This thematic issue stems from a session organized in Quebec in 2018 for the joint meeting of the International Geographical Union (IGU) and the Canadian Association of Geographers (CAG) Annual Congress in Quebec City. In the context of a growing interest among cultural and political geographers for participative mapping projects with Indigenous communities, our goal was to deploy the concept of “spatial capital” to see if and how it could shed new light on these initiatives, bringing a new understanding of the processes at work. This themed section represents part of the exchanges that took place.

We framed the dialogue using French geographer Jacques Lévy's (2003) definition of “spatial capital” as a departure point. By analogy with Bourdieu's (1980) concept of social capital, Lévy (2003, 124) defines spatial capital as “all the resources accumulated by an actor, allowing him/her to take advantage, according to his/her strategy, of the use of the spatial dimension of society.” According to Lévy, spatial capital builds on the capacity of an actor—individual or collective—to take advantage of scale and metrics, and consists of the benefits gained by the control of specific geographical arrangements (space, places, and networks). Furthermore, the deployment of material and symbolic resources inherent to the notion of capital leads to the acknowledgement of an actor's latitude in making decisions and taking action, and of his/her power to change existing social hierarchies and positions among groups. The possession of some amount of spatial capital may imply, for example, the right to inhabit a given place—or, from a historical perspective, the ability to access high speeds or long‐distance transports thanks to the possession of animals (the horse) and later of motor vehicles, enabling the travelling, exploitation, or control of extended regions (Lévy 2003).

During the IGU‐CAG session, we certainly made a creative adaptation of the concept, moving away from its dominant economic and utilitarian dimension (see Ripoll and Veschambre 2005; Barthon and Monfroy 2011; Rérat and Lees 2011; Soja et al. 2011; Mace 2017). At its root, the concept of spatial capital is not anchored in Indigenous spatial ontologies, which in itself was grounds for debate during the panels. Nevertheless, we perceived a potential heuristic dimension in the concept when applied to Indigenous realities. After all, Indigenous knowledge is, fundamentally, a comprehensive form of spatial capital, and one with great temporal depth. Indeed, where else than in Indigenous contexts is space so much at stake? Isn't the appropriation of the symbolic and material resources necessary to take advantage of space at the heart of colonial projects? The historical dispossession of Indigenous lands and territories through politics of relocation, reduction, and racial discrimination has created a situation of historical injustice, and of fundamental social and territorial inequalities. The creation of Indian reserves in North America during the 19^th century deprived First Nations of their political autonomy, their way of life, their means of subsistence, and their spatial mobility. For example, nomadic hunter‐gatherer societies—such as the Innu people of Quebec, among others—were able to live in harsh environments by travelling annually thousands of kilometres by foot and by canoe from the St. Lawrence River to the Ungava Bay, and then back south. Such endeavours were clearly dependent on a significant amount of spatial capital. However, as Cole Harris puts it, with the emergence of the settler society, a new human geography emerged—characterized by survey lines, property boundaries, roads, farms, towns, and industries—all of which radically altered Indigenous peoples' territorialities, and, by extension, the amount of their spatial capital, since these new colonial geographies “defined where they could and could not go” (Harris 2004, 178). In this newly bounded, controlled, and “reduced” (Simard 2003) environment, Indigenous peoples not only lost (partly) the use of their own spatial capital, they were deprived of the right to fully access the material and symbolic resources of the dominant society.

Today, the struggles of Indigenous peoples towards self‐determination and the reappropriation of their ancestral territories happens in a complex social and political context where the physical and cultural contours of Indigenous lands, territories, and territorialities are not only changing rapidly, they are also diversifying. This is due to a wide range of factors, among them but not limited to: the growth of urban Indigenous populations; the repatriation of cultural artefacts; the expansion of self‐government through planning, claims, and Indigenous management of lands and resources; processes of Indigenous resurgence and struggles against forms of neocolonization, both formal and informal and at times concurrent; and the shift towards conservation, cultural heritage, and tourism as territorial projects. What then, in this context, constitutes Indigenous territories, territorialities, and subjectivities? How are they expressed and possibly (re)shaped by mapping processes, cartographic tools, and representations? And to what extent is mapping a lever to shift social, cultural, and spatial categories and hierarchies between the Indigenous and non‐Indigenous components of society? Using the lens of spatial capital, our ambition during the sessions was to shed further light on the ever‐present debate about the power of maps in Indigenous contexts.

