As a student at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, New York, I am grateful to acknowledge and honor that I work and learn in the ancestral homelands of the Mohican, Haudenosaunee, particularly the Mohawk, and Abenaki peoples. I recognize that these Nations are the traditional stewards of the lands and waters of Saratoga Springs, which are considered a sacred place of peace to be shared by all. I pay honor and respect to these caretakers of the land, past and present, as I commit to representing diverse Indigenous voices and perspectives within my coursework, challenging settler colonialist ideologies that seek to erase the histories and lived realities of Indigenous peoples, and supporting local Native cultural revitalization.
Back home in Namibia, we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. The conversations around colonialism and history are less about the turkey and more about truth. They are about confronting the brutal legacy of German colonization, land theft, the Herero and Nama genocide, and the long-lasting scars that still mar our society. Our history is of resistance, survival, and reclaiming what was stolen. So, when I landed in America and found an entire nation indulging in a fairy tale about gratitude, unity, and harmony that conveniently skips over the painful truths, I couldn’t help but feel a little confused. It started with the general attitude I noticed around Thanksgiving—a celebration rooted in togetherness and gratitude, with almost no acknowledgment of its darker historical context.
Then, I turned to the media for insight, only to find the same omission. Movies and TV shows I watched painted a picture of happy gatherings, turkey dinners, and family traditions. Still, they never mentioned the reality of the holiday’s origins: the violence, colonization, and displacement experienced by Indigenous peoples. While some narratives occasionally hinted at these truths, they were inconsistent and often drowned out by feel-good storytelling.
I found myself reflecting on the ways nations choose to confront—or avoid—their colonial histories. In Namibia, the past isn’t an abstraction; it’s an ingrained part of national identity. The reality of genocide, land dispossession, and apartheid are visible in the landscape, the politics, and the collective consciousness. Truth-telling isn’t optional; it’s mandatory. Meanwhile, in the United States, a nation built by settlers who benefited directly from colonization, the narrative is different. Colonial histories are often smoothed over or confined to academic and activist spaces, while national myths, like Thanksgiving, present a sanitized version of the past.
The difference lies in the power dynamics of history. Namibia’s story is one of resistance against foreign domination, a constant push to reclaim and rebuild. In contrast, America’s story is framed by the triumph of settlers, with little room for reckoning. This leaves me wondering: how does a nation reconcile abundance with erasure, gratitude with injustice? If history is a shared table, what does it mean when some stories are served up and others are left out altogether?
In this land of plenty, where the turkey is the centerpiece, there’s little acknowledgment of the Native peoples whose land was stolen to make space for such feasts. Once promoted as a symbol of abundance and unity by figures like Sarah Joseph Hale, the turkey became a central part of the Thanksgiving tradition, celebrated for its practicality and association with American identity. Yet, this focus on the bird and the feast serves to distract from the holiday’s historical truth—a story rooted in colonization and the erasure of Indigenous peoples.
As celebrated here, Thanksgiving is a moment to pause, reflect, and be grateful. But how do we find gratitude in a holiday rooted in the displacement and suffering of Indigenous peoples? And what do we do when the truth of history is wrapped in a bow of tradition, sanitized, and neatly tucked away, making it almost impossible to see the ghosts of the past? These are questions that weigh heavily on my heart as I sit down to write.
The Dilemma of Anti-Colonial vs. Decolonial
At the intersection of history, identity, and gratitude lies the complex idea of decolonization. As Iyad el-Baghdadi reminds us, not every anti-colonial movement is decolonial. Anti-colonial movements oppose colonialism’s presence but can sometimes fall into the same traps, replicating colonial systems rather than dismantling them. Decolonization, in contrast, is not about simply removing people; it’s about dismantling supremacy. This subtle but significant difference is essential to understanding the ongoing process of healing from colonialism, especially during this time of Thanksgiving.
Decolonization is not just a political shift—it’s a cultural transformation. It is the removal of power structures that have long upheld oppression, systems that were built on the idea that one person’s story is more important than another’s. We have to ask ourselves: What does it mean to be truly grateful on a holiday that has been built upon a history of dispossession? How can we reconcile the blessings of abundance with the erasure of Indigenous cultures?
