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    <title>Current Affairs</title>
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    <language>en</language>
    
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  <title>Restoring Lost Lands</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/land-back</link>
  <description>&lt;div class="row bs-1col-stacked"&gt;
  

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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-story-category field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;Current Affairs&lt;/div&gt;
      
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      &lt;span&gt;Restoring Lost Lands&lt;/span&gt;

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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-nothing"&gt;&lt;span class="views-label views-label-nothing"&gt;From Issue:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="field-content"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/issues/spring-2023" class="link--to-issue"&gt;
&lt;span class="from--issue-story"&gt;
Spring 2023
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&lt;span class="issue-identifier"&gt;
Vol. 24 No. 1
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Margarita Martín-Hidalgo Birnbaum&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In northern Minnesota, lush woodlands along Nett Lake are part of the Bois Forte Band of Chippewa nation. For more than a century, a significant portion of this area where these people's ancestors hunted, foraged and fished had been in the hands of timber companies. In June 2022, the Bois Forte Band purchased more than 28,000 acres of these cherished forests—the largest amount of ancestral land that any Native nation in the United States has yet recovered since colonists began taking it more than 400 years ago.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodefield-story-slideshow-images clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      

&lt;div id="slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_aerielview.jpg?itok=fslYgP0g" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_aerielview.jpg?itok=rkNspHh1" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_aerielview.jpg?itok=rkNspHh1" alt="Aerial view of the wilderness surrounding Nett Lake." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The rich woodlands around Nett Lake on the Bois Forte Band of Chippewa lands are culturally and environmentally vital.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of The Conservation Fund&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The rich woodlands around Nett Lake on the Bois Forte Band of Chippewa lands are culturally and environmentally vital.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of The Conservation Fund&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_harvestingrice.jpg?itok=XKWInme4" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"720","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_harvestingrice.jpg?itok=eqSS9QNr" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_harvestingrice.jpg?itok=eqSS9QNr" alt="A man uses sticks to pull wild rice stalks over his canoe." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="456" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;On Nett Lake, Donald Chosa Jr. uses a pair of sticks to pull wild rice stalks over to catch grains of rice in the canoe.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;On Nett Lake, Donald Chosa Jr. uses a pair of sticks to pull wild rice stalks over to catch grains of rice in the canoe.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_wildricefieldtrip.jpg?itok=8cApycim" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"835","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_wildricefieldtrip.jpg?itok=3PqVWIqY" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_wildricefieldtrip.jpg?itok=3PqVWIqY" alt="Two men stir wild rice while a group of kids watches." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="719" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Shawn Jensen and Gordy Adams use paddles to constantly stir the newly harvested wild rice to keep it from burning while it is parched over a fire.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Shawn Jensen and Gordy Adams use paddles to constantly stir the newly harvested wild rice to keep it from burning while it is parched over a fire.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_wildrice.jpg?itok=0NJGd6Dv" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"797","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_wildrice.jpg?itok=EkHMJ09V" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_wildrice.jpg?itok=EkHMJ09V" alt="A close up of the dried wild rice." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="753" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Once the rice is dried, it is ready for cooking.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Once the rice is dried, it is ready for cooking.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_speech.jpg?itok=a1QJjduG" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"927","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_speech.jpg?itok=ccS-W_2R" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_speech.jpg?itok=ccS-W_2R" alt="A woman speaks at a podium." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="647" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bois Forte Band of Chippewa Chairwoman Cathy Chavers talks about the importance of the return of the 28,000 acres of land to her people during a ceremony to mark the event held on June 8, 2022,
next to Nett Lake.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bois Forte Band of Chippewa Chairwoman Cathy Chavers talks about the importance of the return of the 28,000 acres of land to her people during a ceremony to mark the event held on June 8, 2022,&lt;br /&gt;
next to Nett Lake.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_boisfortemapposter.jpg?itok=AmT1mB5d" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"801","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_boisfortemapposter.jpg?itok=Fs6D5B5J" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_boisfortemapposter.jpg?itok=Fs6D5B5J" alt="A council member points to a map of recently purchased lands." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="749" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Former Bois Forte Band Tribal Council Member Peter Boney (&lt;em&gt;far right&lt;/em&gt;) shows ceremony attendees which parcels of land were recently purchased.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Brian K. Anderson, Bois Forte News&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Former Bois Forte Band Tribal Council Member Peter Boney (&lt;em&gt;far right&lt;/em&gt;) shows ceremony attendees which parcels of land were recently purchased.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Brian K. Anderson, Bois Forte News&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--6 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_drummers.jpg?itok=RtJPI2jp" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"799","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_drummers.jpg?itok=P-hYDi3q" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_drummers.jpg?itok=P-hYDi3q" alt="Drummers sit in a circle and play." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="751" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;As part of the ceremony, the Bois Forte Drum Group play a song commemorating the restoration of tribal land along Nett Lake.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;As part of the ceremony, the Bois Forte Drum Group play a song commemorating the restoration of tribal land along Nett Lake.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Mark Sauer, Courtesy of Mesabi Tribune&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--7 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_sunsetlake.jpg?itok=z1c2NFWA" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_sunsetlake.jpg?itok=OYsRZ6rF" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_sunsetlake.jpg?itok=OYsRZ6rF" alt="A man wades in a lake at sunset." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe successfully petitioned to put about 320 acres of ancestral lands in New England in trust for its people.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe successfully petitioned to put about 320 acres of ancestral lands in New England in trust for its people.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--8 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_brianweeden.jpg?itok=huRQ91o6" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_brianweeden.jpg?itok=xkrhSL_z" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_brianweeden.jpg?itok=xkrhSL_z" alt="Portrait of Tribe Chairman Brian Weeden in the wilderness." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe Chairman Brian Weeden helped lead the fight to get access to his people’s lands.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe Chairman Brian Weeden helped lead the fight to get access to his people’s lands.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--9 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2023-04/gallery_lakeshore.jpg?itok=vsBSA_Co" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-826-story-slideshow-images-default-2"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_lakeshore.jpg?itok=KD5Vh96I" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2023-04/gallery_lakeshore.jpg?itok=KD5Vh96I" alt="The Nett Lake riverbank lined with orange and yellowing trees in the fall." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Bois Forte Band of Chippewa’s woodlands and waters, such as these of Lake Vermilion, are critical hunting and fishing areas.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Thomas Hill Jr. (&lt;a href="http://www.americaslakevermilion.com"&gt;www.americaslakevermilion.com&lt;/a&gt;)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Bois Forte Band of Chippewa’s woodlands and waters, such as these of Lake Vermilion, are critical hunting and fishing areas.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Thomas Hill Jr. (&lt;a href="http://www.americaslakevermilion.com"&gt;www.americaslakevermilion.com&lt;/a&gt;)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" 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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Such land recovery is vital for Native nations, not only to make them whole but also for their people to maintain bonds with their forebears and cultural traditions. For many Indigenous people, land “is our identity,” said Bois Forte Band Chairwoman Cathy Chavers. “Without it, we are lost.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Often this land is not only of great cultural but economic importance. The Bois Forte Reservation has three areas: Nett Lake, Deer Creek and Vermilion. Nett Lake is known for its hand-harvested wild rice. Chavers remembers her family harvesting this rice for its business when she was a girl and has passed this tradition on to family members. “Our ancestors are looking down on us,” she said. “I’m sure they are smiling.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Bois Forte Band’s success is just one example of tribes recovering or gaining access to ancestral lands that has gained public attention during the past few years. For example, in 2016, the federal government put the sacred site of Pe’ Sla in the Black Hills of South Dakota in trust for the Oceti Sakowin people. In 2019, the &lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/wiyot"&gt;Wiyot Tribe&lt;/a&gt; recovered its Tuluwat Island on California’s northern coast, where many tribal members had been massacred in 1860. The Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes also regained management of nearly 18,800 acres of bison range on their Flathead Indian Reservation in western Montana in 2020.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;But the return of ancestral lands and their management to tribal nations isn’t necessarily reflective of a trend. The struggle for Indigenous nations to recover their lands has been going on for centuries.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;The Beginnings of Loss&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Many scholars of Native American law trace the origin of U.S. legislation and policies to take Indigenous lands to the Doctrine of Discovery. The Catholic Church developed this international law from papal bulls, or edicts, to justify taking land from non-Christian peoples as Spain and Portugal began their exploration of Africa and the Americas during the mid- to late 1400s. This enabled them and future colonialists to buy or even take lands that they perceived as not being owned, ignoring the sovereignty of Native nations and the rights of Indigenous peoples.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The doctrine played a significant part in an 1823 U.S. Supreme Court case, Johnson v. M’Intosh, in which two men claimed ownership of the same parcel of land that had been owned by the Illinois and Piankeshaw Tribes. In the first of three cases known as The Marshall Trilogy, the court ruled in favor of the defendant, stating the Doctrine of Discovery held that tribal nations did not possess full ownership of their lands once Europeans “discovered” them.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When the colonists arrived,“this continent was not empty,” said Robert Miller, a member of the Eastern Shawnee Tribe of Oklahoma and professor of law at the Sandra Day O’Connor School of Law at Arizona State University. He and other legal experts have said that the influence of the 1823 opinion is evident in Supreme Court rulings that have spurred federal policies that deny Native nations ownership of ancestral lands—even those that they consider sacred sites—as well as land ownership and development regulations.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The U.S. Supreme Court’s decisions have had lasting implications for tribal sovereignty, in part because it held that the peoples of Native nations were dependents of the U.S. government, said Lauren van Schilfgaarde, a member of the Pueblo de Cochiti and professor at the School of Law at the University of California, Los Angeles. However, it also confirmed that Native nations are sovereign, with their own civil and criminal legal systems as well as regulatory powers, including rules for fishing, hunting, zoning and wildland management.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“There was still a pragmatic need to engage with tribal people as sovereign nations, which is why you see the British crown, the French as well as the United States negotiate with tribes via an international instrument of treaties,” Schilfgaarde said.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In addition to such rulings, much tribal land has been lost since Europeans landed in North America because many Indigenous peoples were forced into signing treaties written in English or other languages they didn’t understand. The consequence was they didn’t realize they were relinquishing part or all of their lands. Other treaties that were guaranteeing lands to tribes have simply been ignored.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The United States still interprets the Doctrine of Discovery as valid international law. However, after centuries of appeals by Indigenous peoples, the Catholic Church finally denounced it on March 30, 2023. Pope Francis stated, “Never again can the Christian community allow itself to be infected by the idea that one culture is superior to others.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Roadblocks to Land Recovery&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;That an individual could have exclusive use of land rather than sharing it with their tribe was a foreign concept to many Indigenous peoples. But after colonists arrived in the Americas, tribes were forced into proving ownership of their lands to maintain their rights to use them.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Today, within what are now tribal reservations in the United States, many individuals, companies, states or the federal government may own sections of land. This is in part due to the passage of the 1887 Dawes Act, named after Massachusetts Senator Henry L. Dawes. Also known as the General Allotment Act, this law enabled the U.S. president to break up tribal land and parcel it out to heads of household or other individual tribal members. Once each eligible member was assigned an allotment, the federal government declared the remainder of reservation land as “in excess of Indian needs” and took it to sell to private companies or state or county governments or opened it for homesteading. What couldn’t be sold became public lands such as national parks. This has resulted in the complicated “checkerboarding” of reservations, in which parcels of land belong to different, and often nontribal, owners.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We want our community to be a reflection of our culture,” said Rjay Brunkow, a member of the Turtle Mountain Tribe of Chippewa and CEO of Indian Land Capital Company, a Native-owned institution that provides loans to Native nations for tribal land acquisition and economic development projects. He said the allotment system that resulted from the Dawes Act is “an interruption of that culture.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Another obstacle for Native nations to reclaim tribal territories include the requirement that the U.S. government has designated them as a federally recognized American Indian tribe. Gaining federal recognition can be an arduous and expensive process. For example, the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe in southeastern Massachusetts lost a lawsuit against the federal government to recover a part of their lands during the late 1970s, in part because it wasn’t at that time a federally recognized tribe.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe finally received federal recognition in 2007. This enabled it to successfully petition the U.S. government to put about 320 acres of ancestral lands in New England in a tribal trust. The land under the designation includes the historic cemetery where many tribal members are buried and the Mashpee Wampanoag Indian Museum, which is next to a herring run critical to the tribe’s cultural heritage.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yet not all tribes can afford the application process for federal recognition, said Chairman Brian Weeden. “We all know how today’s world and society works: you have to hire the best of the best now, it seems, to get what you need,” he said.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Even following procedures doesn’t always mean that tribal properties will be permanently protected. After the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe was allowed to put these newly recovered acres into trust, the Trump administration rescinded its status in trust and the Mashpee Wampanoag people once again had to fight for access to their lands. In 2021, the Biden administration restored the trust’s status and the Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland, a member of the Pueblo of Laguna, upheld that decision.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Even if lands are available for purchase outright from private owners, getting access to capital to buy ancestral lands back isn’t always easy for Native nations. Brunkow said mainstream lending institutions may not provide loans to tribes in part because they don’t think they will keep up with their payments, or if they do lend money to the tribe, they will charge a higher interest rate or require that their land generate a profit.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Indian Land Capital Company works with the Indian Land Tenure Foundation, an organization striving to reform laws that inhibit tribes from recovering their lands. Brunkow said these organizations are committed to giving Native nations “the same opportunity to participate in this economy that other entities have.” The Indian Land Capital Company doesn’t ask tribes to put up their property as collateral, guarantee that the land they wish to purchase generate a profit or even fill out an application for them to obtain a loan. “We don’t ever put their land at risk,” he said. “We’ll find another way.” Yet, Brunkow said in his experience working with Native nations, none has ever defaulted on a loan, even throughout the COVID-19 pandemic.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“It is really more of a privilege to go around to talk to Native nations and tribal leaders about their hopes and aspirations to make their community a better place,” said Brunkow. He said they have “community pride and that sense of being part of something bigger. This is a legacy that they will leave their children and grandchildren.”&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;figure role="group" class="align-center"&gt;
&lt;img alt="A map showing owned and restored reservation lands." data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="6cb9eddb-e650-4fd8-af76-4c4f3b73bee8" height="518" src="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/inline-images/gallery_map_1.jpg" width="800" /&gt;
&lt;figcaption&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The Checkerboarding of Tribal Reservations&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
The reservations of Native nations are often thought to be composed of lands that belong entirely to the tribes. However, many today look more like a checkerboard, with different parcels belonging to different owners, many of whom may not be members of that tribe. The Bois Forte Band of Chippewa entered into a treaty with the United States in 1854 that set aside an area around Lake Vermilion as its reservation. In its 1866 treaty with the United States, the band reserved the Nett Lake and Deer Creek areas as well. However, just 20 years later, the U.S. government began dividing up the reservation and selling parcels to homesteaders and companies. The PotlatchDeltic timber company owned much forest land on the reservation, 28,089 acres of which were recovered in June 2022 (in red).&lt;/figcaption&gt;
&lt;/figure&gt;

