Tribal practices are often celebrated at international, national, and state-level events as uncorrupted and authentic representations of India’s cultural heritage. Mainstream institutions, based in urban centers of power, package and promote tribal knowledge systems under ‘Brand India’ — as a way to contribute to GDP growth or boost the country’s “soft power.”

Those living in urban centres often witness the consumption or are direct consumers of such packaged forms of indigenous culture. But, typically, we do not recognise such practices as exploitative, or fully grasp how they conflict with indigenous knowledge systems. Media coverage tends to be superficial, reinforcing narrow, stereotypical understanding of tribal cultures.

The reality is that this framing treats the knowledge systems of different tribal communities as a collective commons for all Indians, rather than living traditions that are carefully sustained, nurtured, and transmitted uniquely by each of these indigenous communities across different parts of India.

Tribal artists and knowledge-keepers remain at the margins when it comes to receiving recognition or compensation for sharing their knowledge and skills; their voices overshadowed by those with social privilege. This exploitative form of erasure is not unlike how colonial powers once extracted indigenous ideas for products and patents.

In a candid conversation, Sudhir John Horo, founder and convenor of the Tribal Design Forum (TDF), unpacks these exploitative framings and the challenges around foregrounding indigenous voices when it comes to their cultural and intellectual sovereignty. He speaks about specific instances of erasure, misrepresentation, and gatekeeping he has encountered, reaffirming the right of tribal communities to define and share their cultures on their own terms. 

Hailing from the Munda tribe in Jharkhand, Horo’s personal experiences, as well as the struggles of other tribal creatives that he has witnessed, have led him to engage deeply with issues of tribal authorship and knowledge sovereignty — rights which are protected constitutionally in India through the Fifth Schedule provision, but rarely implemented. Through TDF, a platform he founded in the year 2021, Horo has found ways to celebrate contemporary indigenous imaginations and other tribal artists and design professionals. Challenging the pervasive view of tribal communities as static custodians of tradition, Horo believes that it is time that they are recognised as dynamic co-authors of contemporary creative practices.

Devika Ganapathy: Creativity in tribal culture is often stereotyped as just art and craft forms. What other aspects of tribal knowledge and ways of living can contemporary design practices draw on?

Sudhir John Horo: Tribal and indigenous communities have always employed sustainable and equitable design practices. But this has not been appropriately recognised, framed or presented in contemporary design language. Even today, tribal communities continue these practices, but only if they are not disrupted by outside interventions by those who assume superiority over indigenous knowledge. 

Tribals are the first designers from the Indian subcontinent. Had design not been embedded in our systems, indigenous and tribal communities wouldn’t have survived for so long. When the rest of the world was being industrialised, where did indigenous communities find the wisdom to adapt to inhospitable topologies and rapid change, and still continue to exist? All the while, they also retained their unique worldviews and knowledge systems. They did this by conceptualising, developing, and evolving their very own contextual methods and systems to survive, using the very same approach we now call “design thinking.” But, they did it in a more organic way through lived experiences rather than structured institutionalised ways. 

Maintaining balance and harmony with nature has been an integral part of how tribal community members thought. It’s just that it was never recognised and framed as “planet friendly design.” People NOW talk about climate change, biodiversity loss and other social issues. To make design relevant, new disciplines like “social design” are emerging. Global organisations like the UN, ILO and UNESCO say that the answers to mitigating humankind’s challenges can be found in the solutions developed by indigenous communities. But is there really enough understanding and recognition of these indigenous knowledge systems in mainstream, urban consciousness? The modern world needs to pause and walk backwards to move forward with the indigenous communities, instead of trying to lead them!

Ganapathy: Tribal artisans and creators face gatekeeping, erasure and barriers to knowledge and cultural self-determination. Can you share a few examples of this that you have witnessed or faced personally?

Horo: Let me share a few examples — not as distant observations, but as lived realities and patterns we keep encountering. 

People from the craft and design sectors often visit tribal communities to “source stories” behind handmade products — not always to understand the knowledge systems that shape them. There’s a calculated romanticisation of tribal identity to add value in urban markets, while the actual makers remain underpaid and invisible.

There are deep ethical questions to ask here. Is there a disparity between what is paid to tribal artists and the final selling price? Was consent taken before turning a sacred practice into a commodity? And who gets credit — the original knowledge holders or the urban mediators? Take the example of Pithora in Gujarat. The world calls it tribal “painting.” But in reality, the Rathwa and Bhilala communities write Pithora. It is a ritual performance deeply tied to cosmology and ancestry. To treat it as decorative art is not just inaccurate, it is a form of erasure. When it is showcased without cultural context, it becomes a transaction, not a transmission of memory.

