BIPOC communities, from the Arctic to Oakland, face systemic economic and social marginalization, denying them basic needs like food security, healthcare, housing, and education. Inspired by movements like the Black Panthers and ancestral Indigenous knowledge, young leaders are advancing food sovereignty, economic equity, and cultural revival.

This conversation features two such leaders making tangible differences in their communities.

Deenaalee Hodgdon, a queer Deg Xit’an Dene and Sugpiaq person from the villages of Gitr’ingithchagg (Anvik) and Qinuyang (South Naknek) in Alaska, is the executive director of On the Land Media, which elevates Indigenous voices. With experience in commercial fishing, guiding in Denali National Park, and interning at the Wilson Center’s Polar Institute, Deenaalee works with the Arctic Athabaskan Council and co-directs the Smokehouse Collective, promoting sustainable salmon fisheries and just economies in the Arctic region.

ab banks is an urban farmer and garden lead for People’s Programs at UC Berkeley, supporting food autonomy and wellness for the East Bay Black community. They founded a free community health clinic in Oakland and coordinate agroecology and wellness at the Berkeley Food Institute. Previously, ab was a Just Leader Fellow with the Cooperative Food Empowerment Directive.

Following is an edited transcript of their conversation with Arty Mangan, Director of the Restorative Food Systems program at Bioneers.

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ab banks, PEOPLE’S PROGRAMS: I’d like to start with a brief introduction to People’s Programs. We’re a new African socialist organization based in West Oakland. Our food sovereignty program collaborates with Oxford Tract at UC Berkeley. Oxford Tract is an acre of land, and People’s Programs stewards half of that. We distribute produce from this land, in partnership with other produce partners, to 150 families every other Friday.

We also operate a clinic, which complements our program that provides fresh and hot meals to the shelterless and houseless people in West Oakland. We distribute between 300 and 600 meals every other Sunday, along with basic healthcare services and hygiene packs.

Additionally, we run a political education program. This program engages people on the issues we face today, guided by dialectical materialism. We focus on data and addressing material needs rather than being abstract or esoteric. We are what we call “road runners,” meaning we are grounded and actively work on the ground to make tangible changes for the people.

We also support agroecology and Indigenous technologies. We aim to uplift local food systems and promote culturally relevant foods. We believe that losing access to traditional foods is a significant loss, and we are dedicated to bringing those foods back by uplifting Indigenous technologies.

I want to highlight the importance of staying connected to the land. It’s not just about what’s on us but what’s in us.

DEENAALEE HODGDON, ON THE LAND MEDIA: I feel fortunate to learn about your work. Numerous food projects are happening across Turtle Island and the world, and it’s crucial to visualize and share these efforts. It would be incredible to see this kind of work spread everywhere.

Bristol Bay is a beautiful area, and my family was displaced from what’s now Katmai National Park to South Naknek after the Novarupta eruption in 1912. Our displacement continues due to industry and colonization.

Reflecting on your work, ab, it’s interesting to consider that Alaska settled its land claims in 1971, which is relatively recent. When colonizers reached Alaska, they realized they couldn’t use a reservation system like in the lower 48 states. Instead, they created Native corporations, turning Native people into entrepreneurs to facilitate American capitalism, especially in a resource-rich area like Alaska.

What’s inspiring about Oakland and Berkeley is the long history of resistance and the valuable lessons we can learn from the food systems and community power developed here.

The organization I co-founded with Ruth Miller is the Smokehouse Collective. We’re working on creating traditional food hubs and contemporary fish camps to support communities facing scarcity due to overharvesting, poor river management, and bycatch. We aim to foster relationships across communities, strengthen traditional trade routes, and revitalize our cultural practices.

We’re exploring how to trade and exchange without relying on a cash economy, reconnecting with our relationship to salmon.

ARTY MANGAN, BIONEERS: I wanted to explore the theme of this conversation, “Combining Traditional and Radical Visions.” A few years ago, I had the privilege of attending a Bioneers retreat in Northern New Mexico led by Marlowe Sam and Jeannette Armstrong. They introduced us to a traditional Okanagan First Nations process called Four Societies.

The Four Societies are vision, tradition, relationship, and action. Action and relationship form one axis, while tradition and vision form another. In a healthy society, these elements are in harmony. However, there can often be dynamic tension or even antagonism between them. For instance, visionaries focus on the horizon and want to progress quickly, sometimes overlooking the current landscape. Traditionalists, on the other hand, emphasize the established way and may advocate for a slower, more considered approach. When these perspectives harmonize, the results can be very effective. When they clash, conflicts can arise.

I’d like to ask, ab and Deenaalee, how radical vision is informed by tradition.

ab: When I think about tradition, I consider a group of new Africans, a community of Black people, who are actively building their own traditions. I reflect on Deenaalee’s work and how it connects to this ongoing process.

