 As explained in Chapter 5, the licensing regulations do allow for TIB license holders to extract multiple commercial species providing they have paid the annual fees for each species fished and, as no license is needed for the traditional sector, nothing effectively prevents the ‘two’ fishery sectors from coexisting. The tropical rock lobster license, for example, includes a bag limit of three lobsters per person or six per boat for traditional fishing purpose. 338 Including Islander commercial catch. 339 The PZJA categorises this sector as ‘all other sea resources’. See pzja.gov.au/the-fisheries/#.WFr-0vl942w consulted on 21 December 2016. Note that there is no hyperlink for this category. 340 Various people on Masig were ambivalent about the need for formal monitoring of non-commercial species. While people generally agreed about the need to ensure the perennity of the resources for the current and future 330 apart from the protected turtle and dugong species which have been the object of separate community-based management plans. The PZJA was therefore preoccupied by the ways participation in these two ostensibly discreet sectors impacted each other, tending to consider the commercial and traditional fisheries as competing with one another, in contrast to Islanders’ perspectives on these sectors as complementary and inextricably enmeshed. The classification of commercial activities in function of their intensity (e.g. professional, full-time, serious part-time fishers versus those fishers characterised as part-time, ‘weekend warrior’, lifestyle fishers, etc.) reveals a bias towards conventional industrial fisheries models. It also shows that, in spite of Islander presence within its managerial structure, the PZJA either lacks the understanding or overlooks the importance of the strong synergies between commercial fisheries, and between commercial and subsistence fishing activities of various scales and other sectors of the local and regional economy.

Disconnecting species, territories, institutions and people

Another fundamental element of Torres Strait Islanders’ lifeways filtered out through the region’s fisheries co-management processes concerns the highly political and unresolved question of marine territory ownership. Islanders’ rich maritime history and strong socioeconomic, cultural, and spiritual ties to the sea are widely acknowledged by the PZJA and beyond (Isherwood et al., 2005).341 These enduring connections with the seascape notably justified the Authority’s ‘protection’ mandate. However, the fundamental customary marine tenure dimension of such lifeways which, as the case of Masig exemplifies, defines and regulates both insiders’ and outsiders’ (whether Islander from another Island or non-Islanders) interactions with their unceded territories was not granted the same recognition; overridden by common law and international law principles as well as Australia’s and PNG’s unquestioned sovereignty rights over the region’s saltwaters.342 Essentially preoccupied by the question of extraction of generations, they also feared further government intrusions into their life and the possibility that they may be limited or dispossessed of their right to fish, hunt and control what is happening across their territories. 341 A brief portrayal of Islanders’ culture appears in virtually every official document and consultancy report, often to raise awareness about Islanders’ cultural distinctiveness (a.k.a. ailan kastom), although in very general terms. The symbolic and repetitive statements usually emphasise Islanders’ strong connection to the sea, its centrality for their way of life and subsistence, but do not speak about their marine tenure or ownership and the implications of such regimes. The Land and Sea Management Unit (LSMU) for example, mentions landholding and ownership of zones without explicitly referring to marine areas or marine tenure regime (Isherwood et al., 2005). 342 The Torres Strait Treaty Seabed and Fisheries Jurisdiction Lines established the areas over which each country has sovereignty under international law. 331 marine resources, the species-specific focus and related licencing arrangements embraced by the PZJA led to the establishment of fisheries zones that have no correspondence to Islanders’ marine territories. Also exemplifying this is the Torres Strait Seafood Buyers and Processors Docket Book introduced by the PZJA in 2004 to monitor the commercial catch343 which is based on bioregions344 as defined by the CSIRO (see example Taylor et al. 2004). The PZJA’s decision to monitor the fisheries in such way illustrates, once again, the subordinated status of Islanders’ regimes and perspectives. By redefining the spatiality of Torres Strait fisheries, the Treaty and the PZJA have contributed to making Islanders’ territories invisible or simply irrelevant when it comes to fisheries management strategies. This was irrespective of the then ongoing Sea Claim and Islanders’ sustained demands through PZJA forums for an increased control over the local fisheries activities (TIB and TVH) and marine territories in general. Further, studies commissioned by the PZJA even indicated that aspects of Islanders’ tenure system were incompatible with establishing the individual transferable quota (ITQ) regime, promoted as the best management option for the region’s commercial fisheries. According to these studies, imposing territorial restrictions on future fishing licenses, whether TIB or TVH—which could for example be based on the enforcement of customary marine boundaries—would be counterproductive as they would likely impact negatively on the value of fishing licences or quotas (Hand, 2008; Hand & Siobhan, 2010). In other words, Islanders’ own management regimes should concern only what the PZJA defines as their ‘traditional fisheries’.

Most of the PZJA and TSRA meetings that I attended between mid-2008 and early 2010 were indeed punctuated by intense arguments around the ownership of sea territories. Drawing on Islanders’ insistence on their status as traditional owners and their self-determination aspirations, as arguments involved Islanders’ refusal to settle for less than a 100 percent share of each commercial stock, and reluctance to accept any processes that, like in the TRL case, work towards this figure from less than a 70 percent share (70 TIB and 30 TVH) (Commonwealth of Australia, 2010, p. 345). These arguments include demands for the enforcement of ten nautical mile exclusion zones for the TVH (Pers. Comms., 2008-09, see also Hand, 2008), the

343 The introduction of the docket book system aimed notably at providing a better estimate of the TIB sector’s commercial catch and effort (http://155.187.2.69/coasts/fisheries/commonwealth/torres-strait-finfish/pubs/torres- strait-finfish-assessment.pdf accessed on 15 June 2017). 344 To be more precise, the selection of bioregions is applicable to the TIB sector only. The TVH sector active in the region simply tick the Torres Strait region box. 332 enforcement of access rights and cultural protocols for fisheries scientists, as well as requests to meet directly with PNG representatives and operators to discuss the protocols they should abide by once in Islander waters (e.g. CFG meeting minutes). 345

One of the major obstacles met by Islanders in their attempts to have their marine tenure regimes and ownership rights formally recognised and enforced has been a semantic shift through the PZJA’s co-management processes which reframes Islanders’ self-governance aspirations as a desire to gain full ‘ownership’ of fishing entitlements over the local commercial stocks and better employment outcomes for Islanders.346 I would note here that Islander representatives’ use of western property law language (e.g. obtaining 100% of each fishery as mentioned above) during the cycles of PZJA meetings may not have served their cause well. Hence, in this context, Islanders’ political project of regaining control over their territories and resources has been downplayed and reduced merely to a question of marine resource extraction.347 By investing Islanders’ demands and aspirations with new meanings and refocusing the debates towards issues of utilisation, capacity, and scale of activities, the PZJA’s co- management processes have contributed to the continued colonisation and neoliberalisation of Islanders’ lifeways.

Islanders’ ‘deficits’, technicalisation and resistance: the depoliticisation of Torres Strait fisheries

The translation and distillation of Islanders’ demands for the recognition of their ownership of Torres Strait waters and resources as demands for improved shares of specific commercial marine stocks, still underway at the time of writing, has, to a certain extent, contributed to depoliticising management relations. By shifting attention to a weaker and more fragmented form of property, The manoeuvre keeps at bay the more fundamental renegotiation of the terms of the co-management ‘partnership’ that a more robust and symmetrical nation-to-nation

345 As then Iama’s CFG representative Mr. Charles David voiced: ‘It’s an important issue for us. They are coming in my sea country’ (David, CFG meeting 2009). 346 For example, a study by the Marsden Jacob group commissioned by the PZJA writes about Torres Strait fishers ‘aspirations to increase their share of fisheries to 100%’ or ‘achieving Islander aspirations of 100% access to Kaiar and Finfish resources’ (Hand, 2008, p. 1 my emphasis). 347 I would argue that the creation of the CFG itself is, to some extent, evocative of this shift away from Islanders’ sovereignty claims towards a focus on extractive activities. As mentioned previously, CFG members were incorporated in the PZJA structure as fishers’ representatives rather than as traditional owners. The fact that the CFG was dismantled to be replaced by a reduced and non-representative Islander advisory committee based on skills rather than on being voices for each community also illustrates this point. 333 relationship would make possible.348 Once the highly contentious question of marine ‘sovereignty’ is removed from the equation, along with the challenges it poses to PZJA entitlement to control the allocation of fisheries resources, Islanders’ demands are reduced to a utilitarian logic of fishing capacity and shares.

Over the years, Islander fishers are considered to have maintained relatively low levels of ‘effort’ in the region’s commercial fisheries.349 While the uncapped TIB sector is the largest group in terms of constituents or units (e.g. in 2008, the kaiar sector counted 357 registered TIB boats in against 13 TVH licences with a few tenders attached) yet, the TIB sector landed 189 tons against 111 tons for the TVH. The TIB operators’ effort per catch unit has consistently been much smaller than the TVH sector when it comes to volume of produce landed and overall profit (Wilson et al., 2009). Given the central interconnections between fishing units’ extractive capacities and ownership of fishing rights in western management rationale, especially in the context of an imminent shift toward competitive quota systems (Australian Fisheries Management Authority & Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority, 2011; Lalancette, 2017), the legitimacy of Islanders’ reassertion of their ownership rights over their territories and resources is tied to their fishing capacity. As Hand et al. wrote, ‘[a]ny Islander aspirations for increased share of TRL fishery and increased participation in the finfish fisheries need to be couched in terms of improving productivity’ (Hand, 2008, p. x). In this perspective, Islanders’ aspirations are unreasonable or unachievable at current levels of extraction, especially in one proposed scenario whereby Islander fishers would be expected to self-capitalise and buy out expensive TRL TVH licenses (Hand & Siobhan, 2010).

Stemming from this management paradigm and its strong focus on the economic optimisation of the fisheries, the PZJA established that obstacles to Islanders’ ‘ownership’ aspirations were their deficits in business skills as well as material and technical capacity to

348 For example, ITQs are rights to a certain portion of the stock, rather than in the fish themselves and ownership of fish stocks is vested in the State. ‘In the majority of instances, fishing licences are creatures of statute and are therefore susceptible to change’ (Connor, 1999, n.p.). In the draft plan it is stated that: “the quota unit may be cancelled, revoked, terminated or varied by or under later legislation” http://pzja.gov.au/wp- content/uploads/2016/06/I15EF113.v12-TRL-Plan-exposure-draft-PZJA-meeting.pdf (last accessed 16 January 2017). 349 These figures draw on partial data. The declaration of catch is voluntary for the TIB sector with number nevertheless accessible as buyer have to fill up declaration form which document size of catch in kg, size of each specimen, etc., which reveals the extent of Islanders participation in commercial fisheries (in tonnage). 334 increase fishing effort. Here, and as I briefly addressed in Chapter Eight, it is important to stress the indirect role played by marine scientists in the construction and assessment of ‘capacity deficit’. By producing data on the quantity of biomass that may be safely and sustainably harvested annually for each commercial stock, these marine scientists participate in the creation of ‘paper fish’ or ‘virtual fish’ discussed in Chapter Two; these virtual fish taking, in this cases, the form of TAC. As part of a process of commodification of the targeted marine species, evaluating the size of the stocks available for harvest allows fisheries managers to determine the potential monetary value of each fishery. While it could be argued that Islanders’ general ‘underfishing’ habits may, for example, have social and conservation values, in a context where the ‘optimal utilisation’ of the region’s fisheries is a primary mandate, Islanders’ failure to convert most ‘paper fish’ into actual fish is considered highly problematic. The non-realised fish becomes a waste of potential and a loss of revenue. More so, underfishing has been framed as posing a ‘risk,’ whereby undersupply and uncertainties of volume and quality could potentially destabilise the region’s markets and, by extension, the Torres Strait economy. Hence, according to van Putten et al. 2013, the ‘impact of moving to a scenario of full indigenous resource ownership, regardless of the type of QMS [Quota Management System], could undermine the supply chain that all fishers depend on, an impact that is difficult to quantify’ (2013, p. 334, see also Hand & Davies, 2010, p. 24). Thus, the Authority’s response to what it conceptualises as Islanders’ ‘deficits’ and ‘under-exploitation’ problems, has been to develop strategies aiming at upskilling and building Islander fishers’ capacity in order to enhance the productivity and profitability of the TIB sector (e.g. use leasing money to get boats, have Islander fishers trained on TVH boats, shift from the sole trader model to a mothership style of operations (Hand & Siobhan, 2010). Akin to Li’s (2007b) and Ferguson’s (1994) analyses, the fisheries management and development arrangements in place in the Torres Strait have depoliticised Islanders’ claims by rendering them purely technical. Hence, and echoing Li (2007b), experts, often external consultants, are summoned to assess the TIB sector performance (based on bio-economic indicators) and devise strategies to overcome Islanders’ technical underfishing problems, empower their communities and build fishers’ capacities to embrace ‘commercial-style fishing’ (Australian National Audit Office, 2009).

335

As I have mentioned before, many fishers in Torres Strait communities, including Masig, have expressed intentions to increase their effort in the various fisheries to a certain extent (see Chapter 6 to 7). There are, however, clear discrepancies between the ways Islanders and the PZJA envision and justify such increase. On the Islander side, an increase in participation is partly motivated by aspirations for greater economic and political autonomy. On islands like Masig, expansion of the local fishery sector is approached by some as needing to shift from four to five-meter dinghies, to eight to nine-meter dories. When deliberating on the question of fisheries development on Masig, a remark commonly heard is that it would be beneficial if more of the local fishers350—continuing with their preferred sole trader model—would go out and increase their effort in order to ensure that the freezer (or a foreseeable combination of mothership and freezer) is profitable. In any cases, Masig Islanders’ vision of fisheries development in their waters occupies a frame determined by their customary marine tenure regime and ‘take only what you need’ ethos. As such, a rise of the fishing effort in the commercial sector must be non-detrimental to and inclusive of the whole community of owners (regardless of the nature of their engagement (or lack thereof) with the commercial fisheries) and future generations alike. As Lui reports referring to a wider Torres Strait viewpoint, ‘[i]t is a choice they have made. They can go to bigger boats if they prefer, but I think it is just that business structure, that they prefer a smaller business with less overheads and less costs’ (2009, p.61). A few reports commissioned by the PZJA have also noted Islanders’ resistance to adopt a TVH’s style model.

Attempts by the PZJA over the last decade to devise allocation strategies for the Torres Strait fisheries, and more particularly for the lucrative TRL fishery, are rather revealing of the disconnections between the Authority’s and Islander fishers’ as well as broader community perspectives. Informed by conventional western management principles, various reports to the PZJA have recommended significant effort increase for the TIB sector modelled on the TVH sector and promoted the use of hookah. As mentioned above, among the recommended strategies was the adoption of individual transferable quotas (ITQs), a strategy the PZJA and AFMA were hoping to implement.351 Reports such as the business plan for the TRL fisheries also suggested

350 This call for greater participation in the fisheries is often destined to ‘all able-bodied men’. 351 In the document Future Operating Environment for the Torres Strait Rock Lobster Fishery published by AFMA and the PZJA, it is stated that ‘[t]he number of TIB licences in the fishery may be limited at some point in the future 336 that, providing an ITQ system is adopted, it would be beneficial for larger Islander operators to buy off smaller, ‘non-serious’, Islander players which would then be relegated to use a ‘community quota’ (Hand, 2008; Hand & Siobhan, 2010), illustrating Harvey’s ‘accumulation by dispossession’ (2003; see also Said, 2017, p. 222) critique cited in Chapter Two. Masig Islanders and others have opposed this option vehemently and repeatedly as it clashes strongly with their customary marine tenure regimes, birthrights to fish, and sociocultural values, economic rationale and aspiration of regaining control over their territories and fisheries. Moreover, it also clashes with Kulkalgal’s and Easter Islanders ban of hookah.

Proposed quotas separating ‘professional’ fishers from smaller-scale and less regular operators earned for the latter the misleading designation of ‘lifestyle’ fishers. The exclusive nature of the ITQ regime illustrates, yet again, how Islanders’ systems were removed from the equation. It also has to be noted that the multi-species approach characteristic of Islanders’ fishery systems appears to have been entirely overlooked and may become impractical if an expansive quota system is implemented.

Conclusion: parallel monologues

The PZJA’s incorporation of Torres Strait Islanders within its management structure in 2002 promised to generate management arrangements informed by, and better aligned with, the realities, needs and aspirations of Islander communities. As discussed in Chapter Five, this tardy shift towards a collaborative form of management occurred after decades of pressure and advocacy by Islanders to regain control over the regions’ marine territories and resources or, minimally, to become partners in governing Torres Strait fisheries.

Yet, Torres Strait Islanders’ involvement across the PZJA’s working groups, committees and board and the TSRA’s participation in management decisions have not led to significant changes of the formal fisheries management paradigm or power structure—outside perhaps of marking the beginning of a development by fisheries managers of ‘honest consultation mechanisms’ (Inter., TI3, 2010). As I have argued in this chapter, the PZJA’s seemingly

to allow for individual transferable quota’ (Australian Fisheries Management Authority & Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority, 2011, p. 8). See also ITQs scenario discussions in (Pascoe et al., 2013; Van Putten, Deng, et al., 2013; van Putten, Lalancette, et al., 2013; Hutton et al., 2016). 337 pragmatic and apolitical bureaucratic structure has largely framed Torres Strait Islanders’ capacity to transform fisheries management by relegating most of their representatives to advisory roles with imprecise mandates devoid of decision power. As an Islander collaborator mentioned, ‘the decision makers are all still government representatives (even TSRA) which has an impact on how the information is presented and considered’ (Pers. Comm., 2010).

One of the major obstacles to genuine Government-Islander partnership in managing fisheries that I have explored in this chapter is the Authority’s unshaken assumption, together with a number of its agencies, that its western bio-economic criteria are the cornerstone on which Torres Strait fisheries management strategies must rest. This assumption is defended and actualised through processes of compartmentalisation and distillation that fragment, distort and simplify Islanders’ claims and lifeways, rendering them intelligible and manipulable from a conventional management perspective.

As I have explained above, the PZJA’s separation of commercial and customary fishing activities and categorisation of local fishers based on the intensity and regularity of their participation in commercial fisheries have contributed to mask the fluidity and strength of Islanders’ economic system and engagements with their marine environment. These processes have also underpinned the depoliticisation of management relations; making the fundamental question of marine sovereignty irrelevant by reframing Islanders’ territorial claims into claims for ownership of ‘rights’ or ‘shares’ in the various commercial fisheries. This shifts attention from the very contentious issue of sovereignty, to problems with Islanders’ fishing capacity and effort. Analysed from the Authority’s market-driven perspective, Islanders’ participation is constructed as insufficient and inefficient and therefore, in need of improvement. This position has justified attempts by the PZJA to address Islander fishers’ ‘deficits’ and to remodel the TIB sector based on the TVH approach. While these efforts are portrayed as solutions to Islanders’ aspirations to increase their economic benefits from the local fisheries and stimulate job creation in the region, the process is nevertheless also one of dispossession and further colonisation through which Islanders are reduced to mere stakeholders in the region’s commercial fisheries, rather than traditional owners and stewards of this vast territory. The process invites Islanders to assimilate and adopt specific fishing practices, maintaining them in a subordinate position while sidestepping negotiations around the sharing of power or compensations for the use of local

338 resources by non-traditional owners. As Nadasdy argues ‘[r]ather than empowering local aboriginal communities, then, co-management may actually be preventing the kind of change the proponents desire’ (2005a, p. 216).