Indigenous mapping as a field of research emerged in the early 1990s, mostly in Anglophone geography and anthropology. But the mapping means and procedures proper to the nation‐state—as well as the standards and rules of scientific cartography—have been crucial for Indigenous peoples at least since the 1960s; in repositioning themselves on national and world maps, they worked to get back or consolidate spaces of action and being. Yet oral and ethnohistorical sources document how Indigenous mapping preceded the colonial era, proving that Indigenous societies have always held their own cartographic traditions (Harley 1992; Warhus 1997; Lewis 1998; Louis 2017; Lucchesi 2018). More than a surface record of the geographical dimensions of Indigenous societies, this way of rendering geographical knowledge considered the land as a whole, encompassing inter‐tribal allegiances and economic relations. Indigenous cartographic language often displayed relational ontologies connecting human with non‐human beings, the dead with the living, frequently including the spiritual components of place (Pearce 2008; Hirt 2012). Moreover, in colonial North America, maps (made on animal skins, rocks, or birch bark, in addition to parchment and paper) were deployed as political documents by Indigenous leaders with the strategic objective of affirming territorial rights and pre‐existing inter‐tribal treaties in the face of European encroachment (Warhus 1997; Steinke 2014). These maps were not treated as such by colonial outsiders but rather with an attitude of “scientific chauvinism” (Harley 1987, 4): although colonizers used the strategic information they could contain, they considered them as curiosities or cultural artefacts valued for their aesthetic qualities (if valued at all), the majority of them ending up in settlers' drawing rooms and attics, or hidden away in museum collections. Discredited and put aside in this way, many of these important documents came to be forgotten (Warhus 1997; Steinke 2014). These widespread colonial silences have been unveiled by the new research avenues opened by critical cartography, and by Indigenous decolonial approaches to maps and mapping within the last decades (Harley 1992).

As Indigenous peoples renewed their struggle for their political and territorial rights in the second half of the 20^th century, the strategic use of maps to resist colonial states, and other powerful political and economic stakeholders, took a decisive turn. The spread of Land Use and Occupation Studies (LUOS) in Canada during the 1960s and 1970s is a case in point. The latter became an integral part of negotiations carried within the framework of the 1973 federal Comprehensive Land Claims Policy and contributed to expand the appropriation of computer mapping techniques by Indigenous peoples as a way to convey their territorialities for the state (Usher et al. 1992; Usher 2003). Representing Canada's Inuit peoples, Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami were among the first in using that approach to support and restore Inuit self‐government (Freeman 2011). Tobias (2000) stresses the importance of engaging with this type of research to achieve meaningful self‐government. In his opinion, LUOS should not only be retrospective, that is, deployed in order to document and settle injustices from the past, but also prospective as a means to assist and operationalize Indigenous stewardship of the land, now and in the future (Tobias 2000, xii). More recently, the power of maps in land‐use mediation was underscored by Steward Phillip, Grand Chief of the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs (1998–present), when he stated “When you are discussing a land use issue, the first thing that comes out is the maps” (CBC 2014).

