I Am Not Your Noble Savage

A candid photo of some modern Indigenous conservationists, and some of our colleagues

There’s a certain look people sometimes give me when I’m introduced as a Pacific Islander. Sometimes it opens doors.  We talk for five minutes and figure out that our parents know each other or that we're cousins.  Other times they close, like when the National Academy scientist told me I “didn’t look like someone who worked at Pew.”

New friends may search my face for ancient wisdom or a hint of magical powers to commune with fish. It’s well‑intentioned, perhaps, but it reveals something uncomfortable: many people in conservation prefer Indigenous people as symbols rather than as full, complicated human beings. I am an Indigenous scientist, a modern mixed-race Chamorro man, not your noble savage.

Indigenous identity is messy. It is shaped not only by heritage, but by colonization, migration, intermarriage, economics, and politics. Every one of our peoples carries its own story of surviving genocide, slavery, and war. Yet none of that stops outsiders from trying to impose their narratives on us. Not long ago, a mining executive claimed that Chamorros have lost our connection to the ocean simply because most of us are Catholic—an argument as insulting as it is ill‑informed. And in my own life, I’ve been made to feel I’m too white for some things, and not white enough for others, as if authenticity is something that can be measured on a spectrum invented by someone else.

Yet conservation narratives often flatten all that nuance into a single, convenient archetype. The "Indigenous conservationist" becomes a character, a narrative device used to validate campaigns, attract funding, or convey moral authority. I’ve watched organizations invoke Indigenous culture to bless their strategies even when I know those strategies were developed without meaningful Indigenous participation. Our presence gets celebrated, but our perspectives do not. Sing me a song and shut up.

This dynamic grows sharper when conservation groups present Indigenous people as timeless stewards untouched by modern life. That version of us is easier to work with. It avoids the discomfort of acknowledging that Indigenous communities debate development projects, negotiate conflicting priorities, or disagree internally about the future of our lands and waters. Real Indigenous governance is political, sometimes contentious, and irreducibly diverse. But in many conservation campaigns, that complexity is airbrushed out because it complicates messaging or slows down timelines. This creates the facade of partnership without the challenge of actual power‑sharing.

Performative inclusion has become its own genre. Land acknowledgments are delivered by people who have never spoken with the communities they name. Photos of Indigenous elders appear in brochures for projects those elders questioned. “Consultation” is treated as sufficiency, even when it occurs only after decisions have been made. In the worst cases, conservation groups amplify the voices of Indigenous individuals who agree with their strategies while marginalizing those who raise concerns, reinforcing internal divisions they claim to care about healing.

For some weird reason, Native Pacific Islanders get lumped together with Asian Americans instead of Native Americans. I'm not complaining; it's just weird. And it's one those random colonial legacies that affects identity.

Part of the problem is that conservation, both historically and today, is entangled in colonial legacies. The genocidal removal policies of President Andrew Jackson cleared Native nations from their homelands in the 19th century, creating the illusion of untouched wilderness. By the time John Muir arrived, he marveled at landscapes that appeared “pristine” only because their original stewards had already been violently displaced.

Although the field has made progress, the old mindset persists in subtle forms: outsiders deciding what counts as “fully or highly protected”, what uses are acceptable, and which Indigenous stories are worth telling. When conservationists romanticize Indigenous people, they also limit our agency. A people placed on a pedestal is still a people without power.

None of this is meant to diminish the genuine desire of many conservationists to work collaboratively or respectfully. But good intentions do not erase harm. When Indigenous identity is used as a branding tool, Indigenous sovereignty is weakened. When our narratives are simplified for public consumption, our real challenges—access to resources, economic and educational opportunities, cultural continuity, political autonomy—are pushed aside. When “Indigenous knowledge” is cited but Indigenous values and governance are ignored, the result is still extraction disguised as something else.

The noble‑savage trope may appear flattering, but it functions as a silencing mechanism. It rewards Indigenous people for staying in the roles outsiders assign us and punishes us when we assert modernity, nuance, or dissent. It demands that we represent the past while forfeiting our place in the present. It suggests that our value lies not in our humanity but in our usefulness to someone else’s narrative.

I am proud to be a Pacific Islander, but I refuse to be reduced to a symbol. I refuse the expectation that my identity must always align with the priorities of conservation organizations or donors. And I refuse to let romanticization masquerade as respect. Indigenous communities deserve what every community deserves: the right to define our own futures, even when those futures diverge from the stories others want to tell about us.

We can honor Indigenous knowledge without mythologizing Indigenous people. We can support Indigenous-led conservation without demanding Indigenous purity. We can build partnerships based on respect, not performance. And if conservation truly wants to evolve, it will have to let go of the noble savage once and for all.