Filtering out Islanders’ marine tenure regimes, fisheries systems, and alternative relational economic rationale have rendered invisible the fundamental paradox embedded within the PZJA’s concomitant mandates to protect Islanders’ lifeways and livelihood while promoting the sustainable ‘optimal utilisation’ of the fisheries resources. As underlined by Stan Lui, ‘[t]he Indigenous [Islander] sector finds it very hard to understand the concept of sustainable “optimal utilisation” [associated with the industry] versus take only what you need [an Islander perspective]. Government policy is optimal utilisation which will always cause tensions to exist’ (Pers. Comm., 2010). The need-driven aspect of Islanders’ fisheries systems is a core principle of Islanders’ lifeways applying to both commercial and subsistence and ceremonial fisheries. It stems notably from the collective ownership of marine territories and resources between members of specific Islander groups (and their descendants) and the value of reciprocity, favouring some form of wealth distribution over individual or collective unremitting pursuit of profit.

In the context of the PZJA, where the focus has been mainly on the seemingly unproblematic ‘optimal use’ mandate352, Islanders are being told that to gain back ‘control’ and ‘ownership’—as defined by the PZJA—over Torres Strait waters and resources, they need to significantly alter their traditional way of life and livelihood. Based on the narrative consistently pushed forward by the PZJA, Islanders’ small-scale, multispecies, multipurpose, owner-operated fisheries systems are incompatible with their ‘ownership’ aspirations, inasmuch as they are unable to utilise 100 per cent of the commercial resources available, posing a ‘risk’ for the sustainability of markets. There is little evidence, however, of attempts by the PZJA to evaluate the actual potential of Islanders holistic fisheries and economic systems (notably in terms of ecological, economic, and community sustainability) or value of alternative models such as the fisheries cooperative idea explored in 2009 by Torres Strait Island Regional Council (TSIRC) Mayor, Fred Gela. This is despite Islanders’ documented defence of various aspects of their

352 As Strang argues, ‘Australia has been committed to a positive vision of competitive growth for so long that it has become widely normalized’ (2009, p. 22). 339 fisheries and resistance to the highly competitive, profit- and growth-driven practices proposed by the PZJA, AFMA and external consultants. As Islander researcher Leah Lui-Chivizhe argues, ‘[i]f development is to achieve anything […] for the indigenous people who live in Third World conditions in relatively wealthy nations like Australia, we, the people must have the power to decide which avenues of development we wish to pursue’ (1996, n.p.).

Hence, as long as the PZJA maintains uneven power relationships and continues to govern based on its own unchallenged root metaphor and institutions, which underpins its definition of good management, ownership of the sea and traditional inhabitants’ lifeways, the ‘co’-management of Torres Strait’s fisheries is likely to remain entwined in a perpetual stalemate, distrust and endless parallel monologues.

340

Conclusions

A great outcome would be for all the commercial fishers in the Torres Strait to utilise the fishery with the same objectives as the traditional inhabitants of the region; a social fishery. They don’t necessarily want to build up wealth but place high importance on lifestyle and family and teaching your kids to respect the place.

(Lui, 2009, Pers. Comm.)

[Torres Strait] Communities need to be equipped to adapt their knowledge and traditions to the modern forms of management required by their inevitable increased modernisation and increased levels of integration with western society.

(Busilacchi, 2008, p. 199)

…when they talk about 100 per cent ownership (of the fishery), we own 44,000 sq km of sea country and commercial rights prior to colonisation, and yet we are not at the driving seat of this issue…

(Nona, November 2017)

The impact of moving to a scenario of full indigenous resource ownership, regardless of the type of QMS [quota management system], could undermine the supply chain that all fishers depend on, an impact that is difficult to quantify.

(Van Putten, Deng, et al., 2013, p. 334)

In the 1980s, co-management arrangements between governments, local communities, user groups and other stakeholders emerged in response to the limits and flaws of centralised, command-and-control and bio-economic approaches to fisheries management dominant since WWII. Acknowledging that fisheries are complex socio-ecological systems, this collaborative approach, purportedly more inclusive of fishers’ knowledge and preoccupations, was progressively established as a dominant fisheries management paradigm worldwide. Developed during a period of growing international recognition of Indigenous peoples’ land rights, rights to self-determination, and role in environmental governance, co-management arrangements between central governments and Indigenous groups are often portrayed as empowering for participating Indigenous groups and as a possible way to improve management practices by accessing and incorporating Indigenous knowledge. With local fishers and communities involved in management processes, this collaborative paradigm is commonly described as more

341 transparent, more relevant to local realities and therefore more legitimate from a grassroots perspective than its top-down counterpart, thus engendering a higher level of voluntary compliance by the community involved. The transition towards co-management arrangements also appears to align with Indigenous peoples’ aspirations to regain or enhance their control over their respective land and sea territories and resources. In Australia, co-management is increasingly chosen as the model for fisheries management.353

Studies of fisheries, and resource co-management in general, have largely focussed on the implementation of such arrangements in a wide range of contexts. Much of the effort has been dedicated to documenting co-management successes, the ecological, economic and social benefits and opportunities they engender, the challenges, shortfalls and possible improvements. A wealth of scholarship on natural resource co-management is also devoted to the complex task of integrating traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) or Indigenous ecological knowledge (IEK) into these management sciences driven strategies. My study, however, belongs to a narrower body of scholarship adopting a critical stance toward this managerial paradigm.

As I have highlighted in Chapter Two, little attention has been directed towards questioning the ‘core structure of regulation and management’ (Butler, 2005, p. 239) and the ‘project of co-management itself’ (Nadasdy, 2005a, p. 215). Likewise, too little has been done to make visible the ‘hidden cultural specificity of management planning, institutional strengthening and capacity building’ camouflaged, or at least perceived as ‘unproblematic and universally endorsed’ objectives, and hence ‘their implicit silencing of alternative narratives of the economic, environmental and cultural dimensions of social life’ (Howitt & Suchet-Pearson, 2006, p. 323). In other words, most co-management studies are not acknowledging or deconstructing the implicit principles of natural resource management and its associated bureaucracy, as cultural perspectives and practices in themselves. This oversight ultimately allows the persistence of perspectives upheld by some researchers or resource managers that place human populations on a unidirectional trajectory towards a unique modernity and way of being modern. Butler notably points to a tendency among technicians and biologists toward linear thinking and linear relationships with nature (2005). In the Torres Strait context, this

353 https://www.afma.gov.au/annual-report-2017-18/part-3-fishery-reports (accessed on 25 March 2019). 342 position is exemplified by a scholar who, undoubtedly without ill-intent, candidly recommends that Torres Strait ‘[c]ommunities need to be equipped to adapt their knowledge and traditions to the modern forms of management required by their inevitable increased modernisation and increased levels of integration with western society’ (Busilacchi, 2008, p. 199); a misguided position that supports the technocratic and deficit approaches characterising Indigenous-state relationships of management. Offering a counter narrative to such a position, my doctoral thesis aims to make visible the power relationships underpinning definitions of knowledge, which invariably frame subsequent attempts to integrate and use alternative knowledge systems and values. Located in this critical space, one of the preoccupations my thesis has been to scrutinise the fundamental assumptions, aims, institutions, and politics underpinning fisheries co- management arrangements, the power relationships framing their design, and related processes of indigenous knowledge integration—by drawing on a thorough portrait of Masig lifeways and the ‘alternative narratives’ it provides.

Torres Strait Islanders have, from the outset of colonial intrusions, affirmed their sovereignty over their unceded land and sea territories and have defended their control of their fisheries and their lives. Islanders’ enduring political activism, documented at length throughout this thesis, their uninterrupted occupation and stewardship or management of Torres Strait seascapes, their demographic dominance in the region, combined with a treaty prescribing that fisheries management decisions acknowledge and protect their traditional way of life and livelihood, initially appeared to provide ideal conditions for relatively equal and inclusive co- management partnerships to emerge in the Torres Strait. My ethnographic examination of fisheries co-management strategies elaborated through and governed by the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (PZJA) tells a somewhat different and considerably more complicated story.

My analysis is largely informed by a fundamental argument among scholars such as Mulrennan and Scott (2005) and Reo et al. (2017) that, beyond being a partnership in managing natural resources, the term ‘co-management’ involving Indigenous peoples and territories implies a regime that must ‘respond as much to indigenous tenure, knowledge and management practices as to state-organized property definitions, management science and bureaucracy’ (Mulrennan & Scott, 2005, p. 207). Hence, to establish whether the relationship of fisheries

343 management supported by the PZJA structure has indeed been inclusive and respectful of both western and Islander institutions, practices and values, it was necessary to examine and deconstruct the perspectives at play in this context and question how they are interacting within and around the co-management interface. I therefore dedicated a large portion of this thesis to documenting and unpacking Masig Islanders’ fisheries system, including the marine tenure regime, economic rationale, knowledge system and values guiding their everyday life and engagements with the sea. This ethnography of Masig’s fisheries provides a window onto Masig Islanders’ intricate traditional yet contemporary lifeways, providing a backdrop against which to weigh the PZJA’s claims to be protective and inclusive of Islanders’ culture, by assessing whether and in what ways fisheries management arrangements in the Torres Strait reflect Islanders values, institutions and aspirations. It also contributes to making visible the agency and initiatives of Masig Islanders, and Torres Strait Islanders more broadly, enacted through the day- to-day practices and governance of their land and sea territories along with their successes, notwithstanding a general lack of formal decision-making power within the PZJA, in resisting, opposing, and reshaping fisheries management decisions. Outside of the PZJA structure, they have also seized on various political and legal instruments to further their causes.

In the way of Islanders’ life projects

For those familiar with Torres Strait Islander-Australian State relations, the story told in this dissertation will most likely have triggered a general feeling of déjà vu. Indeed, 27 years after the publication of the Marine Strategy for the Torres Strait and 17 years since a form of co- management platform was implemented in the region, the challenges, stakes and objectives remain in many regards the same. Today, as at the time I conducted my fieldwork, the storyline still revolves around Islanders fighting on multiple fronts for the recognition of their ownership of their marine territories and control over the region’s fisheries, contesting along the way the ecological damage, social problems, and lack of economic benefits for their communities engendered by non-Islander commercial fishing operations in their waters. Still formally in the driver’s seat, institutional resource managers from across the PZJA agencies persist in working towards a compromise between addressing Torres Strait Islander Treaty rights and demands while being fair to and respectful of the rights of non-Islander fishers and pushing for the sustainable optimal utilisation of the region’s fisheries. Guided by scientific research, their main

344 strategy continues to focus on consulting and ‘upskilling’ Islanders to improve their competency and thus enhance the quality of their participation in fisheries co-management, their capacity to work with scientists and contribute to research and, finally, boost their ‘underperforming’ commercial fisheries sector. Non-Islander commercial fishers continue to voice their exasperation in various fora concerning what some of them regard as a political game played by Islanders and the Torres Strait Regional Authority to which they see themselves held hostage (see Chapter 5 and 9). Meanwhile, marine biologists continue monitoring turtle and dugong populations and providing estimates of the health of the commercial stocks to ensure that whoever gets to catch those marine resources does so within what they estimate to be the sustainable ecological limits. For that to happen, they too promote the need to upskill Islanders’ management capacities and knowledge (e.g. Busilacchi, 2008; Van Putten, Deng, et al., 2013). Overall, the relationship of management remains one characterised by regular tensions, mutual distrust and continuous parallel monologues, some of which are sampled in the opening to this conclusion. In 2011, this distrust culminated in the dissolution of the ‘inefficient’ Community Fishers Representative Group (CFG). The CFG, on which each island community had an elected representative, was replaced by a controversial and short-lived Islander Fisher Reference Group (IFRG) whose members were centrally selected based on their fisheries management related skills which left some island communities unrepresented. This illustrates once again the PZJA’s lack of recognition of the traditional owner status of Torres Strait Islanders, focusing on skills over traditional owners’ representation.

I am not implying here that nothing has changed over the years, that the non-Islander actors involved are ill-intentioned, that natural resources should be mindlessly exploited or that Islanders’ initiatives and collaborations with managers,354 researchers and non-Islander commercial fishers have been to no avail. The establishment of co-management arrangements for Torres Strait fisheries in 2002, which provided Islanders with a permanent seat within the PZJA and increased their representation across the advisory committees, was itself an important outcome of years of planning and lobbying by Islanders and their allies. The ensuing complete buyback of the non-Islander finfish fisheries licences, the increased TIB share of the kaiar (tropical rock lobster) total allowable catch (TAC), the seasonal ban on hookah gear as well as

354 Some of the managers and researchers are Islanders themselves. 345 the reduction of the prawn trawler fleet are other examples of Islander-led successes. The publication of a protocol to guide fisheries research (Nakata & Nakata, 2009), the development of positive and respectful research partnerships (e.g. the sponge research in Masig waters), and relationships with some TVH fishers can be added to the list. Most notably, the seaward extension of the Mabo Decision through the landmark Akiba Decision recognised Torres Strait Islanders’ non-exclusive native title rights over 44,000 square kilometres of sea territory. Akiba is especially significant as it marked the first recognition of commercial native title rights by the High Court of Australia (Butterly, 2013).

So, in the face of this, in a context where Islanders are continuously consulted through their involvement in the PZJA structure and where ailan kastoms are consistently highlighted in government and research papers, why and how are Torres Strait Islanders’ lifeways, livelihood, values, and aspirations still largely overlooked in fisheries management and development decisions? As my thesis demonstrates, many of the achievements listed above, while substantial, come with important caveats as they fall short of engendering the deeper root metaphor changes at managerial levels needed to genuinely transform Torres Strait fisheries in a manner that aligns with Torres Strait Islanders’ contemporary lifeways and goals. While these milestones signal a shy but positive shift towards Islanders’ self-determination and ownership objectives, this shift still mainly occurs within the parameters, rules and norms set by the colonial legal framework, bureaucratic culture, fisheries management sciences and penchant for the neoliberalisation of fisheries. Assumed to be unproblematic, the specific legal and bio-economic posture underpinning PZJA management entails a process of integration of Islanders, their knowledge and lifeways in a manner that is comparable to the compartmentalisation and distillation process theorised by Nadasdy (2003a, 2005a) with regard to the integration of traditional ecological knowledge in resource management structures. In the process, Islanders’ socio-ecological and political knowledge is occluded, as their fisheries practices are deconstructed and distilled to match fisheries managers’ categories, reframed in a format that makes sense for the PZJA. This, as a result, obscures the importance and cohesiveness of Islanders’ fisheries systems and alternative economies, which hinge on the fundamental interdependence of their commercial and subsistence (traditional) sectors, the dynamic interactions of these holistic fisheries with other sectors of their relational hybrid economies, and their marine tenure regimes. This

346 compartmentalised and distorted version of Islander fisheries, reinforced by the Treaty’s imposition of a ‘commercial’ and ‘traditional’ dichotomy, nourishes the illusion that these fisheries can and should be managed and developed based on the same model and structures as the industrial non-Islander fisheries.355 Compartmentalising Islander fisheries through the same categories as TVH fisheries produces a fraught and distorting comparison of the two sectors. Assessed against the benchmark set by the TVH operators and scientifically calculated TACs, the decontextualised Islander sector is consistently portrayed as inefficient and underachieving. This reasoning ultimately supports the PZJA’s developmentalist narrative which suggests that Islander fishing practices are somewhat in the way of Islanders’ own ‘ownership’ and ‘growth’ aspirations.

As I have explained in Chapter Nine, the problem here is that the type of ownership and fisheries development directions Islanders are vehemently reclaiming have nothing to do with the definition of ownership, economic development, or fisheries driving the PZJA’s decisions. In November 2017, Mr Maluwap Nona expressed his bewilderment that, despite the recognition of their commercial rights and ownership over ‘44,000 sq km of sea country’ by the High Court, they are still ‘not at the driving seat’ when it comes to managing Torres Strait fisheries. Indeed, as I write this conclusion, Torres Strait Islanders’ are still included in the PZJA structure as stakeholders in the fisheries rather than as owners of Torres Strait saltwater territories and resources. Islanders remain to this day in a subordinated position vis-à-vis the PZJA’s board, a situation that continues to undermine Islanders’ stewardship of and inherited rights to control the region’s waters. In other words, the PZJA persists in acting as an anti-politics machine (Ferguson, 1994). Ignoring Islanders’ sovereignty claims enables the Authority to remain oblivious to the deep contradictions embedded in its dual mandates of protecting Islanders’ way of life and livelihood while ensuring the optimal sustainable utilisation of Torres Strait fisheries. By transposing Islanders’ assertions of their ownership over Torres Strait marine territories into shallow claims to obtain 100 per cent property rights in commercial fisheries—ownership that ultimately resides with the Australian state—the PZJA removed, in appearance at least, the incongruities existing between the neoliberal orientation of the PZJA and Torres Strait Islander

355 The applicability of this model to non-Islander fisheries is also questionable, a matter beyond the scope if this study. 347 life projects. So, in response to Islanders’ redefined ownership claims—now reduced to a technical problem—the PZJA has deployed much effort, in terms of financial investments, research and training, to develop ways to build Islanders’ fishing capacity, especially in the kaiar sector, but also in the finfish fishery. In this context, protecting Islanders’ way of life and livelihood paradoxally equates to transforming Islander fishers into industrial operators.

In the recent years, a great deal of research has been dedicated to investigating which quota management system, including hybrid forms of individual transferable quotas, would be most appropriate for the region. Given that the very existence of licences for the TIB sector has been a contentious issue for years with many Torres Strait Islanders356 opposed to the fact that they should pay to access resources that already belong to them, one can only wonder why little effort is directed towards exploring alternatives for placing Islanders’ marine tenure regimes and relational ontology at the centre. As Kukutai and Walter (2015) and Yap (2017) argue in relation to national censuses and government surveys, the collection of data about Indigenous peoples often serves the needs, perspectives and objectives of government agencies. This indicates the importance of decolonising research to understand Indigenous peoples’ research needs and priorities (and ideally working with them collaboratively in more horizontal partnerships). As Gibson argues, ‘our current understanding of what constitutes an economy [or management] is standing in the way of responsibly facing the future and taking action to learn to live in our world in new ways’ (2013)357.

The ceaseless parallel monologues I have discussed at the end of Chapter Nine are manifestations of deeper unresolved issues underpinning Torres Strait fisheries co-management relationships. What clearly emerges from my thesis is that reproducing the same patterns, the same uneven power relationships, ignoring Torres Strait Islander socio-ecological and political knowledge, their values and marine tenure regimes, can only lead to the same outcomes. Islanders have demonstrated over several decades that they are committed to having their rights fully recognised and will not settle for less. As mentioned in Chapter One, engaging in a co- management partnership was a compromise for many Islanders and it was as owners and

356 This position has been reiterated to me over and over in conversations I have had with Islander from across the region, especially post-Akiba decision. 357 https://www.communityeconomies.org/videos/take-back-economy-interview-katherine-gibson (last accessed on 25 March 2019). 348 stewards of the regions’ waters that they entered this partnership. As their rights and lifeways are being diluted in the process, despite the increased legal recognition of their ownership rights in the meantime, this partnership is likely to erode.