&lt;h2&gt; &lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;The ‘Holy Grail’&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The purchase of the Bois Forte Band’s lands was made possible through a partnership with the Indian Land Tenure Foundation, the Indian Land Capital Company and The Conservation Fund, a nonprofit organization that works to enable projects that are economically and environmentally sound and of cultural importance. The Conservation Fund was able to purchase the lands from the PotlatchDeltic timber company and then sell these lands to the tribe. The clincher was that these 28,089 acres of forest are an excellent carbon sink—they sequester carbon from the atmosphere—so they qualify for a state program that will pay the tribe not to harvest its trees. Then when the National Indian Carbon Coalition said that the forest could qualify for a significant amount of carbon credits that the tribe could then sell to heavy carbon dioxide producers such as coal factories to pay for its debt.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“This whole thing came together literally like finding the Holy Grail,” said Cris Stainbrook, a member of the Oglala Lakota Nation and the president of the Indian Land Tenure Foundation. “The band comes out with their land, the environment is better for having the carbon sequestered, and the Indian Land Capital Company grew their capital availability by a substantial amount.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“I would say [Bois Forte Band land acquisition] has been the capstone of my entire 40-year career,” said Kim Berns-Melhus, the Minnesota state director for The Conservation Fund who reached out to the Bois Forte Band about the possible land sale.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The circumstances of the Bois Forte Band reclamation were unique in that it not only happened so quickly but that all the stars aligned to make it possible at nearly no cost to the tribe. Stainbrook and Brunkow said it was highly unlikely that they would see a similar transaction in their lifetime. Still, future generations may have more success recovering ancestral tribal lands from private individuals or entities than federal or state governments in part because many tribes can’t afford hefty prices or attorney’s fees to challenge federal and state laws and violations of treaties.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Despite the challenges tribes face in recovering ancestral lands, Chavers and Weeden both said that are looking to acquire more. “We’re not done yet,” said Chavers. Today, the Bois Forte Band of Chippewa has about between 40 percent and 50 percent of its ancestral lands. The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe has control of about 1 percent of its traditional region.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;As Indigenous youth learn more about their heritage and awareness of “land back” issues spreads, Chavers said she hopes they follow in the footsteps of Haaland and pursue careers that give them a seat at the table in federal agencies that regulate tribal land ownership and management. “We don’t want to be invisible anymore,” she said. “We want to be seen and heard—and understood.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Ultimately, Chavers said, being able to manage ancestral areas allows Indigenous peoples to fulfill their duty as protectors and stewards of the natural world, an obligation their families and elders have instilled in them for generations. “If something happens to those natural resources and they can’t come back, that’s a huge loss,” Chavers said. “For everybody—not just tribes.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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Margarita Martín-Hidalgo Birnbaum
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-description"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Margarita Martín-Hidalgo Birnbaum is a freelance writer and Spanish-speaking inter-preter based in Dallas, Texas. x’unei lance twitchell (Tlingit/Haida/Yup’ik), professor of Alaska Native Languages, University of Alaska Southeast, provided the poem’s translation.&lt;/p&gt;

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  <pubDate>Fri, 07 Apr 2023 20:09:19 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>EhrlichK</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">826 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>A Sacred Pilgrimage: Lummi Carvers Take a Totem Pole Cross-Country to Stop Degradation of  Native Lands</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/a-sacred-pilgrimage</link>
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    &lt;div id="story--background-image" class="col-sm-12 col-md-12 col-lg-12 bs-region bs-region--top"&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-story-category field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;Current Affairs&lt;/div&gt;
      
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      &lt;span&gt;A Sacred Pilgrimage: Lummi Carvers Take a Totem Pole Cross-Country to Stop Degradation of  Native Lands&lt;/span&gt;

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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-nothing"&gt;&lt;span class="views-label views-label-nothing"&gt;From Issue:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="field-content"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/issues/fall-2021" class="link--to-issue"&gt;
&lt;span class="from--issue-story"&gt;
Fall 2021
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Vol. 22 No. 3
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Aaron Levin&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;This past year, a 25-foot totem pole traveled 20,000 miles across the United States to amplify the need to protect sacred Native sites on public and tribal lands. Brought to Washington, D.C., this enduring piece of Lummi culture is a powerful reminder of the importance of including Indigenous voices in preserving these lands.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
  &lt;/section&gt;

&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodefield-story-slideshow-images clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      

&lt;div id="slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/opener_1.jpg?itok=eMS-WgvS" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"771","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/opener_1.jpg?itok=zvk5A-aJ" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/opener_1.jpg?itok=zvk5A-aJ" alt="A Lummi totem pole in Washington state" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="488" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 14:&lt;/strong&gt; Lummi House of Tears Carvers totem pole embarks on its cross-country journey from Washington state to Washington, D.C.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of the Red Road to D.C./The Natural History Museum&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 14:&lt;/strong&gt; Lummi House of Tears Carvers totem pole embarks on its cross-country journey from Washington state to Washington, D.C.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of the Red Road to D.C./The Natural History Museum&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/lummiNation_01.jpg?itok=nXmAkvXH" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"797","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/lummiNation_01.jpg?itok=1YGquw2O" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/lummiNation_01.jpg?itok=1YGquw2O" alt="Lummi brothers Douglas and Jewell James painting the totem pole they carved" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="753" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Lummi Nation, Washington

&lt;p&gt;Lummi carvers Douglas (foreground) and Jewell James created the totem pole that traveled cross-country. Members of the community helped paint it.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Phreddie Lane&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Lummi Nation, Washington&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;Lummi carvers Douglas (foreground) and Jewell James created the totem pole that traveled cross-country. Members of the community helped paint it.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Phreddie Lane&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/lummiNation_02.jpg?itok=iFFFtJ-i" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/lummiNation_02.jpg?itok=0Ns-lqfQ" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/lummiNation_02.jpg?itok=0Ns-lqfQ" alt="The totem pole, prior to being painted" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Lummi Nation, Washington

&lt;p&gt;The totem pole, prior to being painted.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Phreddie Lane&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Lummi Nation, Washington&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;The totem pole, prior to being painted.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Phreddie Lane&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/snakeRiver.jpg?itok=AVThcvSY" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"1296","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/snakeRiver.jpg?itok=4wp2ORfR" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/snakeRiver.jpg?itok=4wp2ORfR" alt="Lucinda Simpson (Nez Perce/Nooksack) looking at Snake River" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="463" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Snake River, Idaho

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 15:&lt;/strong&gt; Nimiipuu Protecting the Environment (NPE) Board Member Lucinda Simpson (Nez Perce/Nooksack) at the Free the Snake River event organized by NPE. A dam prevents the river from flowing naturally, threatening salmon, a food source vital to local tribes.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Snake River, Idaho&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 15:&lt;/strong&gt; Nimiipuu Protecting the Environment (NPE) Board Member Lucinda Simpson (Nez Perce/Nooksack) at the Free the Snake River event organized by NPE. A dam prevents the river from flowing naturally, threatening salmon, a food source vital to local tribes.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/bearsEars.jpg?itok=Fp-wqr_n" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"725","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEars.jpg?itok=3HysMw5m" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEars.jpg?itok=3HysMw5m" alt="Lummi carver Douglas James blessing the totem pole" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="459" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Bears Ears, Utah

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 17:&lt;/strong&gt; Lummi carver Douglas James blesses the totem pole at the Protect Bears Ears event. The Bears Ears National Monument boundaries were reduced 85 percent, opening this public land and its ancestral sites to potential resource extraction.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Bears Ears, Utah&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 17:&lt;/strong&gt; Lummi carver Douglas James blesses the totem pole at the Protect Bears Ears event. The Bears Ears National Monument boundaries were reduced 85 percent, opening this public land and its ancestral sites to potential resource extraction.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/chacoCanyon_01.jpg?itok=5h_FAgJ1" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"723","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/chacoCanyon_01.jpg?itok=mvPtQKmW" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/chacoCanyon_01.jpg?itok=mvPtQKmW" alt="Nicole Martin and Rose Yazzie standing in front of the totem pole" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="458" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Chaco Canyon, New Mexico