From the 1980s onwards, mapping has also been massively appropriated by the Indigenous peoples of central and south America, and in the rest of the world (Chapin et al. 2005; Offen 2009). Sociologist Nancy Peluso (1995) mapped Dayak claims to forest territories and resources in Kalimatan, Indonesia, at the beginning of the 1990s. She has referred to this “highly territorialized strategy” as “counter‐mapping”: that is, the appropriation of the state's cartographic techniques and manner of representation by Indigenous actors to bolster the legitimacy of their customary claims, serve their own political agenda, and influence the state's land and planning policies (Peluso 1995, 384). The success of the word “counter‐mapping” in the literature on Indigenous mapping speaks of its efficiency in a variety of contexts, since it is both a conceptual tool and a political program (Wainwright and Bryan 2009; Kollektiv Orangotango 2018). Hence counter‐mapping practices are definitely a powerful means for Indigenous peoples to reclaim spatial capital. In some cases, maps are also mobilized creatively as a way to heal from colonial trauma (Eades 2015), showing that, in addition to technical and political proficiency, the qualitative, experiential, and emotional dimensions of place‐based knowledge are also part of Indigenous spatial capital in pursuit of a deeper sense of place (Pearce and Louis 2008; Johnson and Larsen 2013). We cannot, however, uncritically celebrate such empowerment. Many authors have underlined the fact that modern cartographic tools as a mainly western techno‐science could also lead to cultural assimilation or marginalize/silence Indigenous voices when not appropriated critically by Indigenous communities and organizations (Rundstrom 1995; Johnson et al. 2005; Louis 2007).

Against this larger background, the contributions included in this special section each take different but complementary angles on mapping in relation to the idea of Indigenous spatial capital. Three papers are focused on Canada (two of them on Quebec) and one on Argentina. The contribution of Gagnon and Nepton, and that of Éthier, give insight into the mapping issues at stake with the Comprehensive Land Claims Policy in Canada. The interview of Justine Gagnon (Gagnon 2020) with Michel Nepton—cartographer and land‐use and planning advisor for the Pekuakamiulnuatsh First Nation—explains the role and scope of mapping for his community (Mashteuiatsh, Quebec) in the reassessment of their claims on their larger ancestral territory, beyond the limits of the reserve. It also reveals the ability of individuals to combine their cultural heritage and lifelong experience on the territory with a personal sensitivity for spatial issues and the mastering of the techniques, tools, and language of modern cartography. This example shows that regaining ground on land issues and reconstructing the group's spatial capital implies the presence of cultural translators, that is, individuals who have culturally diverse skills and experiences, and are familiar with both Indigenous and non‐Indigenous knowledge.

The paper by Benoit Éthier (2020) links the issue of land claims with the notion of territorial entanglement which characterizes most Indigenous realities today. As Françoise Dussart and Sylvie Poirier (2017, 5) emphasize, “Understanding how entanglements are lived in various parts of the world can illuminate how Indigenous knowledge and practices are reshaped by encounters with modernity and neoliberalism, by reified oppositions between Indigenous and non‐Indigenous and by the proximity of other practices and engagements with customary lands.” Éthier carries a detailed analysis of these “encounters” between the Atikamkekw Nehirowisiwok and the Québécois, in the context of territorial negotiations with provincial and federal governments. Faced with the superimposition of land tenures and legal regimes by the government of Quebec on their ancestral territory (Nitaskinan), the Nehirowisiwok have no choice but to produce “political maps” in order to position themselves in front of governmental requirements; this sometimes happens at the expense of neighbouring Indigenous communities who did not have the opportunity to endorse the new mapped boundaries (Vincent 2016; see also Thom 2009, 2014). Another interesting point made by Éthier is that “ordinary” Québécois who visit Nistaskinan for leisure activities are largely ignorant of the ancestral rights of the Nehirowisiwok. In the end, Éthier also demonstrates that mapping colonial entanglements helps to “reframe” Indigenous territories (Thom 2014): although the produced maps do not fully correspond to Atikamekw territoriality, they represent creative means to transmit knowledge to the younger generations. Thus, the Nehirowisiwok adapt and reinvent their territorial practices in the contemporary world.