The High Court’s recognition of Islanders’ native title rights over Torres Strait’s vast sea expense does not allow for excluding non-Islanders fishers from their territories. While Akiba represents a significant and positive gain for the Islanders, it fails to fully recognise local customary marine tenure regimes (see Chapter 7). There is nothing, however, preventing the Australian Government from recognising Islanders as owners or co-owners of Torres Strait waters and significantly devolving decision-making power to an appropriate Islander institution or institutions. This brings us back to Jentoft who emphasised that ‘[s]ometimes fisheries management problems are not really fisheries management problems at all’ (2006, p. 674).

Imagining other possible futures

By documenting the case of Masig as one Torres Strait fisheries system, with emphasis on the integration of its regimes of marine tenure, knowledge and livelihood, my thesis provides firm ground on which to re-evaluate (im)possible futures for the fisheries and economies of the region. To move beyond the current stalemate, Islanders’ systems, tenure regimes, economies, knowledge and values need to be reconsidered as foundations of local life projects rather than hindrances to the development of Islander communities. What urgently needs to be asked— moving away from the rather paternalist developmentalist approach and neoliberal project adopted by the PZJA and government agencies more broadly—is ‘[w]hat practices are considered fundamental to sustain and further the “life project” of this place [and] collective’ (CICADA.world – Life Projects). To date, there has been little scope for Islanders to formulate their own socioeconomic visions and define the contours of what they mean by increasing their benefits from fisheries and making fisheries a pillar of their economy. Instead, such visions and corresponding interests and rationality are continuously reorientated through their embeddedness in new systems of governance (Johnson, 2018). Indeed, when these visions are expressed, they are often reinterpreted through the lens of the bio-economic and developmentalist paradigms that underwrite fisheries management in the Torres Strait and Australia more broadly. This extract from an article by Orbach is rather relevant in the context of the Torres Strait. ‘Autonomy […] is the creation of one’s own opportunities, accompanied by an active questioning of the very

349 limited nature of those opportunities “made available” by the dominant economic, political and societal systems’ (2011, p. 202). Islanders are in many ways creating their own opportunities despite the limits imposed on them by their entanglement with the colonial state.

In recent years, Malu Lamar, the prescribed body corporate representatives for Torres Strait Islander sea claims native title holders, have publicly voiced their intention to seek ‘a comprehensive Torres Strait fisheries reform’ (Nona et al., 2015, p. n.p.). In this post-Akiba era, they wish to explore ‘how traditional laws can be used to achieve economic development outcomes for Torres Strait Islanders’ (ibid.). As the PZJA is exploring forms of privatisation for Torres Strait fisheries, it appears more important than ever for Islanders to clearly define the life projects they wish to sustain or push forward. This involves profound reflections on the kind of fisheries practices, economies and economic outcomes they are aspiring to, whatever these may be. It also involves negotiating a great variety of aspirations and projects across and within Island communities, between genders, and across generations—some of which may complement or conflict with others.

I would like to conclude this thesis with a comment made by a Torres Strait Islander colleague. ‘A great outcome would be for all the commercial fishers in the Torres Strait to utilise the fishery with the same objectives as the traditional inhabitants of the region; a social fishery. They don’t necessarily want to build up wealth but place high importance on lifestyle and family and teaching your kids to respect the place’ (Pers. Comm., Lui, 2009). While this vision, which echoes with the Haudenosaunee’s ‘7 generations’ principle, may be discarded by some as utopic, I argue that it is eminently worth investigating what is needed to adequately support such life projects and Islander-defined modernity. Considering the continuous stalemate affecting fisheries management in the Torres Strait and the emerging challenges associated with climate changes (rise of sea levels, coral bleaching episodes, etc.), one could argue that the neoliberalisation of Torres Strait fisheries sponsored by the PZJA—which feasibility is at times investigated by fisheries scientists—is the vision hinging on fantasy more than on the reality.

Although my thesis offers an ethnography-based critical analysis of co-management arrangements, its aim is to supplement Islanders’ initiatives in developing an alternative to the current fisheries management and development model, arguably one where they are in the

350 driving seat and one that is driven by their ‘life projects’ (Blaser, 2004a). To quote Jentoft, ‘[f]isheries management, or any other environmental management, is whatever we make of it […]. In other words, there is no objective answer; the concerns, principles and goals of the management process are matters of preference and choice, and hence political struggle’ (2006, p. 671).

351

References Acheson, J. (2006). Institutional Failure in Resource Management. Annual Review of Anthropology, 35(1), 117-134. doi:10.1146/annurev.anthro.35.081705.123238 Acheson, J., Apollonio, S., & Wilson, J. (2015). Individual Transferable Quotas and Conservation: A Critical Assessment. Ecology and Society, 20(4). doi:10.5751/ES- 07912-200407 Agrawal, A. (1995). Dismantling the Divide between Indigenous and Scientific Knowledge. Development and Change, 26(3), 413-439. doi:10.1111/j.1467-7660.1995.tb00560.x Agrawal, A. (2005a). Environmentality: Technologies of Government and the Making of Subjects. Durham: Duke University Press. Agrawal, A. (2005b). The Politics of Indigenous Knowledge. Australian Academic & Research Libraries, 36(2), 71-81. doi:10.1080/00048623.2005.10721249 Agrawal, A., & Gibson, C. C. (1999). Enchantment and Disenchantment: The Role of Community in Natural Resource Conservation. World Development, 27(4), 629-649. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/S0305-750X(98)00161-2 Altamirano-Jiménez, I. (2013). Indigenous Encounters with Neoliberalism: Place, Women, and the Environment in Canada and Mexico: UBC Press. Altman, J. (2001a). Sustainable Development Options on Aboriginal Land : The Hybrid Economy in the Twenty-First Century. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Altman, J. (2001b) Sustainable Development Options on Aboriginal Land: The Hybrid Economy in the Twenty-First Century In, CAEPR Discussion Paper 226. Canberra: Centre For Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Altman, J. (2006) The Indigenous Hybrid Economy: A Realistic Sustainable Option for Remote Communities? In, CAEPR Topical Issue: Vol. 2 (pp. 1-6). Canberra Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Altman, J. (2009a) Beyond Closing the Gap: Valuing Diversity in Indigenous Australia. In, (pp. 24). Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Altman, J. (2009b). Contestations over Development. In J. Altman & D. Martin (Eds.), Power, Culture, Economy: Indigenous Australians and Mining (pp. 1-15.). Canberra: ANU ePress. Altman, J. (2010). What Future for Remote Indigenous Australia? Economic Hybridity and the Neoliberal Turn. In J. C. Altman & M. Hickson (Eds.), Culture Crisis: Anthropology and Politics in Aboriginal Australia (pp. 259-280). Sydney: University of New South Wales Press.

352

Altman, J. (2011) Alternate Development for Indigenous Territories of Difference. In. Canberra: CAEPR Topical Issues No.5/2011. Altman, J. (2013). Neo-Paternalism: Reflections on the Northern Territory Intervention. Journal of Indigenous Policy(14). Altman, J., Arthur, W. S., & Bek, H. J. (1994a). Indigenous Participation in Commercial Fisheries in Torres Strait: A Preliminary Discussion. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Altman, J., Arthur, W. S., & Bek, H. J. (1994b). Indigenous Participation in Commercial Fisheries in Torres Strait: A Preliminary Discussion. In CAEPR Discussion paper. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Altman, J., Biddle, N., & Buchanan, G. (2012). The Indigenous Hybrid Economy: Can the Natsiss Adequately Recognise Difference? In B. Hunter & N. Biddle (Eds.), Survey Analysis for Indigenous Policy in Australia: Social Science Perspectives (pp. 163-191). Canberra: ANU ePress. Altman, J., Buchanan, G., & Biddle, N. (2006). The Real 'Real' Economy in Remote Australia: Proceedings of Indigenous Socioeconomic Outcomes: Assessing Recent Evidence. Paper presented at the Indigenous Socioeconomic Outcomes Assessing Recent Evidence Conference, Canberra. Altman, J., & Klein, E. (2018). Lessons from a Basic Income Programme for Indigenous Australians. Oxford Development Studies, 46(1), 132-146. doi:10.1080/13600818.2017.1329413 Armitage, D. R., Berkes, F., Dale, A., Kocho-Schellenberg, E., & Patton, E. (2011). Co- Management and the Co-Production of Knowledge: Learning to Adapt in Canada's Arctic. Global Environmental Change, 21(3), 995-995-1004. doi:10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2011.04.006 Armitage, D. R., Berkes, F., & Doubleday, N. C. (2007). Adaptive Co-Management: Collaboration, Learning, and Multi-Level Governance. Vancouver: UBC Press. Armitage, D. R., Plummer, R., Berkes, F., Arthur, R. I., Charles, A. T., Davidson-Hunt, I. J., . . . Wollenberg, E. K. (2008). Adaptive Co-Management for Social–Ecological Complexity. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, 7(2), 95-102. doi:10.1890/070089 Arsenault, R., Diver, S., McGregor, D., Witham, A., & Bourassa, C. (2018). Shifting the Framework of Canadian Water Governance through Indigenous Research Methods: Acknowledging the Past with an Eye on the Future. Water, 10(1), 49. Arthur, W. S. (1997) Towards a Comprehensive Regional Agreement: Torres Strait In, CAEPR Discussion Paper Series: Vol. 147. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research

353

Arthur, W. S. (1998). Relations between Torres Strait and Papua New Guinea since Haddon. Australian Aboriginal Studies(2), 26-29. Arthur, W. S. (2001). Autonomy and Identity in Torres Strait, a Borderline Case? The Journal of Pacific History, 36(2), 215 - 224. Arthur, W. S. (2004). Tradition and Legislation: Analysis of Torres Strait Treaty and Fisheries Act Terms. Retrieved from Canberra: Arthur, W. S. (2005a). Torres Strait Islanders and Autonomy: A Borderline Case. (Doctor of Philosophy), Australian National University, Canberra. Arthur, W. S. (2005b). Torres Strait Islanders and Fisheries: An Analysis of Economic Development Programs. Retrieved from Hobart: Arthur, W. S., & David-Petero, J. (2000) Education, Training and Careers: Young Torres Strait Islanders, 1999 In, CAEPR Discussion Papers: Vol. 207. Canberra: CAEPR. Arthur, W. S., & Davis, R. (2004). Bridge or Barrier: The Torres Strait Borderland. In Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History (pp. 207- 216). Asch, M. (2002). From Terra Nullius to Affirmation: Reconciling Aboriginal Rights with the Canadian Constitution. Canadian journal of law and society, 17(2), 23-39. doi:10.1017/S0829320100007237 Asch, M. (2007). Governmentality, State Culture and Indigenous Rights. Anthropologica, 49(2), 281-284. Asch, M. (2017). Afterward. In S. Poirier & F. Dussart (Eds.), Entangled Territorialities: Negotiating Indigenous Lands in Australia and Canada (pp. 253-). Toronto ; Buffalo ; London: University of Toronto Press. Aswani, S. (1999). Common Property Models of Sea Tenure: A Case Study from the Roviana and Vonavona Lagoons, New Georgia, Solomon Islands. Human Ecology, 27(3), 417- 453. Austin, T. (1977). Technical Training and Development in Papua, 1894-1941. Canberra: Australian National University. Australia Fisheries Management Authority. (2007). Fishery Assessment Report, Torres Strait Prawn Fishery. Retrieved from Canberra Business Centre, ACT: Australian Bureau of, S. (2007). 2006 Census Community Profiles - Masig Island. Retrieved from Canberra: Australian Bureau of, S. (2012). 2010 Census Community Profiles - Masig Island. Retrieved from Canberra:

354

Australian Fisheries Managament Authority. (2015). Foreign Fishing Vessels Apprehended in the Torres Strait [Press release]. Retrieved from https://us9.campaign- archive.com/?u=fedcc86b78313c7863588ce2a&id=a96456eafa&e=6fc9793aed Australian Fisheries Management Authority. (2008). Annual Report 2007-08. Retrieved from Barton, ACT: Australian Fisheries Management Authority. (2010). Annual Status Report: Torres Strait Rock Lobster Fishery: Prepared by Afma for Consideration by the Department of Sustainability, Environment, Water, Population and Communities in Relation to the Exemption of the Torres Strait Tropical Rock Lobster Fishery from Export Controls under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act 1999. Retrieved from Canberra: Australian Fisheries Management Authority, & Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority. (2011). Future Operating Environment: Torres Strait Tropical Rock Lobster Fishery (Draft for Discussion). Retrieved from http://www.pzja.gov.au/notices/notices/2011/n20110120/Draft%20TRL%20Future%20O perating%20Environment%20discussion%20paper.pdf (Accessed on March 30, 2011).

Australian National Audit Office (2009). Performance Audit of Torres Strait Finfish Fishery Management, Australian National Audit Office, Canberra.

Babbage, R. (1990). The Strategic Significance of Torres Strait. Canberra Strategic and Defence Studies Centre, RsPacs, ANU. Babidge, S., Greer, S., Henry, R., & Pam, C. (2007). Social Analysis, 51(3), 148-164. doi:10.3167/sa.2007.510307 Banuri, T., Apffel-Marglin, F., Banuri, T., & Apffel-Marglin, F. (1993). A-Systems-of- Knowledge Analysis of Deforestation. In Who Will Save the Forests?: Knowledge, Power, and Environmental Destruction (pp. 1-23): Zed Books. Barber, M., & Jackson, S. (2014). Autonomy and the Intercultural: Interpreting the History of Australian Aboriginal Water Management in the Roper River Catchment, Northern Territory. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 20(4), 670-693. doi:10.1111/1467-9655.12129 Basurto, X., & Ostrom, E. (2009). The Core Challenges of Moving Beyond Garrett Hardin. Journal of Natural Resources Policy Research, 1(3), 255-259. doi:10.1080/19390450903040447 Bavinck, M. 2001. Marine resource management. Conflict and regulation in the fisheries of the Coromandel Coast. Sage, New Delhi, India. Beckett, J. (1963). Politics in the Torres Straits Islands. (Ph D), Australian National University,

355

Beckett, J. (1972). The Torres Strait Islanders. In D. Walker (Ed.), Bridge and Barrier : The Natural and Cultural History of Torres Strait (pp. 307-326). Canberra: Australian National University. Beckett, J. (1977). The Torres Strait Islanders and the Pearling Industry: A Case of Internal Colonialism. Aboriginal History, 1, 77-104. Beckett, J. (1983). Ownership of Land in the Torres Strait Islands. In N. Peterson & M. Langton (Eds.), Aborigines, Land and Land Rights (pp. 202-210). Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Beckett, J. (1987). Torres Strait Islanders: Custom and Colonialism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Beckett, J. (1991). The Eastern Islands of the Torres Strait. Paper presented at the Sustainable development for traditional inhabitants of the Torres Strait region : proceedings of the Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference, Kewarra Beach, Cairns, Queensland. Beckett, J. (1995). The Murray Island Land Case1. The Australian Journal of Anthropology, 6(1- 2), 15-31. doi:10.1111/j.1835-9310.1995.tb00142.x Beckett, J. (1998). Haddon Attends a Funeral. In A. Herle & S. Rouse (Eds.), Cambridge and the Torres Strait: Centenary Essays on the 1898 Anthropological Expedition (pp. 23-49). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Beckett, J. (2004). Writing About Islanders: Recent Research and Future Directions. Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History, 2. Beckett, J. (2010). From Island to Mainland: Torres Strait Islanders in the Australian Labour Force. In I. Keen (Ed.), Indigenous Participation in Australian Economies: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives. Canberra: ANU E Press. Béné, C., Bennett, E., & Neiland, A. (2004). The Challenge of Managing Small-Scale Fisheries Wit Reference to Poverty Alleviation. In A. Neiland & C. Béné (Eds.), Poverty and Small-Scale Fisheries in West-Africa. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publisher. Bennett, N. J., Govan, H., & Satterfield, T. (2015). Ocean Grabbing. Marine Policy, 57, 61-68. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2015.03.026 Berkes, F. (2003). Alternatives to Conventional Management: Lessons from Small-Scale Fisheries. Environments, 31(1), 5-19. Berkes, F. (2009a). Evolution of Co-Management: Role of Knowledge Generation, Bridging Organizations and Social Learning. Journal of Environmental Management, 90(5), 1692- 1702. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jenvman.2008.12.001 Berkes, F. (2009b). Social Aspects of Fisheries Management In K. L. Cochrane & S. M. Garcia (Eds.), A Fishery Manager’s Guidebook: Second Edition (pp. 52-74): The Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations and Wiley-Blackwell.

356

Berkes, F. (2012). Sacred Ecology: Taylor & Francis. Berkes, F., & Folke, C. (1998). Linking Social and Ecological Sytems: Management Practices and Social Mechanism for Building Resilience (F. Berkes & C. Folke Eds.). Cambridge, UK.: Cambridge University Press. Berkes, F., George, P. J., & Preston, R. J. (1991). Co-Management: The Evolution in Theory and Practice of the Joint Administration of Living Resources. Alternatives, 18(2), 12-18. Berkes, F., Mahon, R., McConney, P., Pollnac, R., & Pomeroy, R. S. (Eds.). (2001). Managing Small-Scale Fisheries: Alternative Directions and Methods. Ottawa: IDRC. Blackford, M. G. (2009). Fishers, Fishing, and Overfishing: American Experiences in Global Perspective, 1976-2006. The Business History Review, 83(2), 239-266. Blaikie, P. (1996). Understanding Environmental Issues. In S. Morse & M. Stocking (Eds.), People and Environment (Vol. 2-30). Vancouver: UBC Press. Blaser, M. (2004a). Life Projects: Indigenous Peoples’ Agency and Development. In M. Blaser, H. A. Feit, & G. McRae (Eds.), In the Way of Development: Indigenous Peoples, Life Projects and Globalization (pp. 26-44). London: Zed Book/IDRC. Blaser, M. (2004b). 'Way of Life' or 'Who Decides': Development, Paraguayan Indigenism and the Yshiro People's Life Projects. In M. Blaser, H. A. Feit, & G. McRae (Eds.), In the Way of Development: Indigenous Peoples, Life Projects and Globalization (pp. 52-71). London: Zed Books/IDRC. Blaser, M. (2009a). From Progress to Risk: Development, Participation, and Post-Disciplinary Techniques of Control. Canadian Journal of Development Studies / Revue canadienne d'études du développement, 28(3-4), 439-454. doi:10.1080/02255189.2009.9669223 Blaser, M. (2009b). Political Ontology. Cultural Studies, 23(5-6), 873-896. doi:10.1080/09502380903208023 Blaser, M. (2009c). The Threat of the Yrmo: The Political Ontology of a Sustainable Hunting Program. American Anthropologist, 111(1), 10-20. doi:doi:10.1111/j.1548- 1433.2009.01073.x Blaser, M. (2013). Ontological Conflicts and the Stories of Peoples in Spite of Europe: Toward a Conversation on Political Ontology. Current Anthropology, 54(5), 547-568. doi:10.1086/672270 Blaser, M. (2014). Ontology and Indigeneity: On the Political Ontology of Heterogeneous Assemblages. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 49-58. doi:10.1177/1474474012462534 Blaser, M., & de la Cadena, M. (2018). Pluriverse: Proposals for a World of Many Worlds. In M. de la Cadena & M. Blaser (Eds.), A World of Many Worlds. Durham and London: Duke University Press.