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 18:&lt;/strong&gt; Red Road to D.C. organizer Nicole Martin (Laguna Pueblo and Diné) and Diné elder Rose Yazzie were among the many supporters at the Protect Greater Chaco event to raise awareness of the threats to water from fracking in the area.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Chaco Canyon, New Mexico&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 18:&lt;/strong&gt; Red Road to D.C. organizer Nicole Martin (Laguna Pueblo and Diné) and Diné elder Rose Yazzie were among the many supporters at the Protect Greater Chaco event to raise awareness of the threats to water from fracking in the area.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--6 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/chacoCanyon_02.jpg?itok=AsSos5AJ" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"1243","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/chacoCanyon_02.jpg?itok=fQJYHRqR" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/chacoCanyon_02.jpg?itok=fQJYHRqR" alt="Phreddie Lane at an ancient Indigenous site in Chaco Canyon National Historical Park" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="483" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Chaco Canyon, New Mexico

&lt;p&gt;Red Road to D.C. Tour Manager Phreddie Lane at an ancient Indigenous site in Chaco Canyon National Historical Park in northwestern New Mexico.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Chaco Canyon, New Mexico&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;Red Road to D.C. Tour Manager Phreddie Lane at an ancient Indigenous site in Chaco Canyon National Historical Park in northwestern New Mexico.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--7 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/missouriRiver.jpg?itok=j289ZJTz" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"621","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/missouriRiver.jpg?itok=vY_CJ6G7" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/missouriRiver.jpg?itok=vY_CJ6G7" alt="Members of the Brave Heart Society overlook the Missouri River" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="393" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Missouri River, South Dakota

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 22:&lt;/strong&gt; Members of The Brave Heart Society overlook the Missouri River at the Oceti Rising event. The Dakota/Lakota/Nakota communities are working to pass a resolution recognizing the sovereignty and rights of the river.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Missouri River, South Dakota&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 22:&lt;/strong&gt; Members of The Brave Heart Society overlook the Missouri River at the Oceti Rising event. The Dakota/Lakota/Nakota communities are working to pass a resolution recognizing the sovereignty and rights of the river.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--8 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/standingRock_01.jpg?itok=mV3tzT5B" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/standingRock_01.jpg?itok=1SOo3Hbn" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/standingRock_01.jpg?itok=1SOo3Hbn" alt="Standing Rock Sioux tribal members escort the totem pole to their Water is Life event" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Standing Rock, North Dakota

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 24:&lt;/strong&gt; Standing Rock Sioux tribal members escort the totem pole to their Water is Life event. They are fighting to shut down the Dakota Access Pipeline near their reservation and reclaim lands promised to the tribe in the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Standing Rock, North Dakota&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 24:&lt;/strong&gt; Standing Rock Sioux tribal members escort the totem pole to their Water is Life event. They are fighting to shut down the Dakota Access Pipeline near their reservation and reclaim lands promised to the tribe in the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--9 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/standingRock_02.jpg?itok=lM5fpE01" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"1292","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/standingRock_02.jpg?itok=rMRSlIF6" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/standingRock_02.jpg?itok=rMRSlIF6" alt="A tribal elder blesses the totem at the Standing Rock Sioux Nation’s Government Office." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="464" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Standing Rock, North Dakota

&lt;p&gt;A tribal elder blesses the totem at the Water is Life event at the Standing Rock Sioux Nation’s Government Office.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Standing Rock, North Dakota&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;A tribal elder blesses the totem at the Water is Life event at the Standing Rock Sioux Nation’s Government Office.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--10 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/mackinawCity.jpg?itok=Lieh6P6N" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"680","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/mackinawCity.jpg?itok=_eSvLvJ4" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/mackinawCity.jpg?itok=_eSvLvJ4" alt="Supporters of the Stop Line 5 event gathered around the totem pole" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="431" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Mackinaw City, Michigan

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 27:&lt;/strong&gt; Tribal nations and activists are fighting to remove Line 5, an existing oil pipeline, and prevent the construction of a new one in the Straits of Mackinac region. The Bay Mills Indian community hosted the Stop Line 5 event attended by supporters, including the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, Little River Band of Ottawa Indians, Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odowa Indians and Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Mackinaw City, Michigan&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 27:&lt;/strong&gt; Tribal nations and activists are fighting to remove Line 5, an existing oil pipeline, and prevent the construction of a new one in the Straits of Mackinac region. The Bay Mills Indian community hosted the Stop Line 5 event attended by supporters, including the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, Little River Band of Ottawa Indians, Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odowa Indians and Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--11 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/dc_01.jpg?itok=5NTvALMZ" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"659","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/dc_01.jpg?itok=2Lx4-PYW" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/dc_01.jpg?itok=2Lx4-PYW" alt="Supporters of the Red Road to D.C. project at a ceremony to deliver to pole to the Biden administration" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="417" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Washington, D.C.

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 29:&lt;/strong&gt; (Left to right) Lummi artist Dirrion Montgomery and Red Road to D.C. organizers Jay Julius W’tot Lhem, Theresa Sheldon (Tulalip), Siam’elwit and Douglas James (Lummi) spoke at the ceremony to deliver the pole to the Biden administration and present it to U.S. Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Natural History Museum&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Washington, D.C.&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;July 29:&lt;/strong&gt; (Left to right) Lummi artist Dirrion Montgomery and Red Road to D.C. organizers Jay Julius W’tot Lhem, Theresa Sheldon (Tulalip), Siam’elwit and Douglas James (Lummi) spoke at the ceremony to deliver the pole to the Biden administration and present it to U.S. Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Natural History Museum&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--12 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/dc_02.jpg?itok=Ta3XPk48" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"807","rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/dc_02.jpg?itok=H1jfW4ho" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/dc_02.jpg?itok=H1jfW4ho" alt="Supporters gather outside the Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C., to bless the totem pole" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="743" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Washington, D.C.

&lt;p&gt;Supporters gather in prayer to bless the totem pole in front of the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Washington, D.C.&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;Supporters gather in prayer to bless the totem pole in front of the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Wingspan Media&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--13 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/dc_03.jpg?itok=jklaJvIC" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1089,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-595-story-slideshow-images-default-4"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/dc_03.jpg?itok=ZzSgh6px" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/dc_03.jpg?itok=ZzSgh6px" alt="Douglas and Siam'elwit James at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="419" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;Washington, D.C.