Similarly, Warli “paintings” in Maharashtra have undergone a profound shift. Originally a sacred practice performed by Warli women as part of their ritual life, it has been absorbed into the commercial craft economy. Now, it is often created by men, for sale. The community’s ritual language was appropriated under the justification of economic upliftment, but in the process, its matrilineal authorship and ceremonial meaning were displaced.

This form of erasure is systemic. According to a study, over 55% of India’s artisan base belongs to Scheduled Tribes, Scheduled Castes, and Other Backward Classes. Tribal communities are not a marginal segment of the craft sector. They are its core. Yet, they are the least likely to receive recognition, intellectual property protection, or funding.

Gatekeeping happens even in access to government schemes. Tribal practitioners with decades of work and lived expertise are often bypassed for projects, while outsiders with no cultural familiarity win grants or commissions. Many tribal artisans don’t even know these schemes exist. And even when they do, navigating the bureaucratic processes becomes a new kind of exclusion. So when we talk about inclusion, equity, and “revival” in craft, we must ask — Whose voice is being heard? Whose name is being preserved? And who is profiting from indigenous knowledge while the tribals remain unnamed?

Ganapathy: If commercialisation or commodification can lead to better livelihoods and uplift economically-backward communities, why is it unethical and extractive?

Horo: It really comes down to perspective. Yes, livelihood matters! Being able to earn, educate your children, and access good healthcare does matter. But we have to ask: Livelihood for what? And at what cost? Tribal communities had their own systems — their own education models, healthcare, governance. They had self-sustaining ways of living. But over time, development projects have taken away their land, water, their forests. What’s left is their cultural identity. And now, even that is being mined.

So when we say, “Let’s commoditise this artform or this practice to help them earn,” we have to pause. Because are they truly choosing to sell it? Or are they forced to part with it out of desperation? Imagine this: if you lost your job tomorrow, and you had something valuable at home — say a family heirloom — wouldn’t you think of selling it if it could help you survive? But would you want to sell it? Probably not. That’s what’s happening here.

It’s not about denying income or opportunity. It’s about recognising why certain things are being put up for sale in the market. Desperation is not the same as agency. Also, the people who make these “upliftment” policies often don’t understand the depth of what they are dealing with. These aren’t just craft pieces — they’re part of a living continuum. Even if one ritual or object seems like it’s just aesthetic or functional, it’s actually linked to a whole system — of making meaning, of relationships and relationality, of values. When you pluck it out of that system and turn it into a product, you break the chain. You cut one piece out and sell it, but what about the rest of the story that gave that part meaning and significance? That loss is never calculated. It is sad that we are having this conversation after almost 75 years of independence and now learning to understand this aspect of cultural extraction. So yes, it can generate income. But if that income is built on the slow erasure of memory, identity, and systems of self-reliance, then it’s extractive.

Because we’re not just selling artifacts. We’re mining the last remnants of tribal sovereignty.

Ganapathy: Are non-tangible elements or idea-based forms of creativity also vulnerable to gatekeeping and erasure?

Horo: Yes! Perhaps even more so. An idea doesn’t have a physical form, so it becomes easier to repackage, rename, or appropriate without leaving fingerprints. And that’s exactly what happens.

I’ve created national and international campaigns that have had nothing to do with tribal aesthetics on the surface, but were rooted in a tribal worldview. The starting thought came from my community and my tribal sensibilities of sharing and reciprocity. But it was adapted into a broader model for how India could engage with the world.

And then something familiar happened. Once these ideas gained traction, once they were embraced by institutions and showcased in global spaces — my name quietly started disappearing from records. Keeping my name would apparently have disrupted “the narrative.” Maybe, it even made some institutions feel uncomfortable. It was easier to present the idea as neutral, as a form of collective vision, without crediting the tribal origin or the individual behind it.

This is not just painful. It’s strategic. Erasure is often not loud. It happens in metadata, in committee notes, in academic institutions’ course reports.

I’ve also conceptualised, designed and conducted study modules  for courses like Environmental Perception, Tribal Culture and Toys, and Reimagining the Tribal Universe for design students. Even basic academic protocol, I believe, requires a course report — detailing outcomes, pedagogical design, learnings, and, most importantly, the name of the faculty who designed and conducted the course. But in recent years, my name has started to vanish from these course reports. 

That’s how gatekeeping works in institutional spaces and the knowledge economy — by selectively remembering, rewording, and rerouting the credit. By making sure the ideas stay, but the originator fades.

So yes! Even intangible, idea-based creativity is vulnerable. And when the origin is tribal, that vulnerability multiplies, because there is a lack of a robust redressal system.

Ganapathy: Are there any legal protections in place for tribal creative professionals and artisans?

