If anyone drives in England, it will soon become apparent that straight roads are a rarity. Most roads curve, and many wiggle one way and then the other with great frequency. None of this is unusual in an English road. Even modern main roads and motorways (the English term for “freeways”) are hardly ever straight. I am English, and I love the organic feel of English roads, which contain within their twists and turns the history of previous usage. The roads often follow the paths that cows might have taken, or the most natural gradient of a slope, or the boundary between two land holdings that developed over centuries. The path of many modern roads in England was set by meanderings of animals centuries, even in some cases, millennia, ago. This non-ordered approach to planning is deeply interwoven in the British planning psyche, insofar as even modern estates are full of curves rather than right-angles.
However, occasionally, when driving through the cats-cradle of English roads, you will suddenly come to a dead straight road, and it is then that you know that the Romans have been here before you. The Roman Army occupied nearly all of modern-day England, as well as much of Wales. To occupy the land successfully, a network of roads was created. All of them were as straight as it was possible to be. This had two main advantages. First, a straight line meant that the army could travel quickly. Second, removing trees along the route to either side of the road meant that ambush was virtually impossible. These were military roads of the occupying power. It did not matter to them one bit that the road might cut through land that someone was using. Only the Romans truly built straight, cutting through the landscape, for they came to conquer and control, rather than to live with any existing system.
Although I spent several decades driving in England, I visited North America a number of times, and I currently live in Vancouver. I am used to driving in Canada, and occasionally I’ve made the trip from Vancouver, along Highway 99, across the border at Peace Arch, and down the I-5 to Seattle. For someone from England, it’s jarring that the route is along a remarkably straight road. And in common with most North American cities, Vancouver and Seattle are planned on a right-angled grid system. All over the continent, highways plot very direct routes between one city and another. Occasionally a concession is made to go around some natural barrier, but wherever possible, the most direct route is chosen. It could be said that this is just good sense. It makes good use of available space, it makes for easy navigation, and it makes for shorter and easier journeys. All of that is true, except that it all relies on the idea of terra nullius, the idea that Canada and the USA were empty until the settlers arrived.
The essential idea of finding an empty land is that if a land is empty and no person has any claim over it, then the one who occupies it can use it as they see fit. Today, questions might be asked about the environmental impact of certain things that could be done with land, but these only became mainstream questions in the very recent past. It is now acknowledged that the land of North America (nor South America, nor Australia) was certainly not terra nullius when Europeans arrived around five hundred years ago. And yet, the straight roads that were built and still are built today all over the continent belie this fact. Such a road network inevitably cuts through existing land use and rights. Such a road network can only be built by an Empire that seeks to dominate the land in which it has arrived. It is interesting that in North America, such Empire techniques for road construction persist even in an era that is (in theory) seeking to move away from the idea of terra nullius, and in a place that dislikes (again, in theory) the very notion of Empires. The visual of the road systems tells its own story. It spells out “Empire” on the landscape. It is deeply ironic that a large part of this imperial road-building began in the minds of Englishmen who were more or less total strangers to the concept of a straight road at home, but “Empire” is not “home.”
The roadways of North America tell a story of Empire that is simply a part of the meta-narrative, and which is inevitably imbibed as we simply move around. We can get from A to B quickly and easily because we do not have to pay any attention to the people whose ancient land the road happens to go through, frequently land about which no treaties were made. Because the roads are straight, it is easy simply to focus on the destination, forgetting the land in between. What is more, the story the roads tell is of a unified land, and of land that is at peace. And yet, this is only the case for those who are part of the dominant story, those for whom the story is one of the West being won. If the land and the ancient stories were paid attention to, the roads would follow old pathways developed organically, or would have been built in consultation with indigenous peoples, maybe along approximately agreed borders between their lands. The resulting roads would be far from straight.