357

Blaser, M., & Escobar, A. (2016). Political Ecology. In J. Adamson, W. Gleason, & D. Pellow (Eds.), Keywords in the Study of Environment and Culture (pp. 164-167). New York: New York University Press. Blaser, M., Feit, H. A., & McRae, G. (Eds.). (2004). In the Way of Development: Indigenous Peoples, Life Projects and Globalization. London: Zed Book/IDRC. Bleakley, J. W. (1961). The Aborigines of Australia : Their History, Their Habits, Their Assimilation. Brisbane: Jacaranda Press. Bliege Bird, R. (2007). Fishing and the Sexual Division of Labor among the Meriam. American Anthropologist, 109(3), 442-451. doi:10.1525/aa.2007.109.3.442 Bodsworth, A., & Houghton, K. (2014). Improving Torres Strait Prawn Fishery Profitability & the Flow of Benefits to Island Communities. Final Report for Afma Research Project Rr2014-0824. Retrieved from Canberra: https://www.pzja.gov.au/sites/g/files/net4491/f/content/uploads/2011/06/AFMA- Research-Project-RR2014-0824-Final-Report-TSPF-profitability-and-flow-of-benefits- to-Torres-Strait-Island-Communities.pdf Borrini, G., Kothari, A., & Oviedo, G. (2004). Indigenous and Local Communities and Protected Areas : Towards Equity and Enhanced Conservation. Borrows, J. (2017). Foreword. In F. Dussart & S. Poirier (Eds.), Entangled Territorialities: Negotiating Indigenous Lands in Australia and Canada (pp. vii-xiii). Toronto, Buffalo and London: University of Toronto Press. Boserup, E. (2002). Some Perspectives and Implications. In N. Haenn & R. Wilk (Eds.), The Environment in Anthropology: A Reader in Ecology, Culture. And Sustainable Living. New York: New York University Press. Boutet, J.-S. (2014). Opening Ungava to Industry: A Decentring Approach to Indigenous History in Subarctic Québec, 1937–54. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 79-97. doi:10.1177/1474474012469761 Brennan, F. (1992). Land Rights Queensland Style: The Struggle for Aboriginal Self- Management | Text Queensland. St-Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Brennan, F. (1995). One Land, One Nation : Mabo - Towards 2001 / Frank Brennan. St Lucia, Qld: University of Queensland Press. Brennan, S. (2012). Commercial Native Title Fishing Rights in the Torres Strait and the Question of Regulation Versus Extinguishment. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 8(2), 17-19. Brewster, J. D., Neumann, D., Ostertag, S. K., & Loseto, L. L. (2016). Traditional Ecological Knowledge (Tek) at Shingle Point, Yk: Observations on Changes in the Environment and Fish Populations. Characterizing the diet and habitat niches of coastal fish populations in the Beaufort Sea Tarium Niryutait Marine Protected Area, 121.

358

Bromley, D. W. (1992). The Commons, Common Property, and Environmental Policy. Environmental and Resource Economics, 2(1), 1-17. Brosius, J. P. (1999). Comments on Escobar a, after Nature: Steps to an Antiessentialist Political Ecology. Current Anthropology, 40(1), 16-17. doi:10.1086/515799 Brown, M. I., Pearce, T., Leon, J., Sidle, R., & Wilson, R. (2018). Using Remote Sensing and Traditional Ecological Knowledge (Tek) to Understand Mangrove Change on the Maroochy River, Queensland, Australia. Applied Geography, 94, 71-83. doi:10.1016/j.apgeog.2018.03.006 Bryant, R. L. (1992). Political Ecology: An Emerging Research Agenda in Third-World Studies. Political Geography, 11(1), 12-36. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/0962-6298(92)90017-N Buchanan, G. (2014). Hybrid Economy Research in Remote Indigenous Australia: Seeing and Supporting the Customary in Community Food Economies. Local Environment, 19(1), 10-32. doi:10.1080/13549839.2013.787973 Buege, D. J. (1996). The Ecologically Noble Savage Revisited. Environmental Ethics, 18(1), 71- 88. Buizer, M., & Kurz, T. (2016). Too Hot to Handle: Depoliticisation and the Discourse of Ecological Modernisation in Fire Management Debates. Geoforum, 68, 48-56. Bundy, A., Chuenpagdee, R., Jentoft, S., & Mahon, R. (2008). If Science Is Not the Answer, What Is? An Alternative Governance Model for the World's Fisheries. 6(3), 152-155. doi:10.1890/060112 Burmester, H. (1982). The Torres Strait Treaty: Ocean Boundary Delimitation by Agreement. American Journal of International Law, 76(2), 321-349. doi:10.2307/2201455 Busilacchi, S. (2008). The Subsistence Coral Reef Fish Fishery in the Torres Strait: Monitoring Protocols and Assessment. (PhD), James Cook University, Busilacchi, S., Russ, G. R., Williams, A. J., Sutton, S. G., & Begg, G. A. (2013). The Role of Subsistence Fishing in the Hybrid Economy of an Indigenous Community. Marine Policy, 37, 183-191. doi:10.1016/j.marpol.2012.04.017 Butler, C. F. (2005). More Than Fish : Political Knowledge in the Commercial Fisheries of British Columbia. The University of British Columbia, Vancouver. Butler, N. (Producer). (2010). Islanders Celebrate Historic Native Title Decision. Retrieved from http://www.abc.net.au/news/2010-07-03/islanders-celebrate-historic-native-title- decision/890526 Butterly, L. (2013). Clear Choices in Murky Waters: Leo Akiba on Behalf of the Torrens Strait Regional Seas Claim Group V Commonwealth of Australia. Sydney Law Review, 35(1), 237-252.

359

Cameron, E., de Leeuw, S., & Desbiens, C. (2014). Indigeneity and Ontology. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 19-26. doi:10.1177/1474474013500229 Carlsson, L., & Berkes, F. (2005). Co-Management: Concepts and Methodological Implications. Journal of Environmental Management, 75(1), 65-76. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jenvman.2004.11.008 Carothers, C. (2011). Equity and Access to Fishing Rights: Exploring the Community Quota Program in the Gulf of Alaska. Human Organization, 70(3), 213-223. Carothers, C., & Chambers, C. (2012). Fisheries Privatization and the Remaking of Fishery Systems. 3(1), 39. doi:10.3167/ares.2012.030104 Carter, M. (2001). New Evidence for the Earliest Human Occupation in Torres Strait, Northeastern Australia. Australian Archaeology(52), 50-52. Carter, M., Veth, P., Barham, A., Bird, D., O'Connor, S., & Bliege-Bird, R. (2004). Archaeology of the Murray Islands, Eastern Torres Strait: Implications for Regional Prehistory. In R. Davis (Ed.), Woven Histories, Dancing Lives. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Caruso, E. (2011). Co-Management Redux: Anti-Politics and Transformation in the Ashaninka Communal Reserve, Peru. International Journal of Heritage Studies, 17(6), 608-628. doi:10.1080/13527258.2011.618254 Castro, A. P., & Nielsen, E. (2001). Indigenous People and Co-Management: Implications for Conflict Management. Environmental Science & Policy, 4(4), 229-239. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/S1462-9011(01)00022-3 Charles, A. T. (2008). Sustainable Fishery Systems: Wiley. Chief Protector of, A. (1908). Annual Report of the Chief Protector of Aboriginals for the Year 1907: Presented to Both Houses of Parliament by Command. Retrieved from Brisbane: Chief Protector of, A. (1909). Annual Report of the Chief Protector of Aboriginals for the Year 1908: Presented to Both Houses of Parliament by Command. Retrieved from Brisbane: Chuenpagdee, R. (2018). Too Big to Fail: An Essay About Svein Jentoft’s Engagement in Small- Scale Fisheries Research and Development of the Interactive Governance Theory. Maritime Studies, 17(3), 305-314. doi:10.1007/s40152-018-0114-8 Chuenpagdee, R. (Ed.) (2012). World Small-Scale Fisheries: Contemporary Visions. Delft, Netherlands: Eburon Publishers. Chuenpagdee, R., & Jentoft, S. (2007). Step Zero for Fisheries Co-Management: What Precedes Implementation. Marine Policy, 31(6), 657-668. Chuenpagdee, R., Pinkerton, E., & Davis, R. (2016). Let’s Talk About Ssf Rights and Access. In TBTI Webinar # 4: Too Big To Ignore and Memorial University.

360

Cleaver, F. (2001). Institutions, Agency and the Limitations of Participatory Approaches to Development. In B. Cooke & U. Kothari (Eds.), Participation: The New Tyranny. New York: Zed Books. Clifford, J. (2001). Indigenous Articulations. The Contemporary Pacific, 13(2), 467-490. Commonwealth of Australia. (2000). Masig People V State of Queensland [2000] Fca 1067 and Damuth People V State of Queensland. Australasian Legal Information Institute. Commonwealth of Australia. (2002). Torres Strait Fisheries Amendment Bill 2002. Canberra: Department of the Parliamentary Library. Commonwealth of Australia. (2003). Torres Strait Regional Authority Annual Report 2002- 2003. Retrieved from Thursday Island: http://www.tsra.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0020/1739/anrep0203.pdf Commonwealth of Australia. (2006). Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority (Tspzja) Annual Report 2004-2005. Retrieved from Barton, ACT: Commonwealth of Australia. (2009). Performance Audit of Torres Strait Finfish Fishery Management. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia. Commonwealth of Australia. (2010). The Torres Strait: Bridge and Border. Retrieved from Commonwealth of Australia. (2018). Fishery Status Reports 2018. 520. Connor, R. (1999). Are Itqs Property Rights? Definition, Discipline and Discourse. In R. Shotton (Ed.), Fao Fisheries Technical Paper 404/2 - Use of Property Rights in Fisheries Management. The Australian National University, Canberra: FAO/Centre for Resource and Environmental Studies. Cooke, B., & Kothari, U. (2001). Participation: The New Tyranny? London: Zed Books. Cordell, J. (1984). Defending Customary Inshore Sea Rights. In K. Ruddle & A. Tomoya (Eds.), Martime Institutions in the Western Pacific (pp. 301-326). Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology. Cordell, J. (1989). Introduction: Sea Tenure. In J. Cordell (Ed.), A Sea of Small Boats (pp. 1-32). Cambridge: Cultural Survival, Inc. Cordell, J. (1991). Line in the Water: Sea Tenure as 'Custom Today' in Western Oceania Paper presented at the Sustainable Development for Traditional Inhabitants of the Torres Strait Region: The Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference, Kewarra Beach, Cairns, Queensland. Cordell, J., & Fitzpatrick, J. (1987). Torres Strait: Cultural Identity and the Sea. Cultural Survival Quarterly. Creswell, J. W. (1994). Research Design: Qualitative & Quantitative Approaches. London: Sage Publications.

361

Cruikshank, J. (2005). Do Glaciers Listen? : Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination. Vancouver; Seattle: UBC Press ; University of Washington Press. Cruikshank, J. (2012). Are Glaciers ‘Good to Think With’? Recognising Indigenous Environmental Knowledge. Anthropological Forum, 22(3), 239-250. doi:10.1080/00664677.2012.707972 Culture Clash in the Torres Strait Islands: The Maritime Strike of 1936. (1982). Presented to the Royal Historical Society of Queensland on 24 June 1982. d’Armengol, L., Prieto Castillo, M., Ruiz-Mallén, I., & Corbera, E. (2018). A Systematic Review of Co-Managed Small-Scale Fisheries: Social Diversity and Adaptive Management Improve Outcomes. Global Environmental Change, 52, 212-225. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2018.07.009 Daley, B. (2014). The Great Barrier Reef: An Environmental History. Oxon: Routledge. David, F., Lui-Chivizhe, L., & Philp, J. (2015). Individuals in Kulkalgal History. Journal of Australian Studies, 39(3), 290-306. doi:10.1080/14443058.2015.1051086 10.1080/14443058.2015.1051086

Davis, A., & Ruddle, K. (2012). Massaging the Misery: Recent Approaches to Fisheries Governance and the Betrayal of Small-Scale Fisheries. Human Organization, 71(3), 244- 254. de Leeuw, S. (2014). State of Care: The Ontologies of Child Welfare in British Columbia. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 59-78. doi:10.1177/1474474013491925 Defeo, O., Castrejón, M., Pérez-Castañeda, R., Castilla, J. C., Gutiérrez, N. L., Essington, T. E., & Folke, C. (2016). Co-Management in Latin American Small-Scale Shellfisheries: Assessment from Long-Term Case Studies. Fish and Fisheries, 17(1), 176-192. doi:10.1111/faf.12101 Degnbol, P. (2003). Science and the User Perspective: The Gap Co-Management Must Address. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), The Fisheries Co-Management Experience: Accomplishments, Challenges and Prospects. Dordrecht; London: Kluwer Academic. Dennis, D., Prescott, J., Ye, Y., & Skewes, T. (2006). Research to Support Allocation of Indigenous and Commercial Catch in the Torres Strait Tropical Rock Lobster Panulirus Ornatus Fishery. Paper presented at the Share the Fish Conference. Desbiens, C., & Rivard, É. (2014). From Passive to Active Dialogue? Aboriginal Lands, Development and Métissage in Québec, Canada. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 99-114. doi:10.1177/1474474013487485 Descola, P. (1996). Constructing Natures: Symbolic Econologies and Social Practices. In P. Descola & G. Pálsson (Eds.), Nature and Society: Anthropological Perspectives (pp. 82- 102): Routledge. 362

Diver, S. (2016). Co-Management as a Catalyst: Pathways to Post-Colonial Forestry in the Klamath Basin, California. Human ecology: an interdisciplinary journal, 44(5), 533-546. doi:10.1007/s10745-016-9851-8 Dodson, M. (2012). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People and Citizenship. Donda, S. (2017). Who Benefits from Fisheries Co-Management? A Case Study in Lake Chiuta, Malawi. Marine Policy, 80, 147-153. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2016.10.018 Dove, M. R. (2000). The Life-Cycle of Indigenous Knowledge, and the Case of Natural Rubber Production. In R. F. Ellen, P. S. C. Parkes, & A. Bicker (Eds.), Indigenous Environmental Knowledge and Its Transformations : Critical Anthropological Perspectives (Harwood Academic Publishers ed., Vol. 5, pp. 213-251). Amsterdam. Doyon, S. (2015). Losing Ground: The Marginalization of the St. Lawrence Eel Fisheries in Québec, Canada. Marine Policy, 61, 331-338. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2014.11.011 Duncan, H. (1974). Socio-Economic Conditions in the Torres Strait : A Survey of Four Reserve Islands. Canberra: Research School of Pacific Studies, Australian National University. Durrenberger, E. (1997). Fisheries Management Models: Assumptions and Realities or, Why Shrimpers in Mississippi Are Not Firms. Human Organization, 56(2), 158-166. doi:10.17730/humo.56.2.k1t2731314r8x2w1 Dussart, F., & Poirier, S. (2017). Entangled Territorialities: Negotiating Indigenous Lands in Australia and Canada: University of Toronto Press. Ellen, R. F. (1998). Comments. Current Anthropology, 39(2), 238-239. Ellis, S. C. (2005). Meaningful Consideration? A Review of Traditional Knowledge in Environmental Decision Making. 2010, 58(1), 12. doi:10.14430/arctic390 Elmer, M., & Coles, R. (1990, 1990/11/19/). Torres Strait Fisheries Management. Paper presented at the Sustainable development for Traditional Inhabitants of the Torres Strait Region. English, A. E. (2001). Snatching the Catch or Asserting Native Title Ownership? Native Title, Queensland’s Criminal Law and Commercial Fishing. Native Title News, 5(6), 99-104. Escobar, A. (1991). Anthropology and the Development Encounter - the Making and Marketing of Development Anthropology. American Ethnologist, 18(4), 658-682. Escobar, A. (1995). Encountering Development : The Making and Unmaking of the Third World. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Escobar, A. (1996). Construction Nature - Elements for a Post-Structuralist Political Ecology. Futures, 28(4), 325-343.

363

Escobar, A. (1997a). Anthropologie Et Développement. Revue internationale des sciences sociales, 154, 539-559. Escobar, A. (1997b). Anthropology and Development. International Social Science Journal, 49(4), 497-515. Escobar, A. (1998). Whose Knowledge, Whose Nature? Biodiversity, Conservation, and the Political Ecology of Social Movements. Journal of Political Ecology, 5, 53-82. Escobar, A. (1999). Steps to an Antiessentialist Political Ecology. Current Anthropology, 40(1), 1-30. Escobar, A. (2008). Territories of Difference: Place, Movements, Life, Redes. Durham: Duke University Press. Escobar, A. (2010). Postconstructivist Political Ecologies. In M. R. Redclift & G. Woodgate (Eds.), The International Handbook of Environmental Sociology (pp. 91-105). Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Fabinyi, M., Foale, S., & Macintyre, M. (2015). Managing Inequality or Managing Stocks? An Ethnographic Perspective on the Governance of Small-Scale Fisheries. Fish and Fisheries, 16(3), 471-485. doi:doi:10.1111/faf.12069 FAO. (2015). Voluntary Guidelines for Securing Sustainable Small-Scale Fisheries in the Context of Food Security and Poverty Eradication. Retrieved from Rome: FAO. (2016). Contributing to Food Security and Nutrition for All (Fao Ed.). Rome. Feeny, D., Berkes, F., McCay, B. J., & Acheson, J. M. (1990). The Tragedy of the Commons: Twenty-Two Years Later. Human Ecology, 18(1), 1-19. doi:10.1007/bf00889070 Feeny, D., Hanna, S., & McEvoy, A. F. (1996). Questioning the Assumptions of the "Tragedy of the Commons" Model of Fisheries. Land Economics, 72(2), 187-205. doi:10.2307/3146965 Feit, H. A. (1988). Self‑Management and State‑Management: Forms of Knowing and Managing Northern Wildlife. In M. R. Freeman & L. N. Carbyn (Eds.), In Traditional Knowledge and Renewable Resource Management in Northern Regions (pp. 72-91): Edmonton: Boreal Institute for Northern Studies, and International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources. Feit, H. A. (2010). Neoliberal Governance and James Bay Cree Governance: Negotiated Agreements, Oppositional Struggles, and Co-Governance. In M. Blaser, C. Ravi de, & M. Deborah (Eds.), Indigenous Peoples and Autonomy: Insights for a Global Age (pp. 49- 79). Vancouver: UBC Press. Feit, H. A., & Spaeder, J. J. (2005). Co-Management and Indigenous Communities: Barriers and Bridges to Decentralized Resource Management - Introduction. Anthropologica, 47(2), 147.