Taking us to the southern cone of the Americas among the Wichís of Argentina, Alberto Preci (2020), in turn, stresses that entanglements and contradictions may also arise out of generational changes, modernization, and urbanization, impacting and differentiating the relationship that younger and older generations maintain with the territory. The map produced by the Wichís to reassert their presence on the land and pursue legal recognition has given them a unique visibility. However, cartographic representation has made Wichí lands a static and finite network where there is “no place on the map for new centralities,” although younger generations have moved to new villages where infrastructures and basic services are more easily available. Preci considers that the future and self‐determination of the Wichí people are conditioned by their now frozen cartographic representations and by the performative dimension of their maps. This raises several important and combined issues that span through the literature on Indigenous mapping: the need to make political maps ignores processes such as the urbanization of Indigenous peoples, as well as the spatial capital made of adaptation and resilience to the material constraints and opportunities of the colonial world—which, over time, carries the risk of producing essentialized identities marked by a “denial of coevalness” (Fabian 2014). The situation of the Wichís, as that of many others, shows that governmental and state actors in charge of land and negotiations are mainly responsible for the essentialization of Indigenous identities and territorialities by not taking into account the continuous transformations of their societies (and the right to these transformations). But at the same time, Indigenous peoples face the challenge of proposing alternative maps, representative of the manifold Indigenous territorialities and plurality of spatial capitals. This implies a critical awareness of the performativity of maps: “Maps make reality as much as they represent it,” to use Crampton and Krygier (2006). And by influencing our conception of the world, they also contribute to produce identities (Pickles 1995). This is a double‐edged sword, which is often the case with the political mobilization of maps: mapping processes and tools can create or reinforce Indigenous knowledge and authority—this cannot be denied since Indigenous communities and organizations around the world have won struggles with maps. But the fact remains that maps can also reinforce colonial categories, stereotypes, and hierarchies at the expense of Indigenous peoples.

Lastly, digital and online mapping is brought to the fore by the contribution of McGurk and Caquard (2020), who show the potential and limits of online cartography for Indigenous peoples. They review 18 Indigenous‐mapping sites in Canada applying the research methodology proposed by Linda Tuhiwai Smith in her seminal book Decolonizing methodologies (2002). They demonstrate that digital online mapping effectively empowers Indigenous peoples: first, because they allow better control of the way their knowledge and territorialities are represented; and second, because digital and online mapping better convey storytelling, a privileged way of building knowledge among Indigenous peoples, for example by linking place‐names with audio or video and hence limiting the decontextualization of oral knowledge. Digital online mapping does not, however, overcome the dependence of Indigenous peoples towards non‐Indigenous partners, and the domain still remains a “male‐thing.” McGurk and Caquard make the point that the ubiquity of maps in everyday life, thanks to the number and variety of formats in which they can now be accessed, have significantly impacted Indigenous mapping within the last decades. From computer and television screens to books, newspapers, tablets and, of course, cellphones, the increasing presence and accessibility of these “cybercartographic” maps (Taylor and Caquard, 2006) means that diverse spatial ontologies and views of the world are being standardized (Noucher 2017). On the other hand, as they show, online and multimedia cartographies give better account of Indigenous knowledge, territorialities, and ontologies. This takes us beyond the idea of cartography as a mere techno‐science and a potential tool of assimilation, to consider also the creative potential of the appropriation of diverse and hybrid geographic knowledge and technologic systems by Indigenous peoples (Palmer 2012). It also validates that cartography's potential for colonial assimilation and dispossession lies less in the cartographic technique itself than in the legal requirements and territorial ontologies imposed by states in the framework of land negotiations. Ultimately, both authors raise the ambiguous role and increasing influence of powerful actors such as Google—one of the “Big Four” tech companies—which is especially notable in the Canadian context.