Horo: Yes, there are protections. Both nationally and internationally. But how many of us are aware as individuals, and within institutions, organisations, civil society, and tribal communities?

In India, the Fifth Schedule of the Constitution specifically exists to protect the rights, autonomy, and traditional practices of Scheduled Tribes — including their knowledge systems. At the international level, frameworks from bodies like UNESCO, WIPO, and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) emphasise that indigenous peoples have the right to maintain, control, and benefit from their cultural heritage, traditional knowledge, and intellectual property.

So when tribal concepts are lifted, stripped of their context, and then sold or presented to global audiences, without involving the community — it’s not just ethically questionable. It’s a violation of these laws.

Most global frameworks clearly state that no indigenous concept should be developed, disseminated, or commercialised without the free, prior and informed consent of the community involved and without attribution. That’s not just a guideline. It’s a principle of justice.

And even if someone says they “didn’t know” about these protections, that ignorance doesn’t erase the harm caused. Because once indigenous knowledge is used, whether by a university, a company, or a government body, these legal frameworks come into effect. As a tribal person, I have every right to speak up and ask: Where is the consent? Where is the credit? Till the time these principles are not upheld – I will continue to name and claim credit when due.

Ganapathy: Do individual tribal creators pushback against these situations? Is it realistic to do anything, even with these legal protections? 

Horo: It’s not easy. Most tribal creators don’t speak up — not because they don’t see what’s happening, but because the risk is too high. There’s fear of being victimised by the system, fear of losing work, being sidelined, or simply facing backlash. That fear is often linked to economic instability, social vulnerability and the lack of a support system.

In my case, I’ve been able to push back only because I’ve spent years building networks of tribal and indigenous allies — across India and internationally. This is not about me as an individual. It’s about the strength of a collective — and the confidence that comes when you know others are watching, ready to stand beside you, for a cause that deeply resonates with each. And I do believe change is possible. But, it has to happen through rightful, constitutional and institutional channels.

If my current case is resolved fairly, in line with the Fifth Schedule of the Constitution and global “Indigenous Rights” frameworks, it can set a powerful precedent. It could shape how institutions — from design schools to ministries to businesses — engage with tribal authorship and knowledge systems. It could become a legal benchmark.

That’s also why we at the Tribal Design Forum (TDF) have proposed a 6-Step Redressal Mechanism — a simple, actionable concept that outlines how tribal authors, designers, and knowledge holders can seek justice when their work is misused or erased. It includes steps like proper attribution, legal recourse, institutional audits, and community-led IP protocols.

We don’t just want protection, we want a process. And we want it to work for tribal creators, not just around them. So yes, it’s hard. But it’s no longer impossible. Every step taken now clears the path for those who come next. That’s why I won’t walk away. I want to see it through – not just for myself, but to make space for others to come forward.

Ganapathy: How does the Tribal Design Forum (TDF) contribute towards fighting tribal erasure?

Horo: Platforms like the Tribal Design Forum (TDF) encourage people like us to come together — to be seen, heard, acknowledged, and mentored. It’s not just about showcasing tribal creativity. It’s about having a voice that is legible and respected across mainstream systems.

We’re not looking to take to the streets with slogans. What we want to do is to engage — meaningfully, constructively — with institutions, policymakers, educators, and the public. We want to open dialogue, raise awareness and trust that those in power will act with integrity once they truly understand what’s at stake.

One of the first steps is awareness around cultural extraction. Most people don’t realise when they’re participating in it because they’ve never been told what it looks like. You can’t expect someone to correct a wrong if they don’t know it is wrong. So the first job is education: helping everyone see where they stand in that system.

The second job perhaps is reminding institutions that legal frameworks already exist — both nationally and internationally, to protect tribal knowledge, authorship, and rights. But more than that, we must ensure that indigenous communities themselves are made aware of these protections. Many of them don’t have access to the global networks or legal literacy that others take for granted. That’s where platforms like TDF can help bridge the gap — by translating frameworks into lived language, and empowering people to use the tools meant for them.

Design education also has a huge role to play. Right now, the pedagogy in many design schools is heavily market-driven. But it should also be community-driven, empathy-driven, and culturally inclusive. Most importantly, it must begin to understand and include tribal epistemologies and worldviews; not as decorative themes or exotic case studies, but as valid systems of knowledge, creativity and design thinking in their own right.

We need to prepare future designers not just to make products, but to understand people, context, and cultural responsibility. Without that shift, design education will continue to extract, instead of transform.

Devika Ganapathy is an independent research consultant with more than 23 years of experience in ethnographic insights and cultural contexts. An NID alumna, she champions user research excellence and cultivates a vibrant research community in India.