364

Ferguson, J. (1994). The Anti-Politics Machine : "Development," Depoliticization, and Bureaucratic Power in Lesotho Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Finkbeiner, E. M. (2015). The Role of Diversification in Dynamic Small-Scale Fisheries: Lessons from Baja California Sur, Mexico. Global Environmental Change, 32, 139-152. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2015.03.009 Finkbeiner, E. M., & Basurto, X. (2015). Re-Defining Co-Management to Facilitate Small-Scale Fisheries Reform: An Illustration from Northwest Mexico. Marine Policy, 51, 433-441. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2014.10.010 Finley, C. (2009). The Social Construction of Fishing, 1949. Ecology and Society, 14(1). doi:10.5751/ES-02704-140106 Fisheries, R., & Development, C. (2008). Co-Management: Managing Australia's Fisheries through Partnership and Delegation: Report of the Frdc's National Working Group for the Fisheries Co-Management Initiative - Project No. 2006/068. Retrieved from Deakin West, A.C.T.: Fitzpatrick, J. (1991). Maza: A Legend About Culture and the Sea. Paper presented at the Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference, Kewarra Beach, Cairns, Queensland. Flinders, M. (1814). A Voyage to Terra Australis in the Years 1801, 1802 and 1803. In H.M.S. Investigator (4 vols and atlas). London: G & W Nichol. Folke, C., Carpenter, S., Elmqvist, T., Gunderson, L., HOLLING, C. S., & Walker, B. (2002). Resilience and Sustainable Development: Building Adaptive Capacity in a World of Transformations (Vol. 31): SPIE. Foreign Affairs, D., Trade, & References, C. (2010). The Torres Strait: Bridge and Border. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia. Forsyth, T. (2003). Critical Political Ecology: The Politics of Environmental Science: Routledge. Foucault, M. (1976). Histoire De La Sexualité, Vol. I, La Volonté De Savoir, . Paris: Paris, Gallimard. Foucault, M. (1980). Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972-1977: Pantheon Books. Fraser, E. D. G., Dougill, A. J., Mabee, W. E., Reed, M., & McAlpine, P. (2006). Bottom up and Top Down: Analysis of Participatory Processes for Sustainability Indicator Identification as a Pathway to Community Empowerment and Sustainable Environmental Management. Journal of Environmental Management, 78(2), 114-127. doi:10.1016/j.jenvman.2005.04.009 Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed: Herder and Herder. Fuary, M. (1991). In So Many Words: An Ethnography of Life and Identity on Yam Island, Torres Strait. (PhD), James Cook University of North Queensland, Townsville.

365

Gadgil, M., Berkes, F., & Folke, C. (1993). Indigenous Knowledge for Biodiversity Conservation. Ambio, 22(2/3), 151-156. Gammage, B. (2012). The Biggest Estate on Earth: How Aborigines Made Australia: Allen & Unwin. Ganter, R. J. (1994). The Pearl-Shellers of Torres Strait: Resource Use, Development and Decline, 1860s-1960s. Carlton: Melbourne University Press. Garnier, H. (2004). Environment and Economy in the Torres Strait. In P. Kauffman (Ed.), Water and Fishing : Aboriginal Rights in Australia and Canada (pp. 59-62). Woden A.C.T: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission. Gibson-Graham, J. K. (1996). The End of Capitalism (as We Knew It): A Feminist Critique of Political Economy: University of Minnesota Press. Gibson-Graham, J. K. (2006). A Postcapitalist Politics: University of Minnesota Press. Gibson-Graham, J. K. (2008). Diverse Economies: Performative Practices for `Other Worlds'. Progress in Human Geography, 32(5), 613-632. doi:10.1177/0309132508090821 Gladstone, W., & Dight, I. J. (1994). Torres Strait Baseline Study. Marine Pollution Bulletin, 29(1), 121-125. doi:10.1016/0025-326X(94)90435-9 Goetze, T. C. (2005). Empowered Co-Management: Towards Power-Sharing and Indigenous Rights in Clayoquot Sound, Bc. Anthropologica, 47(2), 247. Gordon, H. S. (1954). The Economic Theory of a Common-Property Resource: The Fishery. Journal of Political Economy, 62(2), 124-142. Gow, D. D. (1997). Can the Subaltern Plan? Ethnicity and Development in Cauca, Colombia. Urban Anthropology and Studies of Cultural Systems and World Economic Development, 26(3/4), 243-292. doi:10.2307/40553327 Graham, T. (Writer). (1989). Land Bilong Islanders: Murray Island Law. In. Grayson, J., Marsh, H., & Hamann, M. (2006). Information to Assist Torres Strait Islanders Manage Their Traditional Fisheries for Dugongs and Green Turtles Retrieved from Greenberg, J., & Park, T. K. (1994). Political Ecology. Journal of Political Ecology, 1(1), 1-12. Grey, A. (2007). Offshore Native Title: Currents in Sea Claims Jurisprudence. Australian Indigenous Law Review, 11(2), 55-71. Griffin, J. (1976). Torres Strait Border Issue: Consolidation, Conflict or Compromise? Paper presented at the Torres Strait Border Issue: Consolidation, Conflict or Compromise?, Townsville.

366

Gruby, R. L., & Basurto, X. (2014). Multi-Level Governance for Large Marine Commons: Politics and Polycentricity in Palau's Protected Area Network. Interrogating The Commons, 36, 48-60. doi:10.1016/j.envsci.2013.08.001 Haddon, A. C. (1890). The Ethnography of the Western Tribe of Torres Straits. The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 19, 297-440. Haddon, A. C. (1901). Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits: [Cambridge] University Press. Haddon, A. C. (Ed.) (1904). Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits: Sociology, Magic and Religion of the Western Islanders (Vol. 5). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haddon, A. C. (Ed.) (1912). Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Strait: Arts and Crafts (Vol. 4). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haddon, A. C. (Ed.) (1935). Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Strait: General Ethnography (Vol. 1). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haddon, A. C., Rivers, W. H. R., & Wilkin, A. (1908). Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits: Volume 6, Sociology, Magic and Religion of the Eastern Islanders: Cambridge University Press. Haigh, D. (1993, 1993). Torres Strait and Customary Marine Tenure - a Legal Baseline. Paper presented at the Turning the tide: Conference on Indigenous peoples and sea rights. Haigh, D. J. (1999a). 'Fishing War' in the Torres Strait: The Queen V Benjamin Ali Nona and George Agnes Gesa. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 4(22), 20-21. Haigh, D. J. (1999b). "Fishing War" in the Torres Strait. The Queen V. Benjamin Ali Nona and George Agnes Gesa. Case Note, 165-168. Haigh, D. J. (2000). Fishing War in the Torres Straight - Round Three: R V Gesa and Nona; Ex Parte a-G. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 5(2), 17. Haines, A. K. (1986). Background to Management’. Paper presented at the Torres Strait Fisheries Seminar, Canberra. Haines, A. K., Williams, G. C., Coates, D., Australian Fisheries, S., Papua New, G., & Fisheries, D. (1986). Torres Strait Fisheries Seminar, Port Moresby, 11-14 February 1985. Canberra, Australia: Australian Govt. Pub. Service. Hand, T. (2008). Economic Assessment of the Torres Strait Islander Commercial Fishing Sector's Ability to Increase Their Share of the Kaiar and Finfish Fisheries. Retrieved from Hand, T., & Siobhan, D. (2010). Torres Strait Tropical Rock Lobster Fishery – Five Year Business Plan. Retrieved from

367

Hanna, S. (2003). The Economics of Co-Management. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), Fisheries Co-Management Experiences in Latin America and the Caribbean (pp. P51-60 ). Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer Academic. Hanna, S., & Munasinghe, M. (1995). Property Rights and the Environment: Social and Ecological Issues: Beijer International Institute of Ecological Economics and the World Bank. Hardin, G. (1968). The Tragedy of the Commons. Science, 162(3859), 1243-1248. doi:10.1126/science.162.3859.1243 Harvey, D. (2003). The New Imperialism: Oxford University Press, Oxford. Hatfield, S. C., Marino, E., Whyte, K. P., Dello, K. D., & Mote, P. W. (2018). Indian Time: Time, Seasonality, and Culture in Traditional Ecological Knowledge of Climate Change. Ecological Processes, 7(1), 25. Hauge, K. H., Cleeland, B., & Wilson, D. C. (2012). Fisheries Depletion and Collapse. Retrieved from Geneva: http://irgc.org/wpcontent/uploads/2012/04/Fisheries_Depletion_full_case_study_web.pdf Hickey, S., & Mohan, G. (2004). Participation--from Tyranny to Transformation?: Exploring New Approaches to Participation in Development: Zed Books. Hilborn, R. (2007). Defining Success in Fisheries and Conflicts in Objectives. Marine Policy, 31(2), 153-158. doi:10.1016/j.marpol.2006.05.014 Hill, R., Grant, C., George, M., Robinson, C. J., Jackson, S., & Abel, N. (2012). A Typology of Indigenous Engagement in Australian Environmental Management: Implications for Knowledge Integration and Social-Ecological System Sustainability. Ecology and Society, 17(1). doi:10.5751/ES-04587-170123 Holling, C. S. (1978). Adaptive Environmental Assessment and Management. Holling, C. S., & Goldberg, M. (1971). Ecology and Planning (Vol. 37). Houde, N. (2007). The Six Faces of Traditional Ecological Knowledge: Challenges and Opportunities for Canadian Co-Management Arrangements. Ecology and Society, 12(2), 17. doi:34 House of Representatives. Standing Committee on, A., & Torres Strait Islander, A. (1997). Torres Strait Islanders : A New Deal : A Report on Greater Autonomy for Torres Strait Islanders. Canberra: The Committee. Howard-Wagner, D. (2012). Beyond Closing the Gap and Neoliberal Models of Success and Well-Being. Paper presented at the Annual Conference of the Australian Sociological Association Australia. Howard-Wagner, D. (2018). Governance of Indigenous Policy in the Neo-Liberal Age: Indigenous Disadvantage and the Intersecting of Paternalism and Neo-Liberalism as a

368

Racial Project. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 41(7), 1332-1351. doi:10.1080/01419870.2017.1287415 Howitt, R., Havnen, O., & Veland, S. (2012). Natural and Unnatural Disasters: Responding with Respect for Indigenous Rights and Knowledges. Geographical Research, 50(1), 47-59. Howitt, R., & Suchet-Pearson, S. (2006). Rethinking the Building Blocks: Ontological Pluralism and the Idea of 'Management'. Geografiska annaler. Series B, human geography, 88(3), 323-335. Huitema, D., Mostert, E., Egas, W., Moellenkamp, S., Pahl-Wostl, C., & Yalcin, R. (2009). Adaptive Water Governance: Assessing the Institutional Prescriptions of Adaptive (Co- )Management from a Governance Perspective and Defining a Research Agenda. Ecology and Society, 14(1). doi:10.5751/ES-02827-140126 Hunt, J., Altman, J., & May, K. (2009). Social Benefits of Aboriginal Engagement in Natural Resource Management. Hunt, S. (2014). Ontologies of Indigeneity: The Politics of Embodying a Concept. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 27-32. doi:10.1177/1474474013500226 Huntington, H. P. (2000). Using Traditional Ecological Knowledge in Science: Methods and Applications. Ecological Applications, 10(5), 1270. doi:10.2307/2641282 Hutton, T., van Putten, E. I., Pascoe, S. D., Deng, R. A., Plagányi, É. E., & Dennis, D. (2016). Trade-Offs in Transitions between Indigenous and Commercial Fishing Sectors: The Torres Strait Tropical Rock Lobster Fishery. Fisheries Management and Ecology, 23(6), 463-477. doi:10.1111/fme.12186 Hviding, E. (1996). Guardians of Marovo Lagoon : Practice, Place, and Politics in Maritime Melanesia Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press. Independent Allocation Advisory Panel. (2006). Advice on Appropriate Basis for the Allocation of Fishing Concessions in the Non-Community Commercial Sector of the Torres Strait Rock Lobster: Fishery Final Report to the Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority. Retrieved from Irwin, A. (1995). Citizen Science: A Study of People, Expertise and Sustainable Development: Routledge. Isherwood, M., Pollock, M., Eden, K., & Jackson, S. (2005). Land and Sea Management Strategy for Torres Strait. Retrieved from Island Coordinating Council. (1991). Principles and Objectives for the Future of the Torres Strait, . Retrieved from Thursday Island, Queensland: Jack, R. L. (1921). Northmost Australia; Three Centuries of Exploration, Discovery, and Adventure in and around the Cape York Peninsula, Queensland, with a Study of the Narratives of All Explorers by Sea and Land in the Light of Modern Charting, Many

369

Original or Hitherto Unpublished Documents, Thirty-Nine Illustrations, and Sixteen Specially Prepared Maps: London : Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd. Jackson, S., & Altman, J. (2009). Indigenous Rights and Water Policy: Perspectives from Tropical Northern Australia. Australian Indigenous Law Review, 13(1), 27-48. Jackson, S. E. (1995). The Water Is Not Empty: Cross‐Cultural Issues in Conceptualising Sea Space. Australian Geographer, 26(1), 87-96. doi:10.1080/00049189508703133 Jentoft, S. (2003). Introduction: Co-Management — the Way Forward. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), The Fisheries Co-Management Experience: Accomplishments, Challenges and Prospects (pp. 1-14). Dordrecht: Springer Netherlands. Jentoft, S. (2004). Institutions in Fisheries: What They Are, What They Do, and How They Change. Marine Policy, 28(2), 137-149. doi:10.1016/S0308-597X(03)00085-X Jentoft, S. (2005). Fisheries Co-Management as Empowerment. Marine Policy, 29(1), 1–7. doi:10.1016/j.marpol.2004.01.003 Jentoft, S. (2006). Beyond Fisheries Management: The Phronetic Dimension. Marine Policy, 30, 671-680. Jentoft, S. (2007). In the Power of Power. The Understated Aspect of Fisheries and Coastal Management. Human Organization, 66. doi:10.17730/humo.66.4.a836621h2k5x46m2 Jentoft, S. (2014). Walking the Talk: Implementing the International Voluntary Guidelines for Securing Sustainable Small-Scale Fisheries. Maritime Studies, 13(1), 16. doi:10.1186/s40152-014-0016-3 Jentoft, S., Bavinck, M., Johnson, D., & Thomson, K. (2009). Fisheries Co-Management and Legal Pluralism: How an Analytical Problem Becomes an Institutional One. Human Organization, 68(1), 27-38. doi:10.17730/humo.68.1.h87q04245t63094r Jentoft, S., Chuenpagdee, R., Franz, N., & Barragán-Paladines, M. J. (2017). Implementing the Voluntary Guidelines for Securing Small-Scale Fisheries. In S. Jentoft, R. Chuenpagdee, M. J. Barragán-Paladines, & N. Franz (Eds.), The Small-Scale Fisheries Guidelines: Global Implementation (pp. 3-13). Cham: Springer International Publishing. Jentoft, S., & McCay, B. J. (2003). The Place of Civil Society in Fisheries Management. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), The Fisheries Co-Management Experience: Accomplishments, Challenges and Prospects (pp. 293-307). Dordrecht: Springer Netherlands. Johannes, R. E. (1981). Words of the Lagoon : Fishing and Marine Lore in the Palau District of Micronesia / R. E. Johannes. Berkeley: University of California Press. Johannes, R. E., Freeman, M. M. R., & Hamilton, R. J. (2000). Ignore Fishers’ Knowledge and Miss the Boat. Fish and Fisheries, 1(3), 257-271. doi:doi:10.1111/j.1467- 2979.2000.00019.x 370

Johannes, R. E., & MacFarlane, J. W. (1991). Traditional Fishing in the Torres Strait Islands: CSIRO Division of Fisheries, Marine Laboratories. Johannes, R. E., & Macfarlane, W. (1990). Torres Strait Traditional Fisheries Studies: Some Implications for Sustainable Development. Paper presented at the Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference, Cairns. Johnson, D. (2018). The Values of Small-Scale Fisheries. In D. Johnson, T. G. Acott, N. Stacey, & J. Urquhart (Eds.), Social Wellbeing and the Values of Small-Scale Fisheries (pp. 1- 21): Springer International Publishing AG. Johnson, D., Acott, T. G., Stacey, N. & Urquhart, J. (Eds.), Social Wellbeing and the Values of Small-Scale Fisheries. Springer International Publishing AG. Jordan, K., Bulloch, H., & Buchanan, G. (2010). Statistical Equality and Cultural Difference in Indigenous Wellbeing Frameworks: A New Expression of an Enduring Debate. Australian Journal of Social Issues, 45(3), 333-362. doi:10.1002/j.1839- 4655.2010.tb00183.x Jukes, J. B. (1847). Narrative of the Surveying Voyage of H. M. S. Fly: Commanded by Captain F. P. Blackwood, R.N., in Torres Strait, New Guinea, and Other Islands of the Eastern Archipelago, During the Year 1842-1846: Together with an Excursion into the Interior of the Eastern Part of Java. London: T. & W. Boone. Jull, P. (1994). International Connections. Paper presented at the Surviving Columbus: The Indigenous Environment Today and Tomorrow, Kormilda College, Darwin. Jull, P. (1997). The Political Future of the Torres Strait. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 4(7). Kahui, V., & Richards, A. C. (2014). Lessons from Resource Management by Indigenous Maori in New Zealand: Governing the Ecosystems as a Commons. Ecological Economics, 102, 1-7. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecolecon.2014.03.006 Kaye, S. B. (1994). The Torres Strait Treaty : A Decade in Perspective. International journal of marine and coastal law. -, 93, 311-336. Kaye, S. B. (1995). Australia's Maritime Boundaries. Wollongong, N.S.W.: Centre for Maritime Policy, University of Wollongong. Kaye, S. B. (1997). The Torres Strait: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Kaye, S. B. (2001). Jurisdictional Patchwork: Law of the Sea and Native Title Issues in the Torres Strait. Melbourne Journal of International Law, 2, 381-413. Kaye, S. B. (2004). Torres Strait Native Title Sea Claim Legal Issues Paper. Perth: Research Unit, National Native Title Tribunal. Kehoe-Forutan, S. J. (2004). Turning Secession into Self-Governance in the Torres Strait. Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History, 174-189.