We cannot conclude without mentioning the various people who contributed to these reflections as part of the panels or in the audience, but are not included in this themed section: we especially thank (in alphabetical order) Frédéric Giraut, Kirsten Greer, Stephen Hornsby, John Kovacs, Simon Maraud, Margaux Mauclaire, Margaret Pearce, and Randy Restoule. We hope that this themed section will inspire further analysis of spatial capital as it relates to the interface between maps, social space, and Indigenous societies: more than another layer of inscription, the reworking of colonial map worlds profoundly reworks spatial relationships. Notwithstanding the fact that modern mapping largely sprang from a Cartesian coordinate system that does not account for the relationality of people and place, the use of maps and mapping to develop Indigenous spatial capital demonstrates that Indigenous ways of knowing the world are being asserted through what were formerly tools of land grabbing and appropriation. The reversal of these tools is another aspect of the resilience of Indigenous spatial ontologies and promises to shape space and place for decades to come.

该主题问题源于2018年在魁北克举行的一次会议，该会议是在魁北克市召开的国际地理联盟（IGU）和加拿大地理学家协会（CAG）年度大会的联席会议。在文化和政治地理学家对与土著社区参与式制图项目的兴趣日益浓厚的背景下，我们的目标是部署“空间资本”的概念，以了解它是否以及如何为这些举措提供新的思路，从而带来新的理解工作流程 本主题部分代表所进行的交流的一部分。

我们使用法国地理学家雅克·莱维（JacquesLévy ）（2003）对“空间资本”的定义作为出发点来框定对话。类似于布迪厄（1980）的社会资本概念，莱维（2003）（第124页）将空间资本定义为“行为者积累的所有资源，使他/她可以根据其策略利用社会的空间维度。” 列维认为，空间资本是建立在参与者（个人或集体）利用规模和指标的能力的基础上的，并包括通过控制特定地理布置（空间，位置和网络）获得的收益。此外，资本概念所固有的物质和象征性资源的使用，使人们认识到行动者在决策和采取行动方面的自由度，以及他/她改变群体中现有社会等级和地位的权力。拥有一定数量的空间资本可能意味着，例如，居住在给定地点的权利，或者， 2003）。

在IGU-CAG会议期间，我们当然对该概念进行了创造性的改编，摆脱了其占主导地位的经济和功利主义范畴（参见Ripoll和Veschambre  2005； Barthon和Monfroy  2011；Rérat和Lees  2011； Soja等人 2011； Mace）  2017年）。从根本上讲，空间资本的概念不植根于土著空间本体论，而土著空间本体论本身就是小组讨论的基础。然而，当我们将其应用于土著现实时，我们认为该概念具有潜在的启发性意义。毕竟，土著知识从根本上说是一种空间资本的综合形式，并且具有很大的时间深度。的确，在土著环境中，还有其他地方比之如此重要吗？占用殖民地项目核心地带的空间不是必需的符号和物质资源吗？通过重新安置，减少和种族歧视的政治对土著土地和领土的历史剥夺，造成了历史上的不公正以及基本的社会和领土不平等的局面。^日世纪，原住民被剥夺了政治自主权，生活方式，生存手段和空间流动性。例如，游牧的狩猎者和采集者协会（例如魁北克的因努人等）每年可以步行和乘独木舟从圣劳伦斯河到Ungava湾数千公里，并在恶劣的环境中生活。然后回到南方。这些努力显然取决于大量的空间资本。但是，正如科尔·哈里斯（Cole Harris）所言，随着移民社会的兴起，出现了新的人文地理（以测量线，财产边界，道路，农场，城镇和工业为特征），所有这些都从根本上改变了原住民的领土，扩展其空间资本的数量， 2004年，178）。在这种新近界定，控制和“减少”的环境中（Simard  2003），土著人民不仅失去了（部分地）使用了自己的空间资本，而且被剥夺了充分利用占主导地位的物质和象征性资源的权利。社会。