The legacy of Empire, manifested in the straight roads and gridded cities of North America, stands in stark contrast to ancient trails. This juxtaposition is not merely a matter of aesthetics or efficiency; it is a reflection of differing worldviews. The imperial approach seeks to impose order, often disregarding existing relationships with the land. In contrast, indigenous paths embody a deep connection to the land, formed through generations of intimate interaction with the environment. The stories of the land, both ancient and modern, reveal a complex tapestry of occupation, resistance, and resilience. Indigenous narratives speak of a sacred relationship with the land, where every feature of the landscape is imbued with meaning and history. These stories have persisted despite the efforts of colonial powers to suppress them. They offer a vision of coexistence and sustainability that is quite different from the extractive and dominating impulses of Empire.
What should Christians in Cascadia do about these things? And firstly, why should they care? There are multiple reasons, but consideration should be made of at least the doctrines of creation and incarnation, as well as of Jesus’ teachings. The Christian doctrine of creation tells us that God is the creator of all. Some of our forebears assumed that their (white, European) race was superior to all others, and that this meant that domination of the world, her resources, and her peoples, was fair game. But this is wildly heretical. No one race of humans is superior to another, for all are children of the same God, who was especially present in the human being known as Jesus. Jesus was a particular human, from a particular race, at a particular time. In the Gospels, we see Jesus generally talking with his own people, but his mission was in fact wider than this, and wider than he seems to have realised at first.
Jesus himself first rebuffs a Syrophoenician woman seeking healing for her daughter on racial grounds with the truly horrible phrase, “Let the children be satisfied first. It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs” (Mark 7:27). Even in the face of this, she persists. Somewhat debasing herself, and yet in desperation for her daughter, she responds, “Even the dogs under the table eat the crumbs from the children.” (Mark 7:28). Jesus then declares her daughter healed, and after this, he sets off on a tour of the Decapolis, a region full of Gentiles, and of Jews who lived very Hellenistic lifestyles. It is a moment at which the true scope of Christ’s mission is realised by him. Others are not lesser. In creation, all are children of God, and Jesus came as a human, yes a particular human, but a human for all humans, and God for all humans too.
This realization of the wideness of his own work is evidenced in Jesus’ parables and teachings. The figure of the Samaritan comes up in several of Jesus’ parables and stories about Jesus. Jesus’ audience would have understood Samaritans to be “other” and “lesser.” And yet, this figure is sometimes the hero in the Gospels. Think of the parable usually known as “the Good Samaritan” (Luke 10:25-37). Or think of the one leper who returned to say thank you to Jesus for healing him. This man was a Samaritan (Luke 17:11-19). Or think of the Woman at the Well (John 4:1-42), also a Samaritan. Even when a Samaritan village refuses to receive Jesus (Luke 9:51-56), he does not allow the hotheaded disciples to pray for their destruction, but simply moves on. The parable of the Good Samaritan is given in response to the question, “who is my neighbour?” Jesus shows that neighbourliness, fellowship, fraternity, exists beyond racial lines. “The other” is not so other after all.
The modern highways and urban grids that crisscross North America are a testament to the enduring influence of colonial mindsets. They facilitate rapid movement and economic growth, yet they also perpetuate a disconnection from the land and its original stewards. This disconnection is not without consequence. The environmental degradation and social injustices that accompany such development are a stark reminder of the cost of ignoring the wisdom embedded in indigenous stories.
The process of decolonization is complex and multifaceted, requiring both systemic change and personal transformation. It involves rethinking our relationship with the land, recognizing the sovereignty of indigenous peoples, and committing to practices that promote justice and sustainability. This is not something that settler-derived communities and peoples can do on their own, but rather they need to enter into the hard work of relationship with the first peoples of the land. There are good humanitarian, but also good Christian, reasons to want to do this. It is a journey that calls for humility, empathy, and a willingness to listen and learn from those whose stories have too often been silenced.
The enstoried highways of Cascadia are a symbol of the ongoing struggle between competing narratives of land and identity. The land was not terra nullius, but it was treated as though it were. By engaging with the reality of the stories of the land we can begin to envision a future where the land is honored, a future where all its inhabitants can thrive. It is a future that requires us to move beyond the legacy of Empire and toward a more just and harmonious relationship with the land and each other. The road ahead may be winding and challenging, but it is a path worth traveling.
Cover photo credit: Clay Banks