371

Kerins, S. P. (2010). A Thousand Years of Whaling: A Faroese Common Property Regime: University of Alberta Press. Kesby, M. (2005). Retheorizing Empowerment‐through‐Participation as a Performance in Space: Beyond Tyranny to Transformation. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 30(4), 2037-2065. doi:10.1086/428422 Kothari, U. (2001). Power, Knowledge and Social Control in Participatory Development. In B. Cooke & U. Kothari (Eds.), Participation: The New Tyranny? (pp. 139-152). New York: Zed Book. Kukutai, T., & Walter, M. (2015). Recognition and Indigenizing Official Statistics: Reflections from Aotearoa New Zealand and Australia. Statistical Journal of the IAOS, 31(2), 317- 326. doi:10.3233/sji-150896 Kurien, J., & Willmann, R. (2009). Special Considerations for Small-Scale Fisheries Management in Developing Countries. In K. L. Cochrane & S. M. Garcia (Eds.), A Fishery Manager’s Guidebook. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Kurlansky, M. (2008). The Last Fish Tale: The Fate of the Atlantic and Survival in Gloucester, America's Oldest Fishing Port and Most Original Town: Ballantine Books. Kwame, A. (2017). Reflexivity and the Insider/Outsider Discourse in Indigenous Research: My Personal Experiences. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 13(4), 218-225. doi:10.1177/1177180117729851 Kwan, D., Marsh, H., & Delean, S. (2006). Factors Influencing the Sustainability of Customary Dugong Hunting by a Remote Indigenous Community. Environmental Conservation, 33(2), 164-171. Kwaymullina, A. (2016). Research, Ethics and Indigenous Peoples: An Australian Indigenous Perspective on Three Threshold Considerations for Respectful Engagement. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 12(4), 437-449. doi:10.20507/AlterNative.2016.12.4.8 Laade, W. (1971). Oral Traditions and Written Documents on the History and Ethnography of the Northern Torres Strait Islands, Saibai, Dauan, Boigu: F. Steiner. Labrecque, M. F. (2000). L'anthropologie Du Développement Au Temps De La Mondialisation. Anthropologie et Sociétés, 24(1), 57-78. doi:https://doi.org/10.7202/015636ar LaDuke, W. (1994). Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Environmental Futures. Colorado Journal of International Environmental Law and Policy, 5(1), 127-148. Lahn, J. (2003). Past Visions, Present Lives: Sociality and Locality in a Torres Strait Community. (PhD), James Cook University, Townsville. Lahn, J. (2006). Women's Gift-Fish and Sociality in the Torres Strait, Australia. Oceania, 76(3), 297-309.

372

Lalancette, A. (2017). Creeping In? Neoliberalism, Indigenous Realities and Tropical Rock Lobster (Kaiar) Management in Torres Strait, Australia. Neoliberalism and global small- scale fisheries, 80, 47-59. doi:10.1016/j.marpol.2016.02.020 Langdon, S. J. (2015). Foregone Harvests and Neoliberal Policies: Creating Opportunities for Rural, Small-Scale, Community-Based Fisheries in Southern Alaskan Coastal Villages. Marine Policy, 61, 347-355. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2015.03.007 Langton, M. (1996). What Do We Mean by Wilderness?: Wilderness and Terra Nullius in Australian Art [Address to the Sydney Institute on 12 October 1995.]. Sydney Papers, The, 8(1), 10-31. Langton, M. (1999). Estate of Mind: The Growing Cooperation between Indigenous and Mainstream Managers of North Australia Landscapes and the Challenge for Educators and Researchers. In P. Havenman (Ed.), Indigenous Peoples' Rights in Australia (pp. 71- 87). Canada and New Zealand. Auckland: Oxford University Press. Langton, M., & Rhea, Z. M. (2005). Traditional Indigenous Biodiversity-Related Knowledge. Australian Academic & Research Libraries, 36(2), 45-69. doi:10.1080/00048623.2005.10721248 Larcombe, J., & Begg, G. (2008). Fishery Status Reports 2007: Status of Fish Stocks Managed by the Australian Government. Retrieved from Canberra: Latour, B. (1987). Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society: Harvard University Press. Latour, B. (1997). Nous N'avons Jamais Été Modernes. Paris: La Découverte. Lawrence, D. (1991). The Subsistence Economy of the Kiwai-Speaking People of the Southwest Coast of Papua New Guinea. Paper presented at the Sustainable development for traditional inhabitants of the Torres Strait region : proceedings of the Torres Strait Baseline Study Conference, Kewarra Beach, Cairns, Queensland. Lawrence, D. (1994). Customary Exchange across Torres Strait (Vol. 34). Lawrence, D. (1998). Customary Exchange in the Torres Strait. Australian Aboriginal Studies (Canberra)(2), 13-25. Lawrence, D. (2004). Shared Space: Papuan Perspectives of the Torres Strait. Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History, 190-207. Lawrence, D. (2010). Gunnar Landtman in Papua : 1910 to 1912. Canberra, A.C.T.: ANU E Press. Lawrence, D., & Lawrence, H. R. (2004). Torres Strait: The Region and Its People. In R. Davis (Ed.), Woven Histories, Dancing Lives. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press.

373

Lawrence, D., & McGrath, V. (1994). Torres Strait Baseline Study. Paper presented at the Surviving Columbus: indigenous Peoples, Political Reform and Environmental Management in North Australia, Kormilda College, Darwin. Lawrie, M. (1970). Myths and Legends of Torres Strait. St. Lucia, Queensland: University of Queensland Press. Lawrie, M. (1972). Tales from Torres Strait: University of Queensland Press. Lawrie, M. (1983). Do You Remember? Edward Mosby ('Yankee Ned'). Torres Strait Islander, 2(83), 4-6. Leff, E. (1999). Comments on Escobar a, after Nature: Steps to an Antiessentialist Political Ecology. Current Anthropology, 40(1), 20-21. doi:10.1086/515799 Leff, E. (2015). The Power-Full Distribution of Knowledge in Political Ecology. In The Routledge Handbook of Political Ecology: Routledge. Leff, E. (2017). Power-Knowledge Relations in the Field of Political Ecology. Ambiente & Sociedade, XX(3), p. 225-256 Lévi-Strauss, C. (1962). La Pensée Sauvage: [Paris] : Plon. Li, T. M. (2007a). Governmentality. Anthropologica, 49(2), 275-281. Li, T. M. (2007b). The Will to Improve. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Loban, F. (2007). Ngalpun Adhabath a Goeygayil Bangal (Our Sea, Our Future): An Examination of Torres Strait Protected Zone Joint Authority Principles and Torres Strait Islander Needs and Aspirations for the Torres Strait Fisheries from a Torres Strait Islander Perspective. (Master thesis), James Cook University, Loban, H. (2002). Reflections on a Treaty from a Torres Strait Islander Lawyer. Loban, H., Ciccotosto, S., Chaiechi, T., Pryce, J., & Hamilton, J. (2012). Torres Strait Fisheries in a Global Context. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 8(2), 20-23. Loban, H., Ciccotosto, S., Pryce, J., & Chaiechi, T. (2016). Indigenous People and Research Collaboration: A Journey across Cultural and Disciplinary Bounds. eTropic: electronic journal of studies in the tropics, 13(1), 16-24. doi:10.25120/etropic.13.1.2014.3320 Lui-Chivizhe, L. (1996). Cultural Identity and Development in the Torres Strait Islands. Lui-Chivizhe, L. (2011). Making History: Torres Strait Islander Railway Workers and the 1968 Mt Newman Track-Laying Record. Aboriginal History Journal, 35. doi:10.22459/AH.35.2011.02 Lui, G. (1994a). Background to Torres Strait Regional Government. In P. Jull, M. Mulrennan, M. Sullivan, G. Crough, & D. Le (Eds.), Surviving Columbus: Indigenous Peoples,

374

Political Reform and Environmental Management in North Australia (pp. 71-72). Darwin: North Australia Research Unit, Australian National University. Lui, G. J. (1994b). A Torres Strait Perspective. In M. Yunupingu, D. West, I. Anderson, J. Bell, G. J. Lui, H. Corbett, & N. Pearson (Eds.), Voices from the Land: 1993 Boyer Lectures (pp. 62-75). Sydney: ABC Books. MacGillivray, J. (1852). Narrative of the Voyage of H.M.S. Rattlesnake, Commanded by the Late Captain Owen Stanley, R.N., F.R.S. Etc. During the Years 1846-1850 (Vol. 2). London: T. & W. Boone. Mackay, J., Queensland. Royal Commission Appointed to Inquire into the Working of the, P.-s., & Beche-de-mer, I. (1908). Report of the Royal Commission Appointed to Inquire into the Working of the Pearl-Shell and Beche-De-Mer Industries, Together with the Minutes of Proceedings, Minutes of Evidence Taken before the Commission, and Appendices: Brisbane : Anthony J. Cumming, Acting Government Printer. Mansfield, B. (2004). Neoliberalism in the Oceans: “Rationalization,” Property Rights, and the Commons Question. Geoforum, 35(3), 313-326. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2003.05.002 Mapstone, B., Jones, A., & Begg, G. (2003). A Review of Reef Line Fishing in the Eastern Torres Strait. Retrieved from Townsville: Marsh, H., Grayson, J., Grech, A., Hagihara, R., & Sobtzick, S. (2015). Re-Evaluation of the Sustainability of a Marine Mammal Harvest by Indigenous People Using Several Lines of Evidence. Biological Conservation, 192, 324-330. doi:10.1016/j.biocon.2015.10.007 Marsh, H., Harris, A. N. M., & Lawler, I. R. (1997). The Sustainability of the Indigenous Dugong Fishery in Torres Strait, Australia Papua New Guinea. Conservation Biology, 11(6), 1375-1386. Marsh, H., Lawler, I. R., Kwan, D., Delean, S., Pollock, K., & Alldredge, M. (2004). Aerial Surveys and the Potential Biological Removal Technique Indicate That the Torres Strait Dugong Fishery Is Unsustainable. Animal Conservation, 7, 435-443. doi:10.1017/s1367943004001635 Marshall, V. (2017). Overturning Aqua Nullius: Securing Aboriginal Water Rights. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press Martínez-Alier, J. (2002). The Environmentalism of the Poor: A Study of Ecological Conflicts and Valuation: Edward Elgar Publishing, Incorporated. Martínez, J. (2011). Indigenous Australian-Indonesian Intermarriage: Negotiating Citizenship Rights in Twentieth-Century Australia. Aboriginal History Journal, 35. doi:10.22459/AH.35.2011.09 Marychurch, J. M., & Stoianoff, N. P. (2006, 2006). Blurring the Lines of Environmental Responsibility: How Corporate and Public Governance Was Circumvented in the Ok

375

Tedi Mining Limited Disaster. Paper presented at the 61st Annual ALTA Conference - Legal Knowledge: Learning, Communicating and Doing Lindfield, Australia: Australasian Law Teachers Association (ALTA) Secretariat. Maurstad, A. (2000). To Fish or Not to Fish: Small-Scale Fishing and Changing Regulations of the Cod Fishery in Northern Norway. Human Organization, 59(1), 37-47. Mauss, M. (2002 (1925)). The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies: Taylor & Francis. McAfee, K., & Shapiro, E. N. (2010). Payments for Ecosystem Services in Mexico: Nature, Neoliberalism, Social Movements, and the State. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 100(3), 579-599. doi:10.1080/00045601003794833 McCay, B. J., & Acheson, J. M. (1987). Human Ecology of the Commons. In B. J. McCay & J. M. Acheson (Eds.), The Question of the Commons: The Culture and Ecology of Communal Resources (Vol. 1, pp. 1-34). Tucson: University of Arizona Press. McCay, B. J., & Jentoft, S. (1996). From the Bottom Up: Participatory Issues in Fisheries Management. Society & Natural Resources, 9(3), 237-250. doi:10.1080/08941929609380969 McCormack, F. (2007). Moral Economy and Maori Fisheries. Sites: New Series, 4(1), 45-69. McCormack, F. (2016a). Indigenous Claims: Hearings, Settlements, and Neoliberal Silencing. PoLAR: Political and Legal Anthropology Review, 39(2), 226-243. doi:10.1111/plar.12191 McCormack, F. (2016b). Quota Systems: Repositioning Value in New Zealand, Icelandic and Irish Fisheries. In L. F. Angosto-Ferrández & G. H. Presterudstuen (Eds.), Anthropologies of Value: Cultures of Accumulation across the Global North and South (pp. 175-197): Pluto Press. McCormack, F. (2017a). Disciplining and Incorporating Dissent. In Private Oceans (pp. 20-48): Pluto Press. McCormack, F. (2017b). Sustainability in New Zealand's Quota Management System: A Convenient Story. Marine Policy, 80, 35-46. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2016.06.022 McCreary, T. A., & Milligan, R. A. (2014). Pipelines, Permits, and Protests: Carrier Sekani Encounters with the Enbridge Northern Gateway Project. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 115-129. doi:10.1177/1474474013482807 McGoodwin, J. R. (2006). Integrating Fishers' Knowledge into Fisheries Science and Management: Possibilities, Prospects, and Problems. In C. R. Menzies (Ed.), Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Natural Resource Management (pp. 175-194). Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press.

376

McGoodwin, J. R., Neis, B., & Felt, L. (2000). Integrating Fishery People and Their Knowledge into Fisheries Science and Resource Management. In B. Neis & L. Felt (Eds.), Finding Our Sea Legs. Linking Fishery People and Their Knowledge with Science and Management. (pp. 249-264). St-John's, Newfoundland: ISER books, Memorial University. McGregor, D. (2004). Coming Full Circle: Indigenous Knowledge, Environment, and Our Future. American Indian Quarterly, 28(3/4), 385. McGregor, D. (2005). Traditional Ecological Knowledge: An Anishnabe Woman's Perspective. Atlantis, 29(2), 103-109. McGregor, D. (2014). Traditional Knowledge and Water Governance: The Ethic of Responsibility. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 10(5), 493- 507. doi:10.1177/117718011401000505 McMillen, H., Ticktin, T., & Springer, H. K. (2017). The Future Is Behind Us: Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Resilience over Time on Hawai‘I Island. Regional Environmental Change, 17(2), 579-592. doi:10.1007/s10113-016-1032-1 McNiven, I. J. (1998). Enmity and Amity: Reconsidering Stone-Headed Club (Gabagaba) Procurement and Trade in Torres Strait. Oceania, 69(2), 94-115. McNiven, I. J. (2006). Dauan 4 and the Emergence of Enthographically-Known Social Arrangements across Torres Strait During the Last 600-800 Years [Online]. Australian Archaeology, 62, 1-12. McNiven, I. J. (2008). Inclusions, Exclusions and Transitions: Torres Strait Islander Constructed Landscapes over the Past 4000 Years, Northeast Australia. The Holocene, 18(3), 449- 462. doi:10.1177/0959683607087934 McPhee, D. (2008). Fisheries Management in Australia. Sydney: The Federation Press. McWhinnie, S. (2009). The Tragedy of the Commons in International Fisheries: An Empirical Examination. Journal of Environmental Economics and Management, 57(3), 321-333. Menzies, C. R. (2001). Reflections on Research with, for, and among Indigenous Peoples. Canadian Journal of Native Education, 25(1), 19-36. Menzies, C. R. (2006). Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Natural Resource Management. Lincoln :: University of Nebraska Press. Menzies, C. R. (2016). People of the Saltwater: An Ethnography of Git Lax M'oon: UNP - Nebraska. Menzies, C. R., & Butler, C. F. (2006). Introduction: Understanding Ecological Knowledge. In C. R. Menzies (Ed.), Tradtional Ecological Knowledge and Natural Resource Management (pp. 1-17). Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press.

377

Menzies, C. R., & Butler, C. F. (2007a). Returning to Selective Fishing through Indigenous Fisheries Knowledge: The Example of K'moda, Gitxaała Territory. American Indian Quarterly, 31(3), 441-464. Menzies, C. R., & Butler, C. F. (2007b). Returning to Selective Fishing through Indigenous Fisheries Knowledge: The Example of K'moda, Gitxaala Territory (Vol. 31). Mercer, J., Dominey-Howes, D., Kelman, I., & Lloyd, K. (2007). The Potential for Combining Indigenous and Western Knowledge in Reducing Vulnerability to Environmental Hazards in Small Island Developing States. Environmental Hazards, 7(4), 245-256. Mfodwo, K., & Tsamenyi, M. (1993). The Regulation of Traditional Fishing under the Torres Strait Treaty. In Turning the Tide: Conference on Indigenous Peoples and Sea Rights, 14- 16 July 1993 (pp. 229-252). Darwin: Faculty of Law, Northern Territory University Minnegal, M., & Dwyer, P. (2011). Appropriating Fish, Appropriating Fishermen: Tradable Permits, Natural Resources and Uncertainty. In V. Strang & M. Busse (Eds.), Ownership and Appropriation: Association of Social Anthropologists Monographs: Berg. Moore, D. R. (1972). Cape York Aborigines and Islanders of the Western Torres Strait. In D. Walker (Ed.), Bridge and Barrier: The Natural and Cultural History of Torres Strait (pp. 327-344). Canberra: Australian National University. Moore, D. R. (1979). Islanders and Aborigines at Cape York. Canberra; [Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies ; Humanities Press. Morphy, F. (2008). Enacting Sovereignty in a Colonized Space: The Yolngu of Blue Mud Bay Meet the Native Title Process. In: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. Morphy, F., & Morphy, H. (2013). Anthropological Theory and Government Policy in Australia's Northern Territory: The Hegemony of the “Mainstream”. American Anthropologist, 115(2), 174-187. doi:10.1111/aman.12002 Mosse, D. (1994). Authority, Gender and Knowledge: Theoretical Reflections on the Practice of Participatory Rural Appraisal. Development and Change, 25(3), 497-526. doi:10.1111/j.1467-7660.1994.tb00524.x Mosse, D. (2001). 'People's Knowledge', Participation and Patronage: Operations and Representations in Rural Development. In B. Cooke & U. Kothari (Eds.), Participation: The New Tyranny? (pp. 16-35). London ; New York: Zed Books. Mosse, D. (2003). The Rule of Water: Statecraft, Ecology, and Collective Action in South India. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mullins, S. (1992). Torres Straits Pre-Colonial Population: The Historical Evidence Reconsidered. Queensland Archaeological Research, 9. Mullins, S. (1995). Torres Strait : A History of Colonial Occupation and Culture Contact 1864- 1897. Rockhampton, Qld: Central Queensland University Press.

378

Mullins, S. (1997). Internal Colonialism, Communalism, Institutionalised Racism, Progressive Reform, Clash of Administrative Cultures, or All of the Above: Motivations for Social Control in Torres Strait, 1897-1911. The Electronic Journal of Australian and New Zealand History. Mulrennan, M. (2007). Sustaining a Small-Boat Fishery: Recent Developments and Future Prospects for Torres Strait Islanders, Northern Australia. In N. Haggan, B. Neis, & I. Baird (Eds.), Fishers' Knowledge in Fisheries Science and Management (pp. 183-198). Paris: UNESCO Publishing. Mulrennan, M. E. (1993). Towards a Marine Strategy for Torres Strait: Masts: Australian National University, North Australia Research Unit. Mulrennan, M. E. (1994). The Evolution and Control of Resource Management in the Torres Strait, Australia. Paper presented at the Participating in Water Resource Development: Experiences of Indigenous Peoples, Montreal. Mulrennan, M. E. (2002). Indigenous Participation in Fisheries Management in Torres Strait, Northern Australia. MIGS Workshop. Retrieved from http://migs.concordia.ca/documents/Mulrennan.pdf mulrennan, M. E. (2003). Who’s Listening? Islander Knowledge in Fisheries Management in Torres Strait, Northern Australia. Paper presented at the Putting Fishers’ Knowledge to Work: Conference Proceedings. Mulrennan, M. E. (2013). Indigenous Knowledge in Marine and Coastal Policy and Management. Ocean Yearbook Online, 27(1), 89-119. doi:10.1163/22116001-90000156 Mulrennan, M. E., & Hanssen, N. (1994). Marine Strategy for Torres Strait: Policy Directions: Australian National University North Australia Research Unit; Torres Strait Island Coordinating Council.