如今，土著人民争取自决权和重新征用祖先领土的斗争发生在复杂的社会和政治环境中，土著土地，领土和领土的物质和文化轮廓不仅在迅速变化，而且还在多样化。这是由于多种因素造成的，其中包括但不限于：城市土著人口的增长；遣返文物；通过对土地和资源的规划，主张和土著管理来扩大自治；土著复兴和与新殖民化形式的斗争，包括正式和非正式，有时是并发的；以及将保护，文化遗产和旅游业转变为领土项目。那么在这种情况下，构成土著领地，领土和主观性？它们如何通过制图过程，制图工具和制图表达并可能（重新）塑形？并在何种程度上绘制了在社会的土著和非土著组成部分之间转移社会，文化和空间类别和等级的杠杆？利用空间资本的视角，我们在会议中的雄心是进一步阐明关于土著语境中地图功能的不断辩论。社会的土著和非土著组成部分之间的空间和空间类别以及等级？利用空间资本的视角，我们在会议中的雄心是进一步阐明关于土著语境中地图功能的不断辩论。社会的土著和非土著组成部分之间的空间和空间类别以及等级？利用空间资本的视角，我们在会议中的雄心是进一步阐明关于土著语境中地图功能的不断辩论。

土著制图作为研究领域出现在1990年代初期，主要出现在英语地理和人类学领域。但是，至少从1960年代开始，适合民族国家的制图手段和程序以及科学制图的标准和规则就对土著人民至关重要。在将自己重新放置在国家和世界地图上时，他们努力找回或巩固行动和存在的空间。然而口述和民族历史资料记载了土著制图如何早于殖民时代，证明了土著社会一直拥有自己的制图传统（Harley  1992 ; Warhus  1997 ; Lewis  1998 ; Louis  2017 ; Lucchesi  2018）。这种提供地理知识的方式不仅是土著社会地理层面的表面记录，而且还考虑了整个土地，包括部落间的效忠和经济关系。土著制图语言通常表现出将人类与非人类，死者与活人联系在一起的关系本体论，常常包括地方的精神成分（Pearce  2008； Hirt  2012）。此外，在北美殖民地，土著领导人将地图（在羊皮和石头上用动物皮，岩石或白桦树皮制成）作为政治文件进行了部署，其战略目标是确认领土权利和现有部落间关系。面对欧洲入侵的条约（Warhus  1997; Steinke  2014）。这些地图并未被殖民地局外人这样对待，而是以“科学沙文主义”的态度对待（Harley  1987，第4页）：尽管殖民者使用了它们可能包含的战略信息，但他们将其视为出于审美品质而被视为好奇心或文化手工艺品（如果有的话），其中大多数最终落入定居者的客厅和阁楼中，或者藏在博物馆收藏中。以这样的方式声名狼藉并被抛在一边，许多重要的文件被遗忘了（Warhus  1997； Steinke  2014）。）。这些广泛的殖民地的沉默已经被新的研究途径的关键制图开业亮相，并通过土著decolonial接近过去几十年中的地图和地图（哈雷 1992年）。

由于土著人民重申他们在20下半年他们的政治和领土权利的斗争^日世纪的战略地图使用的抵制殖民的状态，和其他强大的政治和经济利益相关者，采取了决定性的转折。1960年代和1970年代在加拿大的土地使用和职业研究（LUOS）的传播就是一个很好的例子。后者成为1973年联邦全面土地索赔政策框架内进行的谈判的组成部分，并促进了土著人民扩大计算机制图技术的使用，以此为国家传达其领土（Usher等，  1992 ;迎来 2003年）。代表加拿大的因纽特人，因纽特人Tapiriit Kanatami是最早使用这种方法支持和恢复因纽特人自治的人之一（Freeman，  2011年）。Tobias（2000）强调了参与这类研究以实现有意义的自治的重要性。他认为，LUOS不仅应具有追溯力，即用来记录和解决过去的不公正行为，还应具有前瞻性，作为现在和将来协助和实施该国土地管理工作的一种手段（Tobias  2000，xii）。最近，不列颠哥伦比亚印第安酋长联盟总首长史蒂夫·菲利普（Steward Phillip）强调了土地使用调解中地图的力量（1998年至今），他说：“当您讨论土地使用问题时，第一件事出来的就是地图”（CBC，  2014年）。

