Vol. 23 No. 2 (2024)

This commemorative edition of the Fourth World Journal (FWJ) is dedicated to its founder, chief editor, and prolific contributor of over 40 years, Dr. Rudolph (Rudy) Carl Rÿser, my father. This special issue is the first of two compilations of selected, previously published works from this journal, from 1984 to 2023, alongside an article from the Tulsa Journal of Comparative and International Law, one chapter from the edited volume Tribal Epistemologies: Essays in the Philosophy of Anthropology, and the first chapter of his book in progress at the time of his death. These articles were chosen by a small group of guest editors at the Center for World Indigenous Studies (CWIS), with the intent of honoring his life and work by exploring, in the first issue, the philosophical and theoretical foundations of his written work and, in the second issue, due out in June 2024, the practical application of those ideas to real world challenges.

Rudy imagined the journal as a forum to share, explore, and expand the knowledge in what he and his close friend Dr. Bernard Nietschmann collaboratively and imaginatively termed the “Fourth World”. The “Fourth” is a world to which my father and his colleagues were intimately familiar and belonged. He aimed to create a new framework that allowed us to better understand and apply indigenous ideas and knowledge than that offered by the state-centric paradigm of the 1st, 2nd and 3rd worlds.

The Fourth World Journal began as a humble, dot matrix, soft-cover stapled journal, mailed to tribal leaders and sold in bookstores and coffee shops. Rudy wanted the journal to test the veracity and efficacy of his ideas alongside the experiences of others who during the early years faxed or mailed in their articles from around the world, often reporting about little-known peoples, events, and atrocities. Gaining readership was not an easy task, as many ideas and analyses appeared either ancient or novel at first glance, and even revolutionary (anarchic as one academic asserted) or illegal, to the uninitiated and unfamiliar. Bridging that gap with a clear understanding between reader and writer across cultures and worlds, especially the chasm between the academic and the “bush”—as he would often say, required an exact blend of savvy, tact, patience, and humor. He employed all these skills with great aplomb.

When I was seven, he began assigning me research tasks to complete, calling me his “first intern.” I compiled clippings from Indian Country newspapers on the office floor and puzzled over the magical complexities of the white man tools—Compaq portable computers, word processors, alongside the developing networks of intertribal file sharing. For years, I traveled with him to reservations and sat by his side at the countless strategy meetings and tribal gatherings that defined his work and my childhood. I watched and listened, offering my perspective only if asked.

My childhood home was—like many Indian homes—always open, welcoming, and filled with extended family from the Fourth World stopping by for a meal or staying overnight. It was also an ever-evolving office filled with a deeply rooted sense of purpose, serving as a hub for council planning sessions and those seeking refuge from a violent conflict.

I remember when the term “indigenous” was first introduced as an alternative to “Indian.” I was sitting at my father’s side at one of many meetings of Pacific Northwest tribal leaders. Like many of our previous informal gatherings, we met at Shari’s restaurant over deep-fried oddities sometime in 1972. We were well into the Indian Fish Wars when Indian people fought northwestern cowboys over fishing rights. Words like “sovereignty” and “self-determination” became quickly defined by rifle shots across the bows of purse seiners, skiffs, and canoes. There were many in attendance on this afternoon, and I recall Joe Delacruz of Quinault, Kenny Hansen of Samish, Russell Jim of Yakama, Grand Chief George Manuel of Secwépemc, and Barney Nietschmann, who had flown up from the University of California, Berkeley, sitting around the table.

Amidst the din, my father posed a curious question. “What is one thing all Indians can’t stand?” It was asked rhetorically and with a playful, yet serious, hint to comment on the overcooked deep-fried mushrooms: “Horrible!” “Disgusting!” “Outraged!” All agreed in their mutual distaste; and the table asked the waiter to return the mound of hard-fried fungus to the kitchen. “Well, that’s clear. We’re all indignant in the face of such injustice!” he continued. The table roared with laughter. “A whole table full of indigenous indignants!” Thus was a term of reference born with dual meaning. They continued to scheme and plot how to mask their outrage and indignation by using the word “indigenous” as a “thought bomb”, and introduced it as a rider into all subsequent legislation and communiques.

The term indigenous was codified later at the Port Alberni meeting when the World Council of Indigenous Peoples organized in 1975. In 1979, my father founded CWIS at the request of Pacific Northwest tribal governments. Initially it served as a documentation center and evolved into a global research and education non-profit of activist scholars. He spent the next 25 years in Geneva and New York arguing for the correct terms of reference (and capitalized letters!) addressing the rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Rudy’s contribution to global Indigenous and Fourth World Studies has been far-ranging and influential, spanning international relations, political science, policy, governance, law, indigenous ecological knowledge, geography, food sovereignty, tribal epistemologies, and culinary pedagogy. His publications and papers number in the thousands. In choosing the articles for this first issue, we identified a selection reflecting the evolution of Rudy’s thinking over time, while also exploring some of the breadth of his topic areas. Our collective intent is to give shape to his extraordinary curiosity, imagination, focus on the nuance and specificity of language, and sense of purpose in his body of written work.

“The pen is mightier than the sword” held significant meaning for him, both for its nonviolence (he was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War) and as a reminder of the transformative power of language to light a path toward understanding, balance, justice, and fairness. He always chose collaboration and rational debate to reach creative solutions when confronted with injustice, outrage, and violence, which Fourth World Peoples all too commonly experience.

His life as a writer took many forms. When he was an undergraduate at Washington State University, which he attended on a full Bureau of Indian Affairs scholarship, he sat in his first tribal meeting, at which a Colville elder asked, “Who writes English?” He did, and was thus tapped to serve as a scribe. From this moment, he considered his work to translate “English into English.” In the early days of the journal, he experienced a shortage of colleagues with whom to exchange his ideas, leading him to develop three noms de plume. You’ll find an example in this collection: Bertha Miller—with whom he enjoyed a good debate over many years!

When asked to contribute my lukanka, (the Miskito word for thoughts), I accepted, feeling the weight of the task that would stretch my heart and mind. I believe my father would have wanted me to share in the spirit of lukanka and provide a small window of personal insight and story into his work and life so that others may read his work with a greater sense of how personal the Fourth World is to all who live it—especially to one like him, who’s life work helped shape it.