The Blackfoot philosopher Leroy Little Bear (born c1943) compares the human brain to a transistor radio capable of tuning into only one frequency at a time.1 Yet all around us exists a diverse chorus of signals — silent voices from animals, rocks, trees, even rivers — communicating ceaselessly. Arising from the philosophy of the Blackfoot people (a confederacy of Indigenous peoples from the North American Plains), Little Bear’s metaphor poses a provocative question: What might we discover if we learnt to listen beyond our narrow human bandwidth?Historically, the Western philosophical tradition has tuned out much of the natural signals around us by adopting a stance known as anthropocentrism — the belief that human beings are the central or most significant entities in the world. Since the Enlightenment (1685–1789), this human-centred perspective has influenced Western thought, often leading to the view that nature exists primarily as a resource to be controlled or exploited.However, across many Indigenous traditions, such as the Lakota of North America, the Māori of Aotearoa New Zealand, the Cree of Canada, and the Hawaiian peoples, a different understanding of the world has long prevailed. Although there is great diversity across these regions and cultures, it makes sense to talk of a single Indigenous Epistemology (roughly, embedded knowledge arising from lived or inherited traditions) because of their common themes.At the heart of this Indigenous Epistemology is the idea of kinship — a relationship that extends beyond humans to include animals, plants, landscapes, and even objects that Western thought might consider inanimate. In this worldview, humans are not central, nor are they superior to other beings. Kinship is rooted in reciprocity: the belief that what is taken from the world must also be given back. This might mean caring for land, honouring animals, or performing rituals to protect water sources — practices that sustain balance and uphold the well-being of the natural world.Many Indigenous cultures express the value of reciprocity through everyday practices and culturally specific terms. Among the Māori of Aotearoa New Zealand, the concept of utu refers to maintaining social balance, whether by returning a favour, repaying a slight, or offering a gift; it is a way of keeping relationships even. The Anishinaabe speak of minobimaatisiwin, often translated as ‘the good life’, which is understood as living well by fulfilling one’s responsibilities to family, community, and the natural world. In Hawaiian culture, aloha ʻāina means ‘love of the land’, and is often expressed through caring for the environment as an act of loyalty and respect. It pairs closely with pono, a term for moral balance — doing what is right not just for oneself, but for the collective. Across these traditions, reciprocity is not abstract: it is a part of everyday decisions, from how one harvests food to how one responds to a neighbour.If the idea of kinship (as described above) extends to animals, landscapes, and even inanimate matter, then it may also extend, at least in principle, to Artificial Intelligence. This possibility introduces a new kind of ethical mindset: one where technologies are not simply tools, but potential relations. Among some Indigenous communities, this idea is already being taken seriously.2 They ask whether AI should be treated like a younger sibling or an elder — not as a metaphor, but as a question that carries practical and spiritual consequences for how one interacts with a being that thinks, learns, and acts.Among the Cree, the idea of welcoming AI into the circle of kin is approached with caution — and for good reason. Technologies, particularly those developed for state surveillance or corporate profit, have sometimes reinforced unequal power structures, marginalised Indigenous voices, or contributed to environmental degradation. If AI is seen not simply as a machine, but as an extension of these histories (that is, a product of systems designed to dominate rather than relate), then it becomes difficult to accept AI within a framework of kinship. How can one embrace a relationship that arrives embedded in the patterns of exploitation?Within Hawaiian epistemology, while their values do not oppose technology itself, the principle of pono conflicts with how AI is currently developed, particularly when open-source models become the foundation for proprietary systems funded by private capital and commercial interests. At the heart of pono is the idea that right relationships must be maintained, not only between individuals, but also between people, land, and the broader community. This balance cannot be achieved if technological systems serve only a narrow few. From this perspective, ethical AI development would begin by asking: who benefits, who is harmed, and what relationships are sustained or broken in the process?Within Lakota traditions, technology (including AI) is not viewed as inert or soulless, but as part of a spiritual world alive with presence.3 This perspective rejects the dominant mindset that treats non-human entities as inferior or lacking interiority. In Lakota thought, animals, rocks, rivers, and even weapons are understood to carry spirit, as a lived reality grounded in ceremony and kinship. AI, as a created entity, enters this spiritual ecosystem. It is not simply a tool to be exploited, but something with which we are in relationship. And like all relationships, it calls for respect, attention, and a commitment to equity rather than control.The question, then, is not how to control AI, but how to relate to it as part of our circle of kinship.In many Indigenous traditions, what we build is never separate from the resources consumed in its production. Although defined by written lines of code, AI begins in the earth — in lithium, cobalt, copper, silicon, and rare earth elements drawn from deep below the surface. To enter into kinship with AI is also to reckon with this material ancestry: not only the data that trains it, but the mines that hollow mountains, the rivers disrupted by extraction, and the balance that must one day be restored.