Space Force Sagas: NASA’s Role in Whitewashing Colonial Mars

You know, when we look up at the night sky, it feels like this vast, open invitation, doesn't it? Like a cosmic frontier, just waiting for us to explore. That idea, the "final frontier," has been drilled into us by pop culture for decades. It’s in our movies, our books, and yeah, even our comic books. And honestly? NASA has been a pretty big player in crafting that narrative.

NASA isn't just about rockets and science labs; it's a master storyteller. They team up with Hollywood, with authors, even with comic book creators, to get us all excited about what's out there. It's a smart move, right? Get people invested emotionally, and they're more likely to support the mission, maybe even pursue careers in science and engineering. But here's the thing, and it’s a big thing: by focusing on that classic "pioneering hero" story, often framed as conquering new worlds, these narratives can totally overlook, and sometimes actively erase, other ways of relating to the cosmos. We’re talking about the incredibly rich, ancient perspectives of Indigenous peoples, whose relationship with the stars is anything but about conquest. This isn't just an oversight; it's tied up in a long history of colonial thinking, and it's something we really need to talk about, especially as we set our sights on places like Mars.

So, How Exactly Does NASA Spin Its Story?

NASA's pretty strategic about how it engages with the public and the entertainment world. They have official guidelines, formal agreements, even policies about not endorsing specific products while somehow totally doing "brand partnerships" that sure feel like endorsements. It’s a delicate dance to inspire us all while protecting their image as a government agency.

They lend technical expertise, provide access to facilities, review scripts – anything to help filmmakers and writers get the science right and, naturally, make NASA look awesome. Think about movies like Apollo 13 or The Martian. NASA was all-in on those, helping make them feel super authentic and, let's be honest, pretty inspiring. The Martian, in particular, got major thumbs up from NASA because it lined up so nicely with their own Mars plans and made a human mission seem really possible, really soon. Critics have even called it a "two-plus hour NASA advertisement," which, okay, fair point.

It's not just big movies, either. NASA gets into comics and graphic novels, often with a focus on STEM education, a strategy also seen in discussions around YA graphic novels and education reform. They did a Japanese manga-style comic for a mission, which is kinda cool, right? And who could forget Astronaut Snoopy? That partnership goes way back to the Apollo days and was renewed recently to inspire young folks about deep space. More recently, they released graphic novels like First Woman, featuring a diverse crew heading to the Moon, specifically meant to inspire the "Artemis Generation." Now, here’s where it gets a bit sticky: those First Woman comics were reportedly taken down from NASA’s website due to political pressure around diversity initiatives. See? Even when they try to be more inclusive, it’s a bumpy road, showing how external factors can mess with their messaging.

The overall goal? Inspire us, show us the value of space exploration, and reach people beyond the usual space enthusiasts. They want to get kids excited about STEM, dreaming of being the next generation of explorers. And framing astronauts and the agency as heroic pioneers is a powerful way to do that. It makes complex science relatable and turns huge endeavors into compelling human stories. But — and this is a big but — focusing so much on the individual hero can sometimes overshadow the massive, collaborative effort it actually takes, and it can reinforce outdated ideas about who gets to be a hero in the first place.

When "Final Frontier" Feels a Lot Like Old Colonialism

Okay, let's dig into this "final frontier" idea a bit more. It sounds exciting, doesn't it? Like wide-open spaces, ready for exploration and settlement. But that language isn't neutral. It carries the heavy baggage of centuries of terrestrial expansion, conquest, and, let's be blunt, the dispossession and subjugation of Indigenous peoples. When we talk about space using terms like "conquest," "settlement," and "colonization," we're essentially projecting that same historical script onto the cosmos. This is what's increasingly being called "astro-colonialism."

It’s like saying space is this empty place, this terra nullius ("nobody's land"), just waiting for us to claim it, right? That thinking predisposes us to see space primarily in terms of resource extraction and strategic dominance, rather than, say, a place for peaceful coexistence or careful stewardship. And guess what? That framing totally ignores the perspectives of people who have viewed celestial bodies as sacred, as relatives, or as integral parts of their living world for thousands of years.

The push for space mining, driven by commercial interests and national ambitions, directly clashes with Indigenous concepts of celestial sacredness and stewardship. For many Indigenous cultures, the Moon isn't just a rock to be mined; it might be "Shimasani" (Our Grandmother), a living deity central to maintaining harmony, as the Navajo (Diné) people believe. The idea of disrupting or exploiting such a place is, frankly, a desecration. This isn't just a philosophical difference; it's a clash of fundamentally different worldviews about humanity's place in the universe.