从1980年代开始，中美洲和南美洲以及世界其他地区的原住民也大量使用了地图（Chapin等，  2005； Offen，  2009）。社会学家南希·佩卢索（Nancy Peluso（1995））在1990年代初将Dayak的主张映射到印度尼西亚Kalimatan的森林地区和资源。她将这种“高度领土化的战略”称为“反制图”：也就是说，土著人为国家制图技术和代表方式的使用，以增强其习惯主张的合法性，为自己的政治议程服务，以及影响国家的土地和规划政策（Peluso  1995（384）。土著制图文献中“反制图”一词的成功说明了其在各种情况下的有效性，因为它既是概念工具，又是政治计划（Wainwright和Bryan  2009； Kollektiv Orangotango 2018）。因此，反映射做法绝对是土著人民收回空间资本的有力手段。在某些情况下，还可以创造性地动员地图来治愈殖民地创伤（Eades，  2015年），这表明，除了技术和政治能力外，基于地点的知识的质，经验和情感方面也是追求更深层次的地方感的土著空间资本（Pearce and Louis  2008; 约翰逊和拉森（  2013年）。但是，我们不能不加批判地庆祝这种授权。许多作者强调了这样一个事实，即现代制图工具作为一种主要的西方技术科学，如果未得到土著社区和组织的严格批判，也可能导致文化同化或边缘化/沉默（Rundstrom  1995； Johnson等 2005； Louis  2007）。）。

在这个更大的背景下，本节中所包含的贡献在地图绘制方面与土著空间资本的观念各有不同，但互为补充。三篇论文集中于加拿大（其中两篇针对魁北克），另一篇针对阿根廷。Gagnon和Nepton以及Éthier的贡献使我们深入了解了加拿大《综合土地索偿政策》所面临的制图问题。贾斯汀·加格农的访谈（加农 2020）与Pekuakamiulnuatsh原住民的制图师兼土地使用和规划顾问Michel Nepton一起，解释了其社区（魁北克省Mashteuiatsh）在重新评估他们对较大祖先领土的主张时所扮演的角色和范围，超出了储备金。它还揭示了个人将自己的文化遗产和在该地区的终生经验与对空间问题的个人敏感性以及对现代制图技术，工具和语言的掌握相结合的能力。这个例子表明，重新获得土地问题并重建该群体的空间资本意味着文化翻译者的存在，即具有文化多样性的技能和经验并熟悉土著和非土著知识的个人。

BenoitÉthier（2020）的论文将土地权属问题与领土纠缠概念联系在一起，这是当今大多数土著现实的特征。饰演FrançoiseDussart和Sylvie Poirier（2017，5）强调：“了解纠缠在世界各地的生活方式，可以说明如何通过与现代性和新自由主义相遇，土著与非土著之间顽固的对立以及其他做法和做法的接近来重塑土著知识和实践。与习惯土地的交往。” 在与省和联邦政府进行地域性谈判的背景下，埃斯蒂尔对阿提卡姆科克·内罗威西沃克和魁北克人之间的“遭遇”进行了详细分析。面对魁北克政府在其祖先领土上的土地使用权和法律制度的叠加（Nitaskinan），Nehirowisiwok别无选择，只能制作“政治地图”以使自己定位于政府要求的前面； 2016 ; 还看到汤姆 2009年，  2014年）。埃斯蒂尔提出的另一个有趣的观点是，访问尼斯塔斯基南（Nistaskinan）进行休闲活动的“普通”魁北克人在很大程度上不了解内罗威西沃克（Nehirowisiwok）的祖传权利。最后，埃赛尔（Éthier）还证明绘制殖民地纠缠图有助于“重新构造”土著领土（Thom，  2014年）：尽管制作的地图并不完全符合阿蒂卡梅科的领土，但它们代表了向年轻人传承知识的创新手段。因此，Nehirowisiwok适应并重塑了他们在当代世界中的领土惯例。