&lt;p&gt;Lummi carver Douglas and artist Siam’elwit James in front of the House of Tears carvers and the Natural History Museum of Washington state’s traveling exhibition “Kwel’ Hoy: We Draw the Line,” which was at the NMAI in Washington, D.C.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Natural History Museum&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h4&gt;Washington, D.C.&lt;/h4&gt;&lt;p&gt;Lummi carver Douglas and artist Siam’elwit James in front of the House of Tears carvers and the Natural History Museum of Washington state’s traveling exhibition “Kwel’ Hoy: We Draw the Line,” which was at the NMAI in Washington, D.C.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Red Road to D.C./Natural History Museum&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;During the past 20 years, members of the House of Tears Carvers of the Lummi Nation in Washington state have carved more than 15 totem poles and donated them to places in the United States and Canada affected by disaster or in need of hope and healing. Their first journey was to New York City in the wake of the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. Then each year since 2013, the Lummi artists have carved a unique totem pole and delivered them to communities and public lands experiencing threats to their cultural and environmental heritage.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“The poles are gifts to lift up people crying out for help, reaching down to touch their hearts and souls and spirits,” said Lummi carver Douglas James.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The summer the totem pole left the Lummi Nation near Bellingham, Washington, on July 14 and visited public lands with ties to Indigenous cultures such as Bears Ears National Monument in Utah and Chaco Canyon in New Mexico as well as Native nations, including Standing Rock Indian Reservation in the Dakotas and White Earth Reservation in Minnesota, before arriving in Washington, D.C., at the end of July. At each site, they were greeted by supporters and activists.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Jewell James, Douglas’ brother and the Lummi master carver who led the cross-country project titled Red Road to D.C., wrote in a March 2021 essay, “We are all coming together, like figures on a totem pole, to produce an end vision—the protection of Native American Sacred Sites.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When the pole finally arrived in Washington, D.C., the carvers and project partners were welcomed at a ceremony at the National Museum of the American Indian on July 29. For two days, the totem pole rested outside the museum, where Lummi carvers spoke to visitors about their craft. The museum also featured a life-sized replica of the totem pole, painted on canvas-like material, that hung inside as part of “Kwel’Hoy: We Draw the Line,” a traveling exhibition that is part of the Red Road to D.C. project. It was created to explain the project and detail some of the journeys their poles have traveled.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The year’s totem pole was carved from a 2-ton log from a 400-year-old cedar tree. “There were no preliminary sketches,” said Jewell James. “This journey is about sacred sites. Thus, we decided to let the spirit guide the choice of figures as we carved the totem from top-down.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The pole has figures drawn from nature, given names by the carvers: the Full Moon, Diving Eagle, Chinook Salmon, Wolf, Bear, Falling Rains and Flowing River Waters. Human figures featured are a praying or meditating man, a Praying Mother Kneeling with Rattle and a Mexican Child in a Cage, representing migrant children separated from their parents at the U.S.–Mexico border.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;From the Lummi homeland, the pole traveled strapped onto a flatbed truck to nine sites in the United States that hold spiritual and cultural importance to Native peoples. These locations are now threatened by natural resource extraction and other environmental impacts.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The preservation of these lands demands current action and constant vigilance, said Whitney Gravelle (Ojibwe/Odawa/Potawa- tomi), president of the Bay Mills Indian Community in Brimley, Michigan. She is campaigning against the presence of Line 5, an oil and gas pipeline across the Straits of Mackinac and Ojibway territory, another site the pole visited this summer. She fears an eventual spill from the pipeline will contaminate the Great Lakes. “Do we want to teach our children that we care more about profits than we do about leaving them a sustainable world?” said Gravelle. “We have a teaching that says ‘The decisions you make today should take into consideration the next seven generations.’ So what we do today has an impact long after we are gone.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Open tracts of lands next to American Indian reservations and wilderness areas considered sacred to American Indians frequently have been targeted by mining, drilling or lumbering industries. Bears Ears National Monument in southeast Utah is one example making news headlines in recent years. Many tribes, including the Hopi, Navajo, Zuni, Ute Mountain Ute, and Uintah and Ouray Ute, have spiritual and cultural connections to the region. In 2016, President Barack Obama designated 1.35 million acres of it as a national monument. Just a year later, the Trump administration decided to reduce that to about 200,000 acres and opened the rest for potential oil, gas, uranium and coal extraction. In January, the Biden administration initiated a review of the monument’s reduction and Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland (Laguna Pueblo) visited the region in April as part of that process.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Too often, Native peoples have been left out of decisions regarding the intended uses of their land. Haaland, the first Native person to serve as Secretary of the U.S. Department of the Interior, brings a different perspective to the job than her predecessors.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“At its founding, U.S. policies were emplaced without considering Indigenous communities and their challenges or their strengths,” said Haaland, speaking at a ceremony on the National Mall, during which the Red Road to D.C. project delivered the pole to the Biden administration and presented it to Haaland. “Now we are in a new era—an era of truth, an era of healing, an era of growth, an era in which Indigenous knowledge is respected.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The totem pole carried a message not only from the Native nations along its route but also from those who don’t have voices: the animals, the land and the water, added Douglas James. “The salmon struggle to survive because rivers in the Northwest have been dammed and the water is too warm,” he said. “Because the salmon are diminished, the orcas in the San Juan Islands have too little to eat. If we lose the salmon, we lose the orcas.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Douglas James said that the need to preserve sacred areas goes beyond Native peoples. Anyone in contact with the landscape—anyone who farms, fishes, hunts or simply hikes in the woods—has an interest in environmental preservation. “It’s not an ‘us’ thing,” said Douglas James. “It’s a ‘we’ thing.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The pole is now at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s National Conservation Training Center in Shepherdstown, West Virginia.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;On the National Mall in July, hundreds of people reverently touched the totem pole, adding their energy to the hundreds of others who had touched it along the way. Others bestowed it gifts or blessed it with smoking sage. Haaland told the carvers: “Your journey—like the wind, the birds, the water—carried the prayers of everyone who has laid hands on this totem pole.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Every time I visit a protected sacred site, it gives me hope knowing that all of us are working together to honor and respect these important places,” said Haaland.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-title"&gt;
Aaron Levin
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-description"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Aaron Levin is a freelance journalist based in Baltimore, Maryland.&lt;/p&gt;
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  <pubDate>Mon, 04 Oct 2021 19:33:16 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>KlingbielEL</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">595 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>A Monumental Effort: Fighting to Protect Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/National-Monuments</link>
  <description>&lt;div class="row bs-1col-stacked"&gt;
  

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      &lt;span&gt;A Monumental Effort: Fighting to Protect Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante&lt;/span&gt;

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Fall 2021
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Vol. 22 No. 3
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Krista Allen&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
  &lt;/ul&gt;

&lt;/div&gt;

    &lt;/div&gt;
  
          &lt;/div&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;

  &lt;/section&gt;

&lt;/div&gt;
  &lt;/div&gt;
  
    &lt;div class="col-sm-12 bs-region bs-region--main"&gt;
    &lt;div class="block-region-main"&gt;&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodefield-pre-gallery clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      
            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tucked into the towering, red rock canyons of the Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments in southern Utah are more than 100,000 archaeological and cultural sites, hints of the Indigenous peoples who once lived here hundreds to thousands of years ago. Ancient petroglyphs and pictographs depict collages of people and animals from those times. Square windows in now-empty stone houses peek out from cliffs, overlooking dirt roads. Other evidence of former pueblos—such as the remains of hogans, wikiups, tipis as well as kivas, sweat lodges and granaries—can be found throughout these lands.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
  &lt;/section&gt;

&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodefield-story-slideshow-images clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      