Mulrennan, M. E., & McGrath, V. (1994). A Marine Strategy for Torres Strait. Paper presented at the Surviving Columbus: Indigenous Peoples, Political Reform and Environmental Management in North Australia, Darwin. Mulrennan, M. E., & Scott, C. H. (2000). Mare Nullius: Indigenous Rights in Saltwater Environments. Development and Change, 31(3), 681-708. doi:doi:10.1111/1467- 7660.00172 Mulrennan, M. E., & Scott, C. H. (2001). Indigenous Rights and Control of the Sea in the Torres Strait. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 5(5), 11. Mulrennan, M. E., & Scott, C. H. (2005). Co-Management - an Attainable Partnership? Two Cases from James Bay, Northern Quebec and Torres Strait, Northern Queensland. Anthropologica, 47(2), 197. Muñoz-Erickson, T. A., Aguilar-González, B., Loeser, M. R. R., & Sisk, T. D. (2010). A Framework to Evaluate Ecological and Social Outcomes of Collaborative Management:

379

Lessons from Implementation with a Northern Arizona Collaborative Group. Environmental Management, 45(1), 132-144. Nadasdy, P. (1999). The Politics of Tek: Power and the "Integration" of Knowledge. Arctic Anthropology, 36(1-2), 1-18. Nadasdy, P. (2003a). Hunters and Bureaucrats: Power, Knowledge, and Aboriginal-State Relations in the Southwest Yukon: University of British Columbia Press. Nadasdy, P. (2003b). Reevaluating the Co-Management Success Story. Artic, 56(4), 367-380. Nadasdy, P. (2005a). The Anti-Politics of Tek: The Institutionalization of Co-Management Discourse and Practice [Traditional Ecological Knowledge]. Anthropologica, 47(2), 215. Nadasdy, P. (2005b). Transcending the Debate over the Ecologically Noble Indian: Indigenous Peoples and Environmentalism. Ethnohistory, 52(2), 291-330. Nadasdy, P. (2007). Adaptive Co-Management and the Gospel of Resilience. In D. Armitage, F. Berkes, & N. Doubleday (Eds.), Adaptive Co-Management: Collaboration, Learning, and Multi-Level Governance (pp. 208-227). Vancouver: UBC Press. Nadasdy, P. (2017). Imposing Territoriality: First Nation Land Claims and the Transformation of Human-Environment Relations in the Yukon. In S. Bocking & B. Martin (Eds.), Ice Blink: Navigating Northern Environmental History (1 ed.). Calgary: University of Calgary Press. Nakata, M. (1997). The Cultural Interface: An Exploration of the Intersection of Western Knowledge Systems and Torres Strait Islanders Positions and Experiences. (PhD), James Cook University, Townsville. Nakata, M. (2003). Indigenous Knowledge and the Cultural Interface: Underlying Issues at the Intersection of Knowledge and Information Systems. In A. Hickling-Hudson, J. Mathews, & A. Woods (Eds.), Disrupting Preconceptions: Postcolonialism and Education: Post Pressed Flaxton. Nakata, M. (2004). Commonsense, Colonialism and Government. In R. Davis (Ed.), Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islanders Identity, Culture and History (pp. 154- 173). Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Nakata, M. (2007). Disciplining the Savages: Savaging the Disciplines. Canberra, A.C.T.: Aboriginal Studies Press. Nakata, M. (2010). The Cultural Interface of Islander and Scientific Knowledge. Australian Journal of Indigenous Education, The, 39(Supplementary), 53-57. Nakata, M., & Nakata, V. (2009). Report on Torres Strait Fisheries Research Protocols : A Guide for Researchers Retrieved from

380

Nash, W. J. (1985). Aspects of the Biology of Trochus Niloticus and Its Fishery in the Great Barrier Reef Region. Report to Fisheries Research Branch, Queensland Department of Primary Industries, and the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authori, 210. Natcher, D. C., Davis, S., & Hickey, C. G. (2005). Co-Management: Managing Relationships, Not Resources. Human Organization, 64(3), 240-250. Nettheim, G. (2002). Indigenous Peoples and Governance Structures : A Comparative Analysis of Land and Resource Management Rights / Garth Nettheim, Gary D. Meyers, Donna Craig. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. Nietschmann, B. (1985). Torres Strait Islander Sea Resource Management and Sea Rights. In K. Ruddle & R. E. Johannes (Eds.), The Traditional Knowledge and Management of Coastal Systems in Asia and the Pacific (pp. 125-154). Jakarta, Indonesia: Unesco Regional Office for Science and Technology for Southeast Asia. Nietschmann, B. (1989). Traditional Sea Territories, Resources and Rights in Torres Strait. In J. Cordell (Ed.), A Sea of Small Boats: Cultural Survival Report 26. Cambridge, MA: Cultural Survival Inc. Niezen, R. (2003). The Origins of Indigenism: Human Rights and the Politics of Identity: University of California Press. Noah, A. S. (Writer). (2000). Small Island, Big Fight. In N. I. M. A. Film Australia Limited Junjidy's Productions Pty Ltd (Producer). Nona, M., Stephen, J., & Fauid, N. (2015, 2015). Torres Strait Native Title Sea Rights and Malu Lamar. Paper presented at the National Native Title Conference 2015. Notzke, C. (1994). Aboriginal Peoples and Natural Resources in Canada. Concord: Captus University Publications. Notzke, C. (1995). A New Perspective in Aboriginal Natural-Resource Management - Comanagement. Geoforum, 26(2), 187-209. Nygren, A., & Rikoon, S. (2008). Political Ecology Revisited: Integration of Politics and Ecology Does Matter. Society & Natural Resources, 21(9), 767-782. doi:10.1080/08941920801961057 O'Donnell, L. R. (2006). The Torres Strait: A Case Study Analysis in Multi-Level Governance. (Doctor of Philosophy), Griffith University, Brisbane. O'Malley, A. H., & Veltmeyer, H. (2006). Banking on Poverty in Latin America: Assessing the World Bank's “War on Poverty”. Canadian Journal of Development Studies / Revue canadienne d'études du développement, 27(3), 287-307. doi:10.1080/02255189.2006.9669149

381

O’neill Calls for Review of Torres Strait Border Arrangements. (2015). PNG Attitude. https://asopa.typepad.com/asopa_people/2015/07/oneill-calls-for-review-of-torres-strait- border-arrangements.html O'Rourke, D. (1988). Report of the Interdepartmental Committee on the Torres Strait Islands. Retrieved from Canberra: Ojha, H. R. (2006). Techno-Bureaucratic Doxa and Challenges for Deliberative Governance: The Case of Community Forestry Policy and Practice in Nepal. Policy and Society, 25(2), 131-175. doi:10.1016/S1449-4035(06)70077-7 Orbach, A. (2011). Rethinking Participation, Rethinking Power: Reflections on Local Autonomy. Canadian Journal of Development Studies / Revue canadienne d'études du développement, 32(2), 196-209. doi:10.1080/02255189.2011.596033 Osborne, E. (1997). Torres Strait Islander Women and the Pacific War. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press for Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. Osborne, E. (2009). Throwing Off the Cloak : Reclaiming Self-Reliance in Torres Strait. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Ostrom, E. (1990). Governing the Commons: The Evolution of Institutions for Collective Action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ostrom, E. (1999). Coping with Tragedies of the Commons. Annual Review of Political Science, 2(1), 493-535. doi:10.1146/annurev.polisci.2.1.493 Ostrom, E. (2002a). Ostrom, Elinor. Ambiente & Sociedade, Campinas Jan./June 2002(10), 1- 22. Ostrom, E. (2002b). Reformulating the Commons. (10), 22. Ostrom, E., & Schlager, E. (1996). The Formation of Property Rights. In S. Hanna, C. Folke, & M. Karl-Goran (Eds.), Rights to Nature: Ecological, Economic, Cultural, and Political Principles of Institutions for the Environment (pp. 127-156). Washington, DC: Island Press. Pascoe, B. (2014). Dark Emu: Black Seeds : Agriculture or Accident? : Magabala Books. Pascoe, S., Hutton, T., van Putten, I., Dennis, D., Plaganyi-Lloyd, E., & Deng, R. (2013). Implications of Quota Reallocation in the Torres Strait Tropical Rock Lobster Fishery. Canadian Journal of Agricultural Economics/Revue canadienne d'agroeconomie, 61(2), 335-352. doi:10.1111/cjag.12004 Passi, D., & Sharp, N. (2001). Meriam Sea Rights and the Resonance of Tradition: Why We Meriam People Want Sea Rights and Echoes of the Sea and the Resonance of Tradition. Paper presented at the 'The power of knowledge, the resonance of tradition', Canberra.

382

Pearce, T., Ford, J., Willox, A. C., & Smit, B. (2015). Inuit Traditional Ecological Knowledge (Tek), Subsistence Hunting and Adaptation to Climate Change in the Canadian Arctic. Arctic, 68(2), 233-245. Pearson, N. (2000). Our Right to Take Responsibility: Noel Pearson and Associates. Peel, G. (1947). Isles of the Torres Straits: An Australian Responsibility. Sydney. Peet, R., & Watts, M. (1996). Liberation Ecologies: Environment, Development, Social Movements: Routledge. Peluso, N. L. (1993). Coercing Conservation?: The Politics of State Resource Control. Global Environmental Change, 3(2), 199-217. doi:10.1016/0959-3780(93)90006-7 Penderis, S. P. (2012). Theorizing Participation: From Tyranny to Emancipation. Journal of African & Asian local government studies, 3(1), 1-28. Peterson, N., & Rigsby, B. (Eds.). (1998). Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. [Sydney, N.S.W.] :: Oceania Publications, University of Sydney. Philp, J. (2004). 'Embryonic Science': The 1888 Torres Strait Photographic Collection of A.C. Haddon. In R. Davis (Ed.), Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History (pp. 90). Pieraccini, M., & Cardwell, E. (2016). Towards Deliberative and Pragmatic Co-Management: A Comparison between Inshore Fisheries Authorities in England and Scotland. Environmental Politics, 25(4), 729-748. doi:10.1080/09644016.2015.1090372 Pinkerton, E. (1989). Co-Operative Management of Local Fisheries : New Directions for Improved Management and Community Development. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Pinkerton, E. (2003). Toward Specificity in Complexity. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), The Fisheries Co-Management Experience: Accomplishments, Challenges and Prospects (pp. 61-77). Dordrecht: Springer Netherlands. Pinkerton, E. (2015). The Role of Moral Economy in Two British Columbia Fisheries: Confronting Neoliberal Policies. Marine Policy, 61, 410-419. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2015.04.009 Pinkerton, E. (2017). Hegemony and Resistance: Disturbing Patterns and Hopeful Signs in the Impact of Neoliberal Policies on Small-Scale Fisheries around the World. Marine Policy, 80, 1-9. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2016.11.012 Pinkerton, E., & Davis, R. (2015). Neoliberalism and the Politics of Enclosure in North American Small-Scale Fisheries. Marine Policy, 61, 303-312. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2015.03.025 Pitcher, R. C. (2013). Environmental Sustainability Assessment Update for Habitats, Assemblages and Bycatch Species in the Torres Strait Prawn Fishery. Scientific

383

Technical Report. Retrieved from Australia.: https://www.afma.gov.au/sites/default/files/uploads/2014/11/Pitcher-Torres-Strait-trawl- sustainability-assessment-update-Final.pdf Plummer, R., & Armitage, D. (2007a). Charting the New Territory of Adaptive Co-Management: A Delphi Study. Ecology and Society, 12(2). doi:10.5751/ES-02091-120210 Plummer, R., & Armitage, D. (2007b). A Resilience-Based Framework for Evaluating Adaptive Co-Management: Linking Ecology, Economics and Society in a Complex World. Ecological Economics, 61(1), 62-74. doi:10.1016/j.ecolecon.2006.09.025 Poiner, I., & Harris, A. (1991). The Fisheries of Yorke Island. In R. E. Johannes & J. W. MacFarlane (Eds.), Traditional Fishing in the Torres Strait Islands (pp. 115-143). Hobart: CSIRO Division of Fisheries. Poirier, S. (2000). Contemporanéités Autochtones, Territoires Et (Post)Colonialisme: Réflexions Sur Des Exemples Canadiens Et Australiens. Anthropologie et Sociétés, 24(1), 137-153. Poirier, S. (2013). The Dynamic Reproduction of Hunter-Gatherers' Ontologies and Values. In J. Boddy & M. Lambek (Eds.), A Companion to the Anthropology of Religion (pp. 50-68): Wiley-Blackwell. Pomeroy, R. S. (2001). Devolution and Fisheries Co-Management. In A. Knox, R. Meinzen- Dick, & M. Di Gregorio (Eds.), Collective Action, Property Rights, and Devolution of Natural Resource Management: Exchange of Knowledge and Implications for Policy (pp. 108-145). Feldafing, Germany. Pomeroy, R. S., & Berkes, F. (1997). Two to Tango: The Role of Government in Fisheries Co- Management. Marine Policy, 21, 465-480. Pomeroy, R. S., Cinner, J. E., & Nielsen, J. R. (2011). Conditions for Successful Co- Management: Lessons Learned in Asia, Africa, the Pacific and the Wider Caribbean. In R. S. Pomeroy & N. L. Andrew (Eds.), Small-Scale Fisheries Management: Frameworks and Approaches for the Developing World (pp. 115-131). Wallingford: CABI. Pomeroy, R. S., & Viswanathan, K. K. (2003). Experiences with Fisheries Co-Management in Southeast Asia and Bangladesh. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), The Fisheries Co-Management Experience: Accomplishments, Challenges and Prospects (pp. 99-117). Dordrecht: Springer Netherlands. Porter, L. (2006). Planning in (Post)Colonial Settings: Challenges for Theory and Practice. Planning Theory & Practice, 7(4), 383-396. doi:10.1080/14649350600984709 Povinelli, E. A. (2001). Radical Worlds: The Anthropology of Incommensurability and Inconceivability. Annual Review of Anthropology, 30, 319-334. Pratt, M. L. (1992). Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation: Routledge. Prescott, J. R. V. (2014). Political Frontiers and Boundaries (Routledge Library Editions: Political Geography): Taylor & Francis. 384

PZJA. (2008). Pzja Fisheries Management Paper No. 1. Protected Zone Joint Authority. Raffles, H. (2002a). Intimate Knowledge. International Social Science Journal, 54(173), 325- 335. Raffles, H. (2002b). Intimate Knowledge International Social Science Journal, 54(173), 325- 335. Raven-Hart, R. (1949). The Happy Isles. Melbourne: Georgian House. Reo, N. J. (2011). The Importance of Belief Systems in Traditional Ecological Knowledge Initiatives. The International Indigenous Policy Journal, 2(4). doi:10.18584/iipj.2011.2.4.8 Reo, N. J., & Whyte, K. P. (2012). Hunting and Morality as Elements of Traditional Ecological Knowledge. Human Ecology, 40(1), 15-27. Reo, N. J., Whyte, K. P., McGregor, D., Smith, M. A., & Jenkins, J. F. (2017). Factors That Support Indigenous Involvement in Multi-Actor Environmental Stewardship. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 13(2), 58-68. doi:10.1177/1177180117701028 Robbins, P. (2004). Political Ecology : A Critical Introduction. Malden, Mass: Blackwell Publishing. Rockloff, S. F., & Lockie, S. (2006). Democratization of Coastal Zone Decision Making for Indigenous Australians: Insights from Stakeholder Analysis. Coastal Management, 34(3), 251-266. doi:10.1080/08920750600686653 Rodon, T. (1998). Co‐Management and Self‐Determination in Nunavut. Polar Geography, 22(2), 119-135. doi:10.1080/10889379809377641 Ross, A., Pickering Sherman, K., Snodgrass, J., Delcore, H., & Sherman, R. (2011). Indigenous Peoples and the Collaborative Stewardship of Nature: Knowledge Binds and Institutional Conflicts. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Rowe, C. (2007). Vegetation Change Following Mid-Holocene Marine Transgression of the Torres Strait Shelf: A Record from the Island of Mua, Northern Australia. The Holocene, 17(7), 927-937. doi:10.1177/0959683607082409 Rutherford, S. (2007). Green Governmentality: Insights and Opportunities in the Study of Nature's Rule. Progress in Human Geography, 31(3), pp. 291–307. https://doi.org/10.1177/0309132507077080 Ryan, K. W., & White, M. W. D. (1976). The Torres Strait Treaty. Australian Year Book of International Law (87). Said, A. (2017). Are the Small-Scale Fisheries Guidelines Sufficient to Halt the Fisheries Decline in Malta? In S. Jentoft, R. Chuenpagdee, M. J. Barragán-Paladines, & N. Franz

385

(Eds.), The Small-Scale Fisheries Guidelines: Global Implementation (pp. 213-235): Springer International Publishing. Sanders, W. (1994). Reshaping Governance in Torres Strait: The Torres Strait Regional Authority and Beyond, Caepr Discussion Papers Series 94: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Sanders, W., & Arthur, W. S. (2001). Autonomy Rights in Torres Strait: From Whom, for Whom, for or over What? Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. SBS News (Producer). (2013). Joh Revered over Torres Strait Border Dispute. Retrieved from https://www.sbs.com.au/news/joh-revered-over-torres-strait-border-dispute Schug, D. M. (1995). The Marine Realm and a Sense of Place among the Papua New Guinean Communities of the Torres Strait. (PhD), University of Hawai'i, Schulz, K. A. (2017). Decolonizing Political Ecology: Ontology, Technology and 'Critical' Enchantment. Journal of Political Ecology, 24(1), 125-143. Scoones, I. (1999). New Ecology and Social Sciences: What Prospects for a Fruitful Engagement? Annual Review of Anthropology, 28, 479-507. Scott, A. (1955). The Fishery: The Objectives of Sole Ownership. Journal of Political Economy, 63(2), 116-124. Scott, C. H. (2004). 'Our Feet Are on the Land, but Our Hands Are in the Sea': Knowing and Caring for Marine Territory at Erub, Torres Strait. In R. Davis (Ed.), Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History (pp. 259-272). Scott, C. H. (2006). Spirit and Practical Knowledge in the Person of the Bear among Wemindji Cree Hunters. Ethnos, 71(1), 51-66. doi:10.1080/00141840600603178. Scott, C. H. (2011). Science for the West, Myth for the Rest? In S. G. Harding (Ed.), The Postcolonial Science and Technology Studies Reader (pp. 175-196): Duke University Press. Scott, C. H., & Mulrennan, M. E. (1999). Land and Sea Tenure at Erub, Torres Strait: Property, Sovereignty and the Adjudication of Cultural Continuity. Oceania, 70(2), 146 -176. Scott, C. H., & Mulrennan, M. E. (2010). Reconfiguring Mare Nullius: Torres Strait Islanders, Indigenous Sea Rights and the Divergence of Domestic and International Norms. In M. Blaser, R. de Costa, D. McGregor, & W. D. Coleman (Eds.), Indigenous Peoples and Autonomy: Insights for a Global Age (pp. 148-176). Vancouver: UBC Press. Sharp, N. (1981). Homelands and the Law: The Torres Strait Example: The Present Context. Arena, 58, 16-23. Sharp, N. (1982). Culture Clash in the Torres Strait Island : The Maritime Strike of 1936. Journal of the Royal Historical Society of Queensland, 11(3), 107-126.