And these aren't just abstract concerns floating out in space. They have real impacts right here on Earth. Building massive telescopes on sites sacred to Indigenous peoples, like the Thirty Meter Telescope on Mauna Kea in Hawaiʻi, shows this conflict playing out in real time. It’s often framed as "science versus religion," but that's a Eurocentric way of looking at it that totally dismisses the deep ancestral connections, traditional ecological knowledge, and distinct legal systems that underpin Indigenous claims. These terrestrial battles are directly linked to the cosmic concerns; the "Earthly scars" of colonialism are showing up in our aspirations for the stars.

Even activities in space are raising red flags. NASA's Artemis program and its commercial partners sending payloads to the Moon have caused distress. While NASA said it would consult with tribal nations before sending human remains, the commercial part of the program meant non-NASA payloads, including remains, ended up on the Moon anyway, deeply offending nations like the Navajo Nation who view the Moon as sacred. This isn't the first time something like this has happened, and it highlights a real issue: how do we ensure ethical oversight when commercial interests are pushing the boundaries, and how do we genuinely consult with Indigenous peoples whose heritage is tied to these celestial bodies?

Ancestral Skies and New Visions: Indigenous Cosmologies

Here’s the thing: while Western culture has been busy crafting narratives of space heroes and frontiers, Indigenous peoples have always had profound relationships with the cosmos. For millennia, they’ve looked up, observed, learned, and woven that knowledge into the very fabric of their lives – their stories, songs, ceremonies, and laws. This isn't just "mythology"; it's sophisticated astronomical knowledge passed down through generations.

Think about it. Australian Aboriginal cultures used the Emu in the Sky (a dark constellation!) to track seasons and when emu eggs were ready. Polynesian and Hawaiian navigators were absolute masters, using intricate star compasses to voyage across vast oceans, guided by celestial cues. The Lakota Sioux see the Milky Way as a Spirit Path. The Māori celebrate Matariki, the Pleiades cluster, as the start of their New Year, with each star linked to different aspects of their world and harvest cycle. And the Inuit, living under the Arctic skies, have a rich astronomy shaped by their environment, with deep meanings attached to the aurora borealis.

These diverse cosmologies share a common thread: a deep sense of interconnectedness between the celestial, terrestrial, and human realms. The sky isn't just "out there"; it's an active, integral part of life. This stands in stark contrast to the more compartmentalized, objectified view often seen in Western narratives, which tend to frame space in terms of conquest or resource extraction. Dismissing this rich knowledge as just "myth" is, honestly, a colonial leftover that ignores its empirical basis and real scientific value.

But here’s where things get really exciting: Indigenous creators aren't just holding onto the past; they're looking to the future. "Indigenous Futurisms" is this amazing movement where artists and writers use speculative fiction, including sci-fi, to push back against colonial tropes, reclaim their narratives, and imagine futures where Indigenous peoples and their knowledge systems thrive, even in space. Instead of focusing on conquering aliens or exploiting planets, these stories often explore themes of co-existence, mutual respect, and the challenge of maintaining cultural continuity in new worlds. It's a powerful act of "survivance" – not just survival, but active resistance and the continuation of Indigenous presence against centuries of attempted erasure. They are writing themselves into futures that mainstream media often left them out of, and that’s a big deal.

How do we bridge these different ways of seeing the cosmos? A concept called "Two-Eyed Seeing," or Etuaptmumk, offers a beautiful framework. Developed by Mi'kmaw Elder Albert Marshall, it means learning to see with the strengths of Indigenous knowledge through one eye and the strengths of Western knowledge through the other, using both together. It's not about slotting Indigenous knowledge into Western boxes, but about genuine mutual respect and integration, acknowledging that Western science isn't the only way to understand the universe. Applying this to space narratives and education could totally transform how we learn about and relate to the cosmos, leading to more ethical research and a deeper public understanding. Imagine movies or shows that weave together the empirical data of Western astronomy with the rich metaphorical and ecological wisdom of Indigenous cosmologies. Now that would be something truly inspiring.