&lt;div id="slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/opener_0.jpg?itok=1bL-mPIN" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"783","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/opener_0.jpg?itok=691g7T40" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/opener_0.jpg?itok=691g7T40" alt="Landscape image of the Valley of the Gods, now once again in Bears Ears National Monument" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="496" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Valley of the Gods, which has rock towers that Navajo (Diné) elders say are warriors frozen in time, is now once again inside Bears Ears National Monument after its boundaries were restored on October 8, 2021.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson / Flown by Nighthawk&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Valley of the Gods, which has rock towers that Navajo (Diné) elders say are warriors frozen in time, is now once again inside Bears Ears National Monument after its boundaries were restored on October 8, 2021.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson / Flown by Nighthawk&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/bearsEarsNavajoMountain_0.jpg?itok=LqBe-j-J" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"772","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsNavajoMountain_0.jpg?itok=a9uAYxCW" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsNavajoMountain_0.jpg?itok=a9uAYxCW" alt="Landscape image of Navajo Mountain and Bears Ears" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="489" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Navajo Mountain seems to peer over the Bears Ears buttes from which the national monument took its name.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Navajo Mountain seems to peer over the Bears Ears buttes from which the national monument took its name.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/bearsEarsProtest_0.jpg?itok=23vMftWu" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"852","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsProtest_0.jpg?itok=JAXbcDq5" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsProtest_0.jpg?itok=JAXbcDq5" alt="Bears Ears protesters" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="704" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;After the announcement the Bears Ears monument would be reduced 85 percent, tribes in southeast Utah banded together to protest.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;After the announcement the Bears Ears monument would be reduced 85 percent, tribes in southeast Utah banded together to protest.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/tent_0.jpg?itok=4N58ZmCF" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"800","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/tent_0.jpg?itok=Av8mZLwQ" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/tent_0.jpg?itok=Av8mZLwQ" alt="People sitting in a tent at the annual Bears Ears Summer Gathering" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Utah Diné Bikéyah, an organization that advocated for the designation of Bears Ears as a national monument, hosts an annual Bears Ears Summer Gathering on the meadows near its famous buttes.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The Utah Diné Bikéyah, an organization that advocated for the designation of Bears Ears as a national monument, hosts an annual Bears Ears Summer Gathering on the meadows near its famous buttes.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/bearsEarsSite_01_0.jpg?itok=ISt5obPl" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"853","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsSite_01_0.jpg?itok=zKzmUXlK" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsSite_01_0.jpg?itok=zKzmUXlK" alt="A rock dwelling in Bears Ears's Cedar Mesa" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="703" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;A view from one of the many rock dwellings high up on Bears Ears’s Cedar Mesa.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;A view from one of the many rock dwellings high up on Bears Ears’s Cedar Mesa.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/bearsEarsSite_02_0.jpg?itok=0-zwf5M4" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1147,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsSite_02_0.jpg?itok=LY37jurN" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/bearsEarsSite_02_0.jpg?itok=LY37jurN" alt="A towering structure at the Bears Ears National Monument" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="441" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Entire structures and the remains of them are still found in and around the Bears Ears National Monument as the dry climate and rock cliffs have protected them for centuries.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Marcia Simonis, Bears Ears Intra-Tribal Coalition&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Entire structures and the remains of them are still found in and around the Bears Ears National Monument as the dry climate and rock cliffs have protected them for centuries.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Marcia Simonis, Bears Ears Intra-Tribal Coalition&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--6 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/petroglyph_01_0.jpg?itok=IajOvzgo" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"761","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/petroglyph_01_0.jpg?itok=1fdZRTR4" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/petroglyph_01_0.jpg?itok=1fdZRTR4" alt="A live lizard hangs on a stone wall next to a petroglyph of a large ungulate." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="482" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Petroglyphs, such as this one of a large ungulate beside a lizard, are images carved into stone whereas pictographs are painted on them. Both are in the Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Petroglyphs, such as this one of a large ungulate beside a lizard, are images carved into stone whereas pictographs are painted on them. Both are in the Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--7 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/butlerAlcove_0.jpg?itok=Xe-2u3CP" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"693","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/butlerAlcove_0.jpg?itok=W2fU36xc" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/butlerAlcove_0.jpg?itok=W2fU36xc" alt="Dwellings, granaries and ceremonial buildings tucked into cliffs" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="439" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;These dwellings, granaries and ceremonial buildings that are part of a large community complex tucked into the cliffs are within the Bears Ears monument’s boundaries.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;These dwellings, granaries and ceremonial buildings that are part of a large community complex tucked into the cliffs are within the Bears Ears monument’s boundaries.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--8 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/grandStaircaseSite_0.jpg?itok=vMBkPcP3" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"697","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/grandStaircaseSite_0.jpg?itok=DxKJLy1f" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/grandStaircaseSite_0.jpg?itok=DxKJLy1f" alt="An ancient stone granary at Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="441" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Buildings such as this one in Grand Staircase-Escalante may have been used as granaries. A stone door would have sealed it, keeping out moisture and animal scavengers.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Buildings such as this one in Grand Staircase-Escalante may have been used as granaries. A stone door would have sealed it, keeping out moisture and animal scavengers.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--9 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/condors.jpg?itok=oHoflIX_" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"755","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/condors.jpg?itok=RSNhguUu" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/condors.jpg?itok=RSNhguUu" alt="California condors" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="478" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The landscapes of Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante provide vital habitat to many plant and animal species, including endangered California condors.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The landscapes of Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante provide vital habitat to many plant and animal species, including endangered California condors.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--10 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/sheep.jpg?itok=QkxYUvOw" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"935","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/sheep.jpg?itok=ivqxlzg6" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/sheep.jpg?itok=ivqxlzg6" alt="Big horn sheep" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="642" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Big horn sheep climbing over the steep, rocky hillsides of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Big horn sheep climbing over the steep, rocky hillsides of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--11 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-10/grandStaircaseLandscape.jpg?itok=ivO8-C0m" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"1136","rel":"slick-node-592-story-slideshow-images-default-6"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/grandStaircaseLandscape.jpg?itok=dAgp8a83" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-10/grandStaircaseLandscape.jpg?itok=dAgp8a83" alt="Landscape image of Grand Staircase-Escalante" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="528" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Grand Staircase-Escalante gets its name from its stepped topography, dramatically made visible here by a setting sun. The landscape gets progressively lower in elevation, going from north to south, from greater than 9,000 feet to less than 5,000 feet.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Grand Staircase-Escalante gets its name from its stepped topography, dramatically made visible here by a setting sun. The landscape gets progressively lower in elevation, going from north to south, from greater than 9,000 feet to less than 5,000 feet.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tim Peterson&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Clark Tenakhongva, the vice chairman for the Hopi Tribe in Arizona, says these sites show that this region has been home to Native people since time immemorial. “We still have our ceremonial ties to this area,” Tenakhongva explains. “It’s much like...the Mormon temple up in Salt Lake City.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yet many of these sacred sites are now at risk.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 2017, former U.S. President Donald Trump ordered the U.S. Department of the Interior to review the size and scope of 27 national monuments established after January 1, 1996, that exceeded 100,000 acres or were “deemed to be made without adequate coordination and outreach to the public.” Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante were of special interest because of their mineral, oil and gas resources.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Former President Bill Clinton had established the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in 1996, protecting nearly 1.9 million acres. Following years of advocacy by local tribes, in 2016, then-President Barack Obama designated 1.35 million acres as the Bears Ears National Monument. Then just one year later, former President Trump decided to sharply reduce the sizes of both monuments, cutting Bears Ears to a mere 15 percent of its former size and the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument nearly in half.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Trump administration had been pushing for fewer restrictions for development on public lands. The then president’s move to reduce the size of these monuments came on the heels of the U.S. Senate’s decision on December 1, 2017, to authorize oil and gas drilling in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska. President Trump proclaimed, “Together, we will usher in a bright new future of wonder and wealth.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition— made up of representatives from the Hopi Tribe, Navajo Nation, Ute Mountain Ute Tribe, Pueblo of Zuni and Ute Indian Tribe—has been fighting to restore the monument’s boundaries. Tenakhongva, who is the coalitions’s co-chair, said said that when the monument was finally established, “I became a hot air balloon and started to rise. ... But when Trump reduced it 85 percent, all of a sudden the air came out of the balloon,” he said. “It was like an atomic bomb hit you hard.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The new borders of the monuments took effect on December 4, 2017. The action sparked a national debate about not only the value of protecting these lands but the power that U.S. presidents should have in creating—or dismantling—national monuments.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Fewer Protections&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When then Presidents Clinton and Obama established the Grand Staircase-Escalante and Bears Ears monuments respectively, both did so under the 1906 Antiquities Act. The act authorizes a U.S. president to designate federal lands that comprise “historic landmarks, historic and prehistoric structures, and other objects of historic or scientific interest” as national monuments. Both monuments have these in abundance.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Archaeologists report that the area where the monuments were created in southern Utah was densely populated and developed during the Basketmaker (500 B.C. to A.D. 750) and the Pueblo (A.D. 750 to 1290) periods. Ancestral Puebloans left much evidence behind, from small lithic scatters to buildings that were once part of large, complex villages.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;While the Antiquities Act was designed to protect such archaeological and historical sites, the public lands created under it have also preserved other precious finds and critical habitat. Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante are noted for their abundant paleontological discoveries, including footprints of dinosaurs walking across mud captured in stone. Their varied landscapes of rocky cliffs, piñon-juniper woodlands and shrubbery surrounding rivers provide critical habitat to a variety of wildlife, including endangered and sensitive species such as the Utah prairie dog, California condor, Mexican spotted owl, greater sage grouse, the Southwestern willow flycatcher, Yellowbilled cuckoo, Colorado River fish, Jones cycladenia and the Navajo sedge.