The Complexities of Settler Colonialism and Feminism
Informed by Arvin, Tuck, and Morrill’s critical examination in Decolonizing Feminism: Challenging Connections between Settler Colonialism and Heteropatriarchy, it becomes clear that the intersection of feminism and settler colonialism is not just theoretical, but a lived reality. Native feminism, as they argue, isn’t simply about advocating for gender equality; it’s about understanding how colonialism has fundamentally shaped Indigenous women’s roles and identities. Mainstream (or “whitestream”) feminism, feminism which centers on white, middle-class women, has historically subsumed Indigenous issues under its frameworks, often without addressing the root causes of settler colonialism. This approach is insufficient; Indigenous issues should not be an afterthought in feminist discourse but central to the conversation.
Many Native feminist scholars contend that their struggle for gender justice has been ongoing since the arrival of settlers, resisting colonial constructs like heteropatriarchy—defined as the idea that male dominance and heterosexuality are natural, necessary, and foundational to societal order. This was not just enforced through policies like the U.S. Indian Act or colonial boarding schools; it was embedded in every institution designed to erase Indigenous ways of being. Native women didn’t need Western feminism to “save” them—they were already fighting, resisting, and surviving, as these authors highlight.
Beyond Tokenism: The Fight for Real Change
As Arvin, Tuck, and Morrill argue, decolonization in feminist movements requires us to move beyond token inclusion—the practice of including marginalized individuals for the sake of appearances or performance, rather than a genuine commitment to dismantling systems of oppression. It’s not enough to bring an Indigenous woman into a classroom or boardroom and pat ourselves on the back for “diversity.” Instead, we must ask ourselves: How do we reshape these spaces to allow for genuine inclusion, not just representation?
Indigenous women’s experiences and perspectives should not merely be an addition to broader feminist discourses. They must reshape our understanding of feminism itself. We are called to decenter colonial norms and embrace alternative forms of governance and social organization rooted in care, responsibility, and interrelatedness, rather than domination and coercion. This is not just an academic exercise but an urgent call to action for feminist movements to confront colonialism head-on, as it is the very foundation upon which many gendered inequalities have been built.
Reclaiming What Was Stolen: A Call for Allyship
All of this brings us back to Thanksgiving. It is a holiday that asks us to be grateful and appreciate our families, our lives, and our homes. But we must also reflect on the land we are on, and who has been denied the right to call it home. This isn’t a call to reject Thanksgiving entirely, but rather to question how we celebrate it, and why it is important to acknowledge the painful history that underpins it.
Allyship in the decolonization process is not about simply adding an Indigenous perspective to a white-dominated narrative. It’s about acknowledging that these histories don’t belong to a museum or a forgotten page in history books. They live on in our daily lives, in the land beneath our feet, and in the people who continue to resist erasure. As settlers, we must educate ourselves, confront our complicity in colonial histories, and, more importantly, act—whether through land acknowledgment, advocacy, or supporting Indigenous sovereignty. Supporting Indigenous-led organizations such as the Native American Rights Fund (NARF), which protects the legal rights of Native American tribes, or the Indigenous Environmental Network (IEN), which advocates for environmental justice, can be powerful ways to contribute. Additionally, the National Indigenous Women’s Resource Center (NIWRC) works to address issues like violence against Indigenous women and the need for greater cultural and legal protection.
This Thanksgiving, I’ll reflect not just on what I’m grateful for, but on the responsibility to acknowledge the injustices that shaped America’s present. As we gather around tables of plenty, let’s pause to consider the land beneath our feet, the histories we must confront, and the work that still lies ahead in decolonizing our minds, our movements, and our world.
So, what will Thanksgiving mean to me this year? It will be about more than turkey. It will be about truth, reconciliation, and the ongoing work of decolonization. It’s a time to reflect, but also to act—because the decolonial journey doesn’t stop at the dinner table.
And the truth is, the feast cannot be complete until we’ve all been invited to the table.