The Politics of Who Tells the Story

Let’s be clear: the fact that we don't often hear Indigenous space narratives in mainstream media isn't accidental. It's a result of historical and ongoing power dynamics. Western scientific ways of knowing have long been presented as the only universal, objective truth, pushing Indigenous traditions to the side as "myth" or "folklore."

On top of that, mainstream media has a terrible track record with Indigenous representation, relying on tired, demeaning stereotypes that make it hard to portray the complexity and sophistication of Indigenous cultures and their knowledge systems. And let's not forget "whitewashing"—casting non-Indigenous actors in Indigenous roles—which just directly erases Indigenous presence. Plus, there’s a real lack of Indigenous people in STEM fields and in creative roles in media, meaning fewer Indigenous voices are at the table to share their perspectives.

Even when Indigenous knowledge is brought up, it’s often misinterpreted, taken out of context, or just plain misappropriated, used superficially without respecting its deeper meaning or the communities it comes from. It's a form of intellectual colonialism. And now, we have new challenges, like satellite mega-constellations cluttering the night sky, which directly obstruct the view and impact traditional naked-eye astronomical practices vital for transmitting knowledge. Add to this the historical, intentional efforts to suppress Indigenous cultures and languages, and you see a pattern of active erasure.

This all adds up to a distorted public understanding where Indigenous peoples are often seen as disconnected from science, the future, and the cosmos itself. And that distorted view has real-world consequences for policy, funding, and whether Indigenous communities are genuinely consulted on issues impacting their heritage, including celestial bodies.

But there’s a powerful movement pushing back. Decolonizing these narratives means challenging the Eurocentric biases in media and science and promoting Indigenous perspectives and voices. Indigenous artists, filmmakers, and writers are leading the way, reshaping images and reclaiming narratives. Projects like the "One Sky Project," which creates planetarium films showcasing diverse cultural astronomies, or museums collaborating with Indigenous knowledge keepers are crucial steps towards authentic representation.

Getting more Indigenous people into STEM is also key, bridging traditional knowledge with Western science and ensuring Indigenous perspectives inform research and policy. This requires respecting Indigenous knowledge as valid in its own right, moving past extractive research to genuine partnerships. Ultimately, decolonizing space narratives means a shift in power. It's not enough to just include Indigenous stories; Indigenous communities need control over how their knowledge is represented and used. Supporting the revitalization of Indigenous languages is also vital, as these languages often hold unique cosmological concepts and wisdom that can't be easily translated.

Towards a Cosmic Future That Honors All Skies

Looking at where we stand, it’s clear that the stories we tell about space matter. NASA's approach, while great for inspiring public interest and support through heroic narratives (a tactic also seen in military recruitment comics), can lean into language and tropes that echo a colonial past. This focus, while effective for PR, can sometimes simplify the complex realities of space exploration and overlook the diverse ways humanity relates to the universe.

Meanwhile, the rich, ancient cosmologies of Indigenous peoples offer vital counter-narratives, emphasizing connection, stewardship, and the sacredness of the cosmos. These perspectives challenge the purely utilitarian or extractivist views often embedded in dominant space discourse and urge us towards a more respectful relationship with the universe. The historical marginalization of these narratives isn't accidental; it’s a reflection of enduring colonial power structures.

So, how do we move towards a cosmic future that’s truly ethical and inclusive? It means consciously working to dismantle those colonial frameworks that still shape how we talk about space. It means genuinely centering Indigenous voices and sovereignty, ensuring they have authority over their own cultural heritage and knowledge related to space. Respecting their views on the sacredness of celestial bodies isn't just polite; it's essential.

We need to embrace "Two-Eyed Seeing," integrating the strengths of Indigenous knowledge systems with Western science to build a more holistic understanding of the cosmos. This requires humility from Western science and a real respect for diverse ways of knowing. It also calls for critical media literacy – being able to tell the difference between inspiring stories, PR, and the complex ethical realities of exploring beyond Earth. And, importantly, we need to support the revitalization of Indigenous cultures, languages, and storytelling traditions, because they hold the keys to perspectives that can enrich our shared cosmic future.

The stories we choose to tell about space will absolutely shape the future we build there. By looking critically at the dominant narratives and actively lifting up diverse voices, especially those that have been marginalized for too long, we can aim for a future in space that isn't just about conquest or extraction, but about justice, sustainability, and a truly awe-inspiring connection to the cosmos – a connection that honors the wisdom of ancestral skies as we reach for the stars.