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Former Interior Secretary Sally Jewell said the act is an essential tool that presidents have had since Theodore Roosevelt’s term of office. “It’s been used, I would argue, sparingly and carefully,” Jewell told a Senate Committee on Energy and Natural Resources in February 2016.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Many Westerners argue the reduction in the size of the monuments was the proper response to decades of “federal overreach” and that the monuments had been much larger than necessary to protect specific sites. However, former President Trump’s proclamations were met with fierce opposition from tribal leaders, conservationists, scientists, outdoor recreation advocates and lawmakers.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;About 2 million acres of wilderness and public land were suddenly open to potential coal, gas, oil and uranium extraction as well as increased livestock grazing and off-road vehicle use, which could severely degrade formerly unspoiled landscape. Many sacred and paleontological sites were now outside of the monuments’ boundaries and jurisdiction, making them more vulnerable to misuse and even vandalism. Shaun Chapoose, Ute Indian Tribe business committee chairman and a Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition representative, said such cultural sites are irreplaceable: “Once you lose that, you will never get it back.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Bears Ears is like a church, a holy place ... where we go to (make) our offering, our prayers, and we don’t want it bombed,” said Davis Filfred, a former council delegate on the 23rd Navajo Nation Council. “We don’t want people to come in and bomb the place and take out all the timber because that’s the habitat for all the wildlife and the species that are up there.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Filfred is now chair of the Board of Directors for the Utah Diné Bikéyah (UDB), a nonprofit organization formed in 2012 to advocate for the designation of Bears Ears as a national monument. Filfred, who lives in Aneth, Utah, said, “I know what contaminated soil, contaminated water––even the air, I know what that is because that’s how I grew up.” He added, “And we have a lot of roads [in Aneth]. I don’t want that for the Bears Ears. I want it to be untouched for generations and generations to come so our great-great-grandchildren can see it like it is today.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Bears Ears&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Bears Ears National Monument is public land managed by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and the Forest Service in Utah’s San Juan County. Ranging from 3,700 to more than 11,300 feet in elevation, its landscape varies from grassy meadows to forest to stark, rocky cliffs.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Bears Ears is named for two buttes that jut up above the ridgeline, which are visible from every direction. Native tribes in the region each have a name for Bears Ears in their respective languages: “Shash Jaa’” in Navajo (Diné), “Honnmuru” in Hopi, “Kwiyagatu Nukavachi” in Ute, and “Ansh An Lashokdiwe” in Zuni. The names all have the same meaning: home. For hundreds of generations, the ancestors of the American Indians of the Colorado Plateau lived, raised their children and buried their people here.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Behind these buttes is Navajo Mountain. The non-Native people “have a lot of questions when they come up to us,” spiritual advisor Jonah Yellowman, a Diné and UDB board member said in an interview in the Navajo language. “They ask us, ‘How are you related to Bears Ears?’ Well, this Bears Ears and the Bears Ears people, they are our people, our grandfather. They make negotiations with the Holy People,” he said. “Through the Navajo clans, we say that the Bears Ears is our grandfather. The concept of our clans originated from here.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Members of clans were like family and so not permitted to marry each other until three generations had passed, explained San Juan County Commissioner Willie Grayeyes, a Navajo of of the Bit’ahnii (Folded Arms People) clan. “Those are the traditional and the ethnological set of tools that were placed in the Navajo society.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The region also has historical ties to the people who still live in the region. “My grandfather, Chief Manuelito, is Bit’ahnii like my grandfather, Willie Grayeyes,” Kenneth Maryboy said in Navajo, adding that the Bit’ahnii clan lived south of the San Juan River near Bears Ears. Manuelito’s sacred Navajo name was Ch’il Haajinii, meaning “the man that watches lowly from beneath.” Maryboy, also a San Juan County Commissioner, said Manuelito’s brothers were Hashke’ Neiní, meaning “fierce one who had many boys” and K’aa’yeelíí, meaning “quiver of many arrows.” He said, “People say that K’aa’yeelíí and his brothers were never caught during the Long Walk to Fort Sumner.” (Between 1863 and 1866, the U.S. government forced more than 10,000 Navajo (Diné) to march from their homelands in what is now the Arizona area to the Bosque Redondo Reservation at Fort Sumner in what is now New Mexico.)&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Today, Bears Ears continues to serve as a place of physical and spiritual nourishment for all the region’s Native peoples. Many travel to Bears Ears not only to visit the sacred sites but also to gather firewood, collect medicinal herbs, hunt and convene for ceremonies and events.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“When you go to Bears Ears, I feel from my experience, it’s a healing ground. It’s a chance to heal from historical traumas,” said Alastair Bitsóí (Diné). “Anyone who’s experiencing some of those difficulties in their lives, they can connect and use their five senses to really solve some of their inner issues...(and) connect with the land.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;UDB hosts an annual Bears Ears Summer Gathering on meadows near the Bears Ears buttes. The three-day event is open to all the Native tribes and draws hundreds of visitors from across the globe. Bitsóí said those who attend experience a cross-cultural connection to the area. “The ceremonies [and] cultures, they’re not based on jurisdiction.” The tribes are “all at one point,” he said. “Cross-pollenating with each other, sharing knowledge, even ceremonies but also acknowledging each other in the Bears Ears landscape.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The summer event also brings together people in support and in defense of the monument. “Defending Bears Ears includes celebrating how far we’ve come through our cultures....[that] we are still here as Native Americans,” Bitsóí said. “We activate the landscape through food, through Indigenous sporting games, through the sharing of cultural dances.” Coming to Bears Ears is not only about participating and respecting these cultural activities but doing so within this landscape, he said, “to experience the mountain air and the deer that comes to the camp.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Grand Staircase-Escalante&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, which is also managed by the BLM, is in south-central Utah. The Grand Staircase area gets its name from steeply stepped topographic benches and cliffs that get progressively lower in elevation, going from north to south, from greater than 9,000 feet to less than 5,000 feet.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Even though parts of this monument are only about 100 miles from Bears Ears and it also has spectacular landscape that features towering red-sandstone formations resembling mushrooms, plateaus, buttes and mesas, it has less of the dramatic rock overhangs that helped preserve the cliff dwellings and other Pueblo architecture at Bear Ears. Whereas rock art, granaries and some remains of other buildings have been found, the abundant evidence of the Ancestral Puebloans who lived in, farmed and traversed the region of Grand Staircase-Escalante is frequently more subtle, such as lithic scatters and pieces of pottery. “This doesn’t make it any less interesting or important,” said Douglas McFadden, who was the monument’s archaeologist for nine years. Many of the archaeological sites of the region have simply yet to be researched or documented, he explained.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Indeed, the lands and cultural sites in and around Grand Staircase-Escalante are significant to the many Native peoples who have ancestral ties to the area, including the Hopi, Zuni, Navajo, San Juan Southern Paiute, Kaibab Paiute, Ute, Ute Mountain Ute, Jemez Pueblo and Acoma Nations. When the U.S. government forced the Navajo from their homelands in the late 1800s, “the Paiute Nation fed and clothed and sheltered us,” said Diné Davina Smith. “These stories are still being told.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Also unlike Bears Ears, when Grand Staircase-Escalante was being designated as a monument nearly three decades ago, tribes were not included in the conversation, said Smith, who serves on the board of Grand Staircase Escalante Partners. Since the monument’s reduction in size, this organization has been hosting “listening sessions,” during which representatives from several tribes in the region have been discussing what is important to them about conserving this land and its cultural sites. “Mother Earth, we’re here to take care of her. We are here to make sure our water, our trees and our animals are protected,” she said. “Everything in the circle of life is to be respected.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Whereas considering tribes as co-managers of such public spaces has not been “a priority,” Smith said. Now, “we’re at a point in our lives when we’re tired. We’re done. Voices are stepping up.” During September, Smith gathered plants that she carried in a medicine bag on a two-week-long “prayer run” that she led from the base of the Bears Ears buttes to the Utah state capitol in Salt Lake City. Before she departed on September 4, she said she was looking forward to the 420-mile journey: “Every day is a day I can focus in prayer and meditation on issues such as restoring these national monuments.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;An Unprecedented Step&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Native people say the decision to shrink Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante was an attack on the sovereign Native nations with deep ties to the region. Native tribes, environmentalists and outdoor recreation groups filed lawsuits against former President Trump, arguing that national monuments should be permanent and no one should have the authority to revoke a president’s decision to create them.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Utah political leaders, including its congressional delegation and now former Governor Gary Herbert, had urged former President Trump to reduce the boundaries. “Most of the Utah leadership,” said Mark Maryboy, a UDB board member, “wants to reduce the monuments’ size so uranium mining, oil and gas activities would continue.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In March 2021, President Joe Biden tasked newly appointed U.S. Department of the Interior Secretary Deb Haaland with evaluating whether the monuments’ former boundaries should be restored—or even expanded. She traveled to Bears Ears in April to meet with Utah governmental leaders and tribal representatives to talk about the decision.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;While this was the third time in five years that an Interior secretary visited Utah amid a debate over national monument designations, Haaland’s visit was unlike those of former secretaries Sally Jewell and Ryan Zinke. Haaland is Native American, a citizen of the Pueblo of Laguna in New Mexico. Some of her ancestral homeland was just southeast of Bears Ears’s vast Valley of the Gods.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;At a gathering of a few tribal dignitaries, some members of the UDB and the Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition at a mesa in Bears Ears called Muley Point, Haaland shared a meal made from food from the region—blue corn mush, sumac berries, onions, wild parsley and potatoes. Haaland then joined Utah Governor Spencer Cox, Senator Mitt Romney, BLM Canyon Country District Manager Gary Torres and several other individuals on a short hike to former Pueblo dwellings.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“I appreciate the opportunity to join the governor and the Utah delegation,” Haaland said. “The governor’s been an incredible host. I’m so grateful for his company on the trails...and all the conversations we’ve had on this land.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Haaland wrapped up her three-day trip after a number of meetings with elected officials, tribal leaders and others invested in the stewardship of Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante. Before she left, the Native leaders presented her with gifts, including a hat, a blanket, a basket and a Bears Ears T-shirt.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We pray there’s an opportunity for collaborative action,” Cox said. “Can we find those solutions? I believe so.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“In my heart, there’s an opportunity for that, to provide the resources that are needed here. All those things can be done through legislation, through an executive order,” he said. “But that’s hard.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Utah Representative John Curtis, whose district includes Bears Ears, said if Biden uses an executive order to restore the monument, the likelihood that this decision will be rescinded by a future president or taken up by the Supreme Court is extremely high. Instead, Utah lawmakers say they can build a more durable solution through legislation that would allow for negotiations among competing interests.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Haaland submitted her confidential report containing her recommendation to President Biden as to whether to restore the monuments’ boundaries in June 2021. As of late September, the administration had yet to make a decision.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“It’s important that the president gets this right,” Haaland said. “I spent time on the land. I’ve looked at pictographs, vistas that take your breath away. I’ve spoken with other folks who’ve said, ‘This is an extremely special place.’&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“So it’s pretty clear that people everywhere have a feeling about this area and know that the cultural heritage of this area belongs to all Americans,” Haaland said. “It’s so important that we think of that for the future.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt; &lt;/p&gt;