将我们带到阿根廷威奇人中的美洲南锥体，阿尔贝托·普雷西（2020年），反过来又强调，世代相传，现代化和城市化也可能引起纠缠和矛盾，从而影响和区分年轻人和老年人与该领土的关系。威奇人制作的地图用来重申他们在陆地上的存在并寻求法律承认，这给了他们独特的视野。然而，制图的表现使威奇的土地成为一个静态而有限的网络，尽管“年轻一代”已经迁移到新的村庄，那里更容易获得基础设施和基本服务，但“在地图上没有新的中心”。普雷西（Preci）认为，威奇人的未来和自决决定于他们现在冻结的地图制图表达和地图的执行范围。 2014）。像其他许多国家一样，威奇人的情况表明，负责土地和谈判的政府和国家行为者主要负责使土著身份和领土的本质化，而没有考虑到其社会的不断转变（以及权利这些转换）。但与此同时，土著人民也面临着提出替代地图的挑战，这些地图代表着多种多样的土著领土和多个空间首都。这意味着对地图的性能有一种批判性的认识：使用Crampton和Krygier（2006），“地图使现实尽可能多地表现为现实。” 而且通过影响我们对世界的观念，它们也有助于产生身份（Pickles  1995）。这是一把双刃剑，在政治上动员地图时通常是这样：测绘过程和工具可以创建或加强土著知识和权威，这是不可否认的，因为世界各地的土著社区和组织在与地图的斗争中赢得了胜利。但是事实仍然是，地图还可以以牺牲土著人民为代价来增强殖民地的类别，刻板印象和等级制度。

最后，麦克古克和卡夸德（McGurk and Caquard，2020）的贡献使数字地图和在线制图脱颖而出，他们展示了在线地图对土著人民的潜力和局限性。他们使用Linda Tuhiwai Smith在她的著作《非殖民化方法》（2002年）。他们证明了数字在线地图有效地增强了土著人民的能力：首先，因为它们可以更好地控制其知识和领土的表示方式；其次，因为数字地图和在线地图更好地传达了讲故事的方式，这是在土著人民中建立知识的一种特权方式，例如通过将地名与音频或视频链接在一起，从而限制了口头知识的去上下文化。但是，数字在线地图并不能克服土著人民对非土著伙伴的依赖性，而且该领域仍然是“男性”。McGurk和Caquard指出，由于现在可以使用的多种格式，日常生活中无处不在的地图在过去几十年中对土著制图产生了重大影响。 2006年）意味着各种空间本体论和世界观正在被标准化（Noucher  2017）。另一方面，如图所示，在线制图和多媒体制图可以更好地说明土著知识，领土和本体。这使我们超越了将制图学视为纯粹的技术科学和同化的潜在工具的想法，还考虑了土著人民使用多样化和混合地理知识和技术系统的创造潜力（Palmer  2012）。这也证实了制图学对殖民地进行同化和剥夺的潜力不在于制图技术本身，而在于各国在土地谈判框架内施加的法律要求和领土本体。最终，两位作者都提出了强势角色的模棱两可的角色，并增加了影响力，例如谷歌（“四大”科技公司之一），这在加拿大尤为突出。

我们不能不提及作为小组成员或听众而对这些反思做出贡献的各种人，但是并未包括在本主题部分中：我们特别感谢（按字母顺序）FrédéricGiraut，Kirsten Greer，Stephen Hornsby，John Kovacs，Simon Maraud，Margaux Mauclaire，Margaret Pearce和Randy Restoule。我们希望这个主题部分能够激发对空间资本的进一步分析，因为它与地图，社会空间和土著社会之间的接口有关：殖民地地图世界的重塑不只是铭文的另一层，还深刻地重塑了空间关系。尽管现代地图很大程度上是从笛卡尔坐标系产生的，而笛卡尔坐标系并没有考虑人与地方的关系，利用地图和地图来发展土著空间资本的事实表明，通过以前的土地掠夺和挪用工具确立了了解世界的土著方式。这些工具的逆转是土著空间本体论复原力的另一个方面，并有望在未来几十年内塑造空间和位置。