Drexel’s ‘Botany of Nations’ exhibit reframes colonial botany through Indigenous knowledge, challenging 250th-anniversary narratives

Indigenous botanical knowledge is not a ‘downplayed’ alternative but a foundational system that predates colonial science by millennia, with practices like controlled burns, seed saving, and agroforestry sustaining ecosystems. The exhibit’s emphasis on ‘Tribal Knowledge’ aligns with Indigenous epistemologies where knowledge is relational, place-based, and tied to community survival. Western botany’s reliance on Indigenous expertise—such as the use of willow bark (a precursor to aspirin)—has been systematically erased in institutional narratives.

The Lewis and Clark expedition (1804–1806) was only possible due to the guidance of Indigenous peoples, including Sacagawea, who provided critical botanical and ecological insights. This pattern repeats in other colonial contexts, such as the British East India Company’s reliance on Indian agricultural knowledge for cash crops like indigo. The exhibit’s reframing echoes earlier decolonizing movements, such as the 1970s Native American activism that challenged the erasure of Indigenous contributions to science.

In Andean cultures, the concept of *ayni* (reciprocal labor) underpins agricultural knowledge, contrasting with the extractive model of colonial botany. Similarly, the Aboriginal Australian practice of *fire-stick farming* demonstrates Indigenous land management that Western science only recently acknowledged. These systems highlight how ‘scientific discovery’ is often a repackaging of Indigenous innovation, a phenomenon visible in pharmaceuticals, agriculture, and climate adaptation strategies.

Peer-reviewed studies confirm that Indigenous land management practices, such as controlled burns, enhance biodiversity and carbon sequestration more effectively than industrial forestry. Western botany’s reliance on Indigenous plant taxonomy (e.g., the classification of maize by Indigenous scholars) underscores the interdependence of knowledge systems. The exhibit’s approach aligns with calls from scientists like Robin Wall Kimmerer to integrate Indigenous methodologies into ecological research.

Indigenous botanical knowledge is often encoded in oral traditions, songs, and ceremonies, such as the Māori *karakia* (prayers) for planting or the Navajo *Hózhǫ́* (harmony) in agriculture. The exhibit’s visual and textual framing could draw from these artistic traditions to convey knowledge as sacred and interconnected. Western botanical art, by contrast, often objectifies plants as specimens, reflecting a mechanistic worldview alien to many Indigenous cultures.

Decolonizing botany could lead to more resilient agricultural systems, as seen in projects like the Indigenous-led restoration of *teosinte* (wild maize) in Mexico, which may hold genes for drought resistance. The exhibit’s approach models a shift toward participatory science, where Indigenous communities co-design research agendas. Failure to integrate these perspectives risks accelerating biodiversity loss, as industrial agriculture continues to rely on monocultures that are ecologically unsustainable.

The original headline centers Western scientific authority, erasing the voices of Indigenous curators, artists, and scholars who are reshaping botanical narratives. Drexel’s exhibit, if truly inclusive, would platform Indigenous botanists like Robin Wall Kimmerer or Vandana Shiva, whose work challenges the colonial framing of ‘discovery.’ Marginalized voices in this context include not just Indigenous peoples but also Black and Latinx communities whose agricultural knowledge has been similarly appropriated.