&lt;div style="background-color:#eee; padding:30px; margin-bottom:10px;"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;&lt;img alt="A vandalized petroglyph at Grand Staircase-Escalante" data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="3747efaf-2319-4391-af4d-8228f521949b" src="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/inline-images/petroglyph_02.jpg" width="100%" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p style="font-size:13px; line-height:1.5"&gt;Vandalism such as painting over or cutting into rock surfaces around pictographs and petroglyphs (as was done to this one at Grand Staircase-Escalante) desecrates these sacred sites. Photo by Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;&lt;img alt="Newspaper Rock" data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="6ef7460b-ae27-4079-a45c-6b7f0971dd94" src="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/inline-images/newspaperRock.jpg" width="100%" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p style="font-size:13px; line-height:1.5"&gt;Newspaper Rock can be observed respectfully from a nearby path. It is so named because it is thought to record human activity over a span of some 2,000 years, up until about 1300 A.D. Photo by Bureau of Land Management&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Visit With Respect&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Visiting national parks and monuments that have cultural sites can be a unique educational experience. However, this should be done with care and respect. Here are just some tips to help preserve these unique places for generations to come:&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;ul type="circle"&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Stay on marked trails.&lt;/li&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Do not give away GPS locations of sites or post geotags on social media as this may drive too much foot traffic and potentially vandals to vulnerable sites.&lt;/li&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Observe from a distance. Do not touch, climb on or into ancient structures. They are fragile and it is not respectful to enter these buildings as many are ceremonial in nature and still in use. All are considered sacred ancestral locations.&lt;/li&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Do not touch or deface rock art in any way.&lt;/li&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Do not move or remove any cultural objects, including pieces of pottery or corn cobs. To Native people, they are part of the landscape and a way to connect with their ancestors.&lt;/li&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Do not camp or eat near cultural sites.&lt;/li&gt;
	&lt;li&gt;Leave no trace, including trash, human or pet waste.&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;/ul&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;p&gt; &lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;UPDATE:&lt;/strong&gt; After this article went to press, the White House &lt;a href="https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/statements-releases/2021/10/07/fact-sheet-president-biden-restores-protections-for-three-national-monuments-and-renews-american-leadership-to-steward-lands-waters-and-cultural-resources/"&gt;announced&lt;/a&gt; that on October 8, the Biden-Harris administration will restore the boundaries of the three national monuments that were reduced during the Trump administration: Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante in Utah and Northeast Canyons and Seamounts National Monument off the coast of New England. &lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Anne Bolen&lt;/strong&gt;, assistant managing editor of American Indian magazine, contributed to the reporting of this story.&lt;/p&gt;
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Krista Allen
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&lt;p&gt;Krista Allen (Diné) is a freelance journalist and assistant editor for the Navajo Times–Diné bi Naltsoos.&lt;/p&gt;
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    <dc:creator>KlingbielEL</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">592 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>Saving a Sacred Lake: A Century of Pollution Haunts the Haudenosaunee</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/saving-a-sacred-lake</link>
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-story-category field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;Current Affairs&lt;/div&gt;
      