386

Sharp, N. (1993). Stars of Tagai: The Torres Strait Islanders: Aboriginal Studies Press. Sharp, N. (1996). No Ordinary Judgment : Mabo, the Murray Islanders' Land Case / Nonie Sharp. Canberra, ACT: Aboriginal Studies Press. Sharp, N. (1998). Reimagining Sea Space: From Grotius to Mabo. In N. Peterson & B. Rigsby (Eds.), Customary Marine Tenure in Australia (pp. 79-109). Sydney: Oceania Publications, University of Sydney. Sharp, N. (2002). Saltwater People : The Waves of Memory Crows Nest, N.S.W. Shnukal, A. (2000). Kulkalgal 'Roads': Central Torres Strait Islander Response to Contact 1870- 1920. (Bachelor of Arts with Honours Degree Honours thesis), University of Queensland, Shnukal, A. (2001). Torres Strait Islanders. In M. Brandle (Ed.), Multilcutlural Queensland 2001: 100 Years, 100 Communities, a Century of Contributions. Brisbane: The State of Queensland (Department of Premier and Cabinet). Shnukal, A. (2004a). Language Diversity, Pan-Islander Identity and ‘National’ Identity in Torres Strait. In R. Davis (Ed.), Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islanders Identity, Culture and History. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Shnukal, A. (2004b). The Post-Contact Created Environment in the Torres Strait Central Islands. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum Cultural Heritage Series, 3(1), 317-346. Sillitoe, P. (1998). The Development of Indigenous Knowledge: A New Applied Anthropology. Current Anthropology, 39(2), 223-252. doi:10.1086/204722 Sillitoe, P. (2000). Social Change in Melanesia : Development and History. Cambridge ; New York: Cambridge University Press. Sinclair, S. (1960). License Limitation - British Columbia : A Method of Economic Fisheries Management. Ottawa: Department of Fisheries. Singe, J. (1989 (1979)). The Torres Strait : People and History ([2nd ed.). St. Lucia, Qld.: University of Queensland Press. Singleton, S. (1998). Constructing Cooperation : The Evolution of Institutions of Comanagement. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Skewes, T., Murphy, N., McLeod, I., Dovers, E., Burridge, C., & Rochester, W. (2010). Torres Strait Hand Collectables, 2009 Survey: Sea Cucumber. Retrieved from Cleveland. http://www.cmar.csiro.au/datacentre/torres/AFMA2013/Reports/r14249c.pdf Smith, C., & Dodson, M. (2010, 2010). Report on Indigenous Fishing Rights in the Seas with Case Studies from Australia and Norway. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples: Zed Books.

387

Smith, T. D. (1994). Scaling Fisheries: The Science of Measuring the Effects of Fishing, 1855– 1955 (Vol. 31, Issue 179). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smyth, D. (1993). A Voice in All Places : Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Interests in Australia's Coastal Zone. Canberra: Coastal Zone Inquiry, Resource Assessment Commission. Smyth, D. (1994). The Resource Assessment Commission's Coastal Zone Inquiry (Rac). In P. Jull, M. E. Mulrennan, M. Sullivan, G. Crough, & D. Lea (Eds.), Surviving Columbus : Indigenous Peoples, Political Reform and Environmental Management in North Australia (pp. 64-70). Casuarina: North Australia Research Unit, Australian National University. Spaeder, J. J. (2005). Co-Management in a Landscape of Resistance: The Political Ecology of Wildlife Management in Western Alaska. Anthropologica, 47(2), 165. Spak, S. (2001). Canadian Resource Co-Management Boards and Their Relationship to Indigenous Knowledge, Two Case Studies. (Doctor of Philosophy), University of Toronto, Totonto. Retrieved from http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/obj/s4/f2/dsk3/ftp04/NQ63584.pdf Spak, S. (2005). The Position of Indigenous Knowledge in Canadian Co-Management Organizations. Anthropologica, 47(2), 233. St. Martin, K. (2001). Making Space for Community Resource Management in Fisheries. St. Martin, K., McCay, B. J., Murray, G. D., Johnson, T. R., & Oles, B. (2007). Communities, Knowledge and Fisheries of the Future. International Journal of Global Environmental Issues, 7(2/3), 221-239. Standing Committee on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Affairs. (2009). Community Stores in Remote Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Communities. In. Masig: House of Representative. Stevenson, M. G. (2006). The Possibility of Difference: Rethinking Co-Management. Human Organization, 65(2), 167-180. Strang, V. (2009). Gardening the World: Agency, Identity and the Ownership of Water. New York: Berghahn. Strang, V. (2011). Fluid Forms: Owning Water in Australia. In V. Strang & M. Busse (Eds.), Ownership and Appropriation (Vol. 47, pp. 171-196). Oxford and New York: Berg Publishers. Strelein, L. (2004). Australia's Oceans Policy and Native Title. In P. Kauffman (Ed.), Water and Fishing: Aboriginal Rights in Australia and Canada (pp. 101-133). Woden, ACT: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission. Sumaila, U. R. (2010). A Cautionary Note on Individual Transferable Quotas. Ecology and Society, 15(3). doi:10.5751/ES-03391-150336

388

Taylor, S., Prescott, J. & Kung, J. (eds.) (2004). A Guide to Management Arrangements for Torres Strait Fisheries. Australian Fisheries Management Authority, Canberra.

Terrill, L. (2015). Converting Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Land in Queensland into Ordinary Freehold. Sydney Law Review, 37(4). Teske, T. (1991). Central Islands: Coconut-Warraber-Yorke, Island of Torres Strait. Retrieved from Thom, B. (2017). Ancestral Territories for the 21st Century. In F. Dussart & S. Poirier (Eds.), Entangled Territorialities: Negotiating Indigenous Lands in Australia and Canada (pp. 140-162.). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Thomassin, A. (2016). Hybrid Economies as Life Projects? An Example from the Torres Strait. In W. Sanders (Ed.), Engaging Indigenous Economy: Debating Diverse Approaches, . Canberra: ANU Press. Thomassin, A., Neale, T., & Weir, J. K. (2018). The Natural Hazard Sector's Engagement with Indigenous Peoples: A Critical Review of Canzus Countries. Geographical Research, 0(0). doi:doi:10.1111/1745-5871.12314 Torres Strait Islanders Act of 1939 (3 Geo Vi, No 7). Torres Strait Treaty. (1985). Trimble, M., & Berkes, F. (2013). Participatory Research Towards Co-Management: Lessons from Artisanal Fisheries in Coastal Uruguay. Journal of Environmental Management, 128, 768-778. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jenvman.2013.06.032 Trimble, M., & Berkes, F. (2015). Towards Adaptive Co-Management of Small-Scale Fisheries in Uruguay and Brazil: Lessons from Using Ostrom’s Design Principles. Maritime Studies, 14(1), 14. doi:10.1186/s40152-015-0032-y TSRA. (1994). Corporate Plan 1994-95. Retrieved from Thursday Island: UNCED. (1992). Agenda 21 - Chapter 17. Retrieved from http://www.un.org/Depts/los/consultative_process/documents/A21-Ch17.htm Usher, P., J. (2000). Traditional Ecological Knowledge in Environmental Assessment and Management. Arctic, 53(2), 183-193. doi:10.14430/arctic849 Van Putten, I., Deng, R., Dennis, D., Hutton, T., Pascoe, S., Plagányi, E., & Skewes, T. (2013). The Quandary of Quota Management in the Torres Strait Rock Lobster Fishery. Fisheries Management and Ecology, 20(4), 326-337. doi:10.1111/fme.12015 van Putten, I., Lalancette, A., Bayliss, P., Dennis, D., Hutton, T., Norman-López, A., . . . Skewes, T. (2013). A Bayesian Model of Factors Influencing Indigenous Participation in the Torres Strait Tropical Rocklobster Fishery. Social and cultural impacts of marine fisheries, 37, 96-105. doi:10.1016/j.marpol.2012.04.001

389

Vandergeest, P., & Peluso, N. L. (1995). Territorialization and State Power in Thailand. Theory and Society, 24(3), 385-426. Vanderwal, R. (2004). Early Historical Sources for the Top Western Islands in the Western Torres Strait Exchange Network. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum Cultural Heritage Series, 3(1), 257-270. Vaughan, M. B. (2012). Holoholo I Ka La'i O Makua, Collaborative Community Care and Management of Coastal Resources [Electronic Resource] : Creating State Law Based on Customary Rules to Manage a near Shore Fishery in Hawai'i. (PhD), Stanford University, Verelst, B. (2013). Managing Inequality: The Political Ecology of a Small-Scale Fishery, Mweru-Luapula, Zambia. Journal of Political Ecology, 20(1), 14-36. doi:10.2458/v20i1.21744 Vivieros de Castro, E. (2004). Perspectival Anthropology and the Method of Controlled Equivocation. Tipití: Journal of the Society for the Anthropology of Lowland South America, 2(1). von der Porten, S., & de Loë, R. C. (2013). Collaborative Approaches to Governance for Water and Indigenous Peoples: A Case Study from British Columbia, Canada. Geoforum, 50, 149-160. doi:https://doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2013.09.001 von der Porten, S., & de Loë, R. C. (2014). How Collaborative Approaches to Environmental Problem Solving View Indigenous Peoples: A Systematic Review. Society & Natural Resources, 27(10), 1040-1056. doi:10.1080/08941920.2014.918232 Ward, G. K., & Muckle, A. (2001). The Power of Knowledge, the Resonance of Tradition. Paper presented at the AIATSIS Indigenous Studies conference, AIATSIS, Canberra. Watene, K., & Yap, M. (2015). Culture and Sustainable Development: Indigenous Contributions. Journal of Global Ethics, 11(1), 51-55. doi:10.1080/17449626.2015.1010099 Waylen, K. A., Fischer, A., McGowan, P. J. K., & Milner-Gulland, E. J. (2013). Deconstructing Community for Conservation: Why Simple Assumptions Are Not Sufficient. Human Ecology, 41(4), 575-585. doi:10.1007/s10745-013-9594-8 WCED. (1987). Our Common Future. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Weir, J. K. (2009). Murray River Country: An Ecological Dialogue with Traditional Owners: Aboriginal Studies Press. Weir, J. K. (2012). Country, Native Title and Ecology: ANU E Press. Welch-Devine, M. (2012). Searching for Success: Defining Success in Co-Management. Human Organization, 71(4), 358-370. doi:10.17730/humo.71.4.y048347510304870 Wenzel, G. W. (1999). Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Inuit: Reflections on Tek Research and Ethics. Arctic, 52(2), 113-124.

390

Wetherell, D. (2004). The Bishop of Carpentaria and the Torres Strait Pearlers' Strike of 1936. The Journal of Pacific History, 39(2), 185-202. Whaley, L., & Weatherhead, E. K. (2014). An Integrated Approach to Analyzing (Adaptive) Comanagement Using the “Politicized” Iad Framework. Ecology and Society, 19(1). doi:10.5751/ES-06177-190110 Whap, G. (2001). A Torres Strait Islander Perspective on the Concept of Indigenous Knowledge. The Australian Journal of Indigenous Education, 29(2), 22-29. Whyte, K. P. (2013). On the Role of Traditional Ecological Knowledge as a Collaborative Concept: A Philosophical Study. Ecological Processes, 2(1), 7. doi:10.1186/2192-1709- 2-7 Williams, A. J., Little, L. R., & Begg, G. A. (2011). Balancing Indigenous and Non-Indigenous Commercial Objectives in a Coral Reef Finfish Fishery. ICES Journal of Marine Science, 68(5), 834-847. doi:10.1093/icesjms/fsr034 Willmann, R., Franz, N., Fuentevilla, C., McInerney, T., & Westlund, L. (2017). The Human Rights-Based Approach to Securing Small-Scale Fisheries: A Quest for Development as Freedom. In S. Jentoft, R. Chuenpagdee, M. J. Barragán-Paladines, & N. Franz (Eds.), The Small-Scale Fisheries Guidelines: Global Implementation (pp. 15-34): Springer International Publishing. Wilson, D., Curtotti, R., Begg, G., & Phillips, K. (2009). Fishery Status Reports 2008: Status of Fish Stocks and Fisheries Managed by the Australian Government. Retrieved from Canberra: Wilson, D., Curtotti, R., & Begg, G. A. (2010). Fishery Status Reports 2009: Status of Fish Stocks and Fisheries Managed by the Australian Government. Retrieved from Canberra: Wilson, D. C. (2003). Fisheries Co-Management and the Knowledge Base for Management Decisions. In D. C. Wilson, J. R. Nielsen, & P. Degnbol (Eds.), The Fisheries Co- Management Experience: Accomplishments, Challenges and Prospects (pp. 265-279): Springer. Wolf, E. R. (1990, 1990). Distinguished Lecture: Facing Power - Old Insights, New Questions. Paper presented at the Distinguished Lecture at the 88th annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association, November 19, 1989. Wright, D., & Jacobsen, G. (2013). Further Radiocarbon Dates from Dabangay, a Mid- to Late Holocene Settlement Site in Western Torres Strait. Australian Archaeology, 76(1), 79-83. doi:10.1080/03122417.2013.11681968 Yap, M. (2017). In Pursuit of Culturally Relevant Indicators of Indigenous Wellbeing. Australian National University, Canberra. Ye, Y., & Dennis, D. (2009). Assessing the Impacts of Trawling Breeding Lobsters (Panulirus Ornatus) on the Catch of the Torres Strait Lobster Fishery Shared between Australia and

391

Papua New Guinea. New Zealand Journal of Marine and Freshwater Research, 43(1), 419 - 428. Youdelis, M. (2016). “They Could Take You out for Coffee and Call It Consultation!”: The Colonial Antipolitics of Indigenous Consultation in Jasper National Park. Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space, 48(7), 1374-1392. doi:10.1177/0308518X16640530 Young, E. (1994). Foraging the Bureaucracy: Issues in Land Management and Aboriginal Development. In P. Jull, M. E. Mulrennan, M. Sullivan, G. Crough, & D. Lea (Eds.), Surviving Columbus : Indigenous Peoples, Political Reform and Environmental Management in North Australia (pp. 97-106). Casuarina: North Australia Research Unit, Australian National University.

392

Annex 1

General questionaire

Are you a Masig Islander?

If yes, have you always lived on the island? If no, where have you been living?

If no, where are you from? How long have you been living on Masig? What brought you on Masig?

Fishing activities

For approximately how many years have you been fishing? For food? Commercially?

How did you learn to fish? Who taught you to fish?

With whom do you usually fish when you go fishing for the household?

With whom do you usually fish when you go fishing commercially?

What is your relationship with the people you fish with? (family, friends?)

How many members of your family are involved in commercial fisheries related activities?

Were you fishermen from generation to generation in your family?

If you are involved in one of the commercial fisheries (kayar, kabar, mackerel, witi, beche-de-mer or else), which category correspond to your situation:

 Full-time fisherman (main income from fishing, no CDEP):  Part-time fisherman (on weekends and weeks off CDEP):  Occasional (going out when an extra income is desired):

393

If you are not working as a full-time fisherman, what is your main occupation?

If you would have the choice to be a full-time fisherman or to have a full time job on the island, what would you prefer and why?

Would you work on bigger fishing boats, on a trawler for example, if you had the chance?

Have you worked on a trawler, pearling lugger or other bigger fishing vessels?

How many days per week or month (approximately) are you out fishing commercially?

Which species are you targeting?

Why these species in particular, what influence your choice to go out for these species?

For which fisheries do you hold a license for?

 Kayar  Kabar  Beche-de-Mer  Prawn  Finfish (Mackerel, coral trout, etc.)  Others (please specify) : ______

If you’ve indicated that you hold a license for kayar, can you indicate if you go for:  Tails  Live  Both

Can you give me a description of a typical day of work?

What percentage (estimation) of your catches is sold in the market?

What percentage (estimation) of your income comes from fishing/diving related activities?

What determines the amount of fish/Kayar/Kabar you catch in a day/week? ( In other words what stop you or encourage you to go out fishing: ex. Main job, CDEP, weather, availability and cost of fuel, season, other)

How do you get to know the buying price for the different species you are selling? Who are you selling your catches to?

Do your fishing activities change with the seasons? How? Why?

394

Do you fish for yourself, or do you work for someone else? If you work for someone else, who do you work for? Why do you work for someone else?

Do you own a dinghy?  Yes  No

Have you always used the same kinds of fishing methods?

Have you always caught the same species?

Where do you get your fishing/diving equipment from?

If needed, are there loans available to you in order to equip yourself?  Yes  No

If yes, who or which organization/institution would provide the loan?

Do you own a shed on the island?  Yes  No

Land and sea territories

Where are you going fishing?

[This info regarding precision on location will remain confidential. This question will serve only to delimited the exploitation zone worked by the Masigagal]

What influence your choice of one location over another?

Time of the year?

Species targeted?

Family area?

Do you use the home reef for commercial fishing?

When you go camping on these islands (Mimi, layok, Igab, etc) is it mostly for commercial fishing purposes?

395

Do you have a shed or house on one of these islands?

How many days do you normally stay over and what determines the length of your stay?

State of the fisheries and fisheries management

Have fishing conditions changed over the past 15 years?

If yes, can you describe these changes?

In your views, what are the causes of these changes?

Do you think the state for the species you are catching is getting better or getting worse over the past 15 years? Why?

How has your income from the fisheries changed within the past 15 years?

If you could change something to improve the fisheries what would you do?

Do you belong or have belonged to any fishermen or other association on or off the island?

In your view, is there a need for a fishers’ association/corporation for Masig?

If yes, in your opinion, what should be the role of this fishers association? How such a fishers association should support the local fishers?

Do you go to the fisheries meetings?

If yes, why are you attending these meetings?

Do you feel that it is possible for you to express your thoughts and concerns during these meetings?

If not, are not attending the meetings?

Have you attended fisheries meetings before?

What happened that made you stayed away from these?

What would make you come back to them?

In your views, what are the main issues that should be discussed or issues of concerns about the management and/or development of fisheries? (for example, improvement of the selling and buying power to get a better price for the catches; development of aquaculture projects; improvement of the communication with the authorities; protection of the marine environment, etc.) 396

How would you like to be informed about the development regarding fisheries issues (verbally during meetings? In person? Is there enough support offered to you so you can fully understand the management issues, the current state of the fisheries?

Up to now, do you consider your knowledge and concerns as being taken seriously by government managers and scientists?

Do you take part directly in decision making about fisheries management? If yes, how?

Do you ever work with scientists? Have you ever worked with scientists? How?

How would you describe the quality of your relationship with scientists?

Do you think your work or the work of your representatives with the government has contributed to the improvement of the fisheries in general? If yes, how? If not, why?

Once again mina big esso for your time!!!

Any further comments: (Use the back of the page if needed)

397