Our work is not created in isolation — history matters, but it’s also something new. I think about religion, language, and culture, and how we’re currently building a culture. Tradition, for me, involves leaning on elders who, due to cultural loss, might not have many generations to draw from. This makes intergenerational longevity and cultural continuity crucial.

I also want to emphasize that I embrace conflict. Conflict often gets a bad reputation, but without it, there would be no innovation or renewal. Conflict arises from unmet needs on both sides; finding a middle ground can lead to a new iteration of what both parties envision. I believe that a world without conflict means that some needs are not being addressed.

While these conversations can seem complex, to me, they are simple: everyone should bring their needs and visions to the table and work toward a middle ground. It won’t be easy, but we’re prepared for the challenge.

From my perspective, I’m not a traditionalist because I am constantly searching for tradition. I’m always reading and trying to understand what Black traditions mean in this context. The search for answers can be elusive — no one has a complete answer.

My focus is often on the future, but more importantly, on the present. The intersection of traditional and visionary perspectives is in the present. If you’re always thinking about the future, you might feel anxious; if you dwell on the past, it can be disheartening. I invite everyone to meet in the present, to examine our current reality, and to build based on what we see, informed by both traditional and visionary perspectives.

ARTY: I have a follow-up question for both of you. ab, one of your influences is the Black Panthers, who are often seen as a radical organization. Yet, community care was central to their work, which is also a Black tradition. Can you elaborate on that?

ab: Absolutely. When I think about tradition, I often think about the past, which is something many Black people yearn for. The term “tradition” can trigger a search for what our traditions truly are. The Black Panthers, for instance, are a significant influence on us. While we’re inspired by their work, it’s important to note that we’re also building a new tradition. For example, the Panthers had survival programs, while we refer to our initiatives as decolonization programs. Survival programs focused on surviving together, whereas decolonization programs are more action-oriented and aimed at addressing systemic issues.

Reflecting on the Four Societies framework, I see the importance of learning from the Panthers’ work and evolving from it. Their contributions were radical and impactful. I grew up in Oakland and still see the effects of their work today.

Imagine if the CIA and FBI hadn’t infiltrated their organization. We can think about what that might have looked like and honor the Panthers for their contributions. At People’s Programs, we strive to embody their spirit and build upon it, rather than resting solely on their legacy. So, a big shout-out to the Panthers.

ARTY: Deenaalee, for many Indigenous people, tradition is central to their lives. Do you consider your work to be radical?

DEENAALEE: Yes, definitely. Given our current context, I do consider it radical. The Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA) established a system where our land rights are tied to corporations. We’ve become shareholders in entities that often invest in oil and gas, perpetuating the issues that brought us to this point. In contrast, the Smokehouse Collective and On the Land are radical because they challenge us to rethink our economy from a perspective of caring for our land and communities, rather than focusing on financial metrics.

ANCSA has created a class system among Native people in Alaska. While some thrive in a Western context, others face significant challenges. Discussing this can be controversial, but it’s the reality.

The Smokehouse Collective addresses this by emphasizing that our bodies and health are interconnected with the land. It’s about valuing community well-being over financial wealth. Tradition, to me, has lost some of its meaning as language and concepts evolve. In our Indigenous context, tradition might be less about specific practices and more about a way of being.

The Smokehouse Collective envisions creating both traditional and contemporary fish camps. Tradition involves practices like fishing and preserving fish, which bring communities together. In contrast, our contemporary vision recognizes the impact of climate change and the need for new approaches, including growing food in Alaska, which traditionally wasn’t done. As the climate warms and land becomes more desirable, it’s important to explore how we can integrate traditional knowledge with new practices to adapt and thrive.

ARTY: Deenaalee, you mentioned the changing environment in Alaska, with land opening up for farming and fisheries in decline. What does food sovereignty look like in your community?

DEENAALEE: In many ways, it doesn’t look that different from Oakland. There are similarities and differences.

Right now, I’m trying not to separate the two aspects of food sovereignty: agriculture and our traditional practices. Agriculture involves growing, planting seeds, and nourishing the land. Many Indigenous peoples across Turtle Island and the world have learned that these practices are integral to living in harmony with the land.

In an Arctic context, where we are traditionally hunter-gatherers, climate change is creating a pivot point. As we face these changes, food sovereignty becomes about blending our traditional knowledge with new realities. Imagine a traditional gathering space, like a longhouse, where we would discuss what seeds we need to plant to adapt to changing conditions — losing permafrost and thawing tundra.

We also need to remember our old stories, such as those from the Inupiaq people about palm trees once growing in Alaska. How can these stories guide our current efforts?

At the same time, we are advocating for change. I’m moving away from language of fighting and war, and focusing more on finding light amidst the darkness. There is ongoing conflict in Alaska over land access and division among federal and state governments, Alaska Native tribes, corporations, and local governments.

Each community must navigate these complex relationships and determine how to approach agencies like the Federal Subsistence Board and the North Pacific Marine Fisheries Council, which regulate our fishing practices.

Food sovereignty, for me, means transitioning and translating our traditional practices into a future shaped by climate change. It involves grieving the loss of permafrost and boreal forests while advocating for our right to harvest. Ensuring that everyone in our community, from the young to the elderly, has the opportunity to participate in these practices is crucial. Our communities are suffering because we’re losing our traditional harvesting practices.

So, food sovereignty is about a process of transition, grief, and advocacy. We need spaces and conversations to support this work and help each other maintain our practices while facing these challenges.

ab: I want to address that as well. There’s a lot of discussion about how current practices are harming the land. When we talk about “freeing the land,” it’s crucial to understand what that truly means. It involves uplifting Indigenous technologies and traditional planting methods.

For example, my farm is on land that was once a river. Everything we’re doing now doesn’t align with the land’s ecological needs. That’s a constant struggle for me.

In Ohlone land, which should be a forest full of trees, the reality is different. Ideally, farming here would be more about agroforestry — a system that integrates trees and shrubs with crops. Many of us dream of living in a forest and foraging abundantly.

But the reality of my program involves growing food for 150 people who lack access to it, which often conflicts with what the land needs. I grapple daily with this tension between fulfilling immediate needs and respecting the land’s ecological integrity.

At UC Berkeley, where I work, the land was once a river. Knowing this makes me yearn to plant trees there, though I can’t because it’s a research field. It’s a reminder that sometimes traditions exist because they serve a purpose.

As a farmer, I often feel conflicted. I know the land needs trees, but I have to grow potatoes and other crops. We cover crops to improve soil health, but ideally, we wouldn’t need to do this if the land were used more naturally.

I don’t want to frame this as a war, but there’s a strong contradiction between our needs and our practices. Realigning with what the earth needs can lead to greater liberation for us all. The earth speaks through us, urging us to share strategies and understand our ecological position.

If you’re a farmer, I encourage you to learn about the land’s history before you start growing. Discover what plants originally thrived there. Native gardens are great, but it’s important to consider what was growing before the garden was established. I find it amusing that native plants are trendy now. But I wonder — what was there before you planted those native species? If it’s not invasive, it might be what the land naturally wants. I’ve been reflecting a lot on this. It’s serious to me.

So, Deenaalee, even though our worlds seem different, they’re strongly parallel. I really resonate with what you’re saying. My question is, how can I support your work? We just met, but I’m eager to be an ally. Is there anything specific you need from me, especially here on Ohlone land? I’d love to know how I can contribute or learn more.

DEENAALEE: I think you’re already doing something valuable for me and for many of us who are guests on this land. You’re being great hosts. For instance, ab recently asked me how to accommodate me, and I didn’t respond right away. That’s something I’m working on — learning to ask for what I need. It’s important for all of us to learn to ask for help and to be open to receiving it.

We just visited Wahpepah’s Kitchen, which was amazing. If you haven’t been there yet, I highly recommend it. I’m still feeling nourished from the meal. Crystal and a friend from Alaska, Conrad Frank, who couldn’t make it to Bioneers this time, treated our group. This gesture is an example of what it means to be a great host. I’d love to see more of this — more people being excellent hosts and guests, whether it’s through everyday interactions, like having tea, or when visiting places like Alaska. Learning how to engage respectfully with different lands is important.

When I leave here, I want to carry forward this spirit of being a good guest and host. To answer your questions about accommodation and support: I want to be of service by contributing my efforts and dedication to the soil. I’m excited about Smokehouse Collective because it represents a genuine exchange — beyond simple transactions, it’s about a meaningful transfer of energy. I see this happening here, with everyone’s engagement and appreciation for the conversation.

I’d love to ask you, ab, about your favorite ways to build community, invite people in, and spread your love. You mentioned that the earth is using you as a translator and conduit, so how do you bring others into your work?

ab: That’s a great question. To me, there are different levels to bringing people in. We talked earlier about conflict, and I believe that struggling together is one of the highest forms of coming together. It’s about aligning on the same page, even when it’s challenging.

I’ve found that working through difficult conversations — whether they’re about specific words or broader issues — can bring people closer. For example, my family and I often have intense discussions that, while sometimes uncomfortable, strengthen our bonds. It’s a form of conflict that I value.

In addition to having tough conversations, I believe in the importance of breaking bread together. Sharing a meal can be incredibly meaningful. It’s not just about having food; it’s about connecting over a meal, as opposed to just casual finger foods or drinks. It’s about truly sitting down and sharing an experience.

Another way to build community is through working together. I’ve had some of the most profound connections come from physical labor, like digging a trench or shoveling rocks. These shared tasks can forge strong friendships.

So, to sum up: If I challenge you, it means I care. I only engage in conflict with those I trust and respect. In our society, critiques can feel like battles, but they should be seen as gifts. One of my elders once told me that a critique should be wrapped in a gift. So, let’s continue to build community through conversation, shared meals, and collaborative work.