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      &lt;span&gt;Saving a Sacred Lake: A Century of Pollution Haunts the Haudenosaunee&lt;/span&gt;

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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-nothing"&gt;&lt;span class="views-label views-label-nothing"&gt;From Issue:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="field-content"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/issues/spring-2021" class="link--to-issue"&gt;
&lt;span class="from--issue-story"&gt;
Spring 2021
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&lt;span class="issue-identifier"&gt;
Vol. 22 No. 1
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Craig Miller&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;On a sultry summer day more than a decade ago, Betty Lyons and her young son, Garrett, were driving past Onondaga Lake when the 7-year-old noticed an acrid smell. Betty explained to Garrett that the odor was from pollution in the lake. When the boy asked his mother why people didn’t clean it up, she explained that no one wanted to spend the money. He then inquired, “Did they ask the fish?”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In that innocent question—who will take care of this lake—a millennia of culture and hundreds of years of history were embodied. Garrett and Betty Lyons are members of the Snipe Clan of the Onondaga Nation, which now lies about 8 miles south of the 3,000-acre lake on the outskirts of Syracuse in Central New York. Their people’s territory once stretched to the lake and beyond.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;But by the late 20th century, 300 years after Europeans colonized the area, Onondaga Lake carried the stigma of being the country’s most polluted body of water. This has been an open wound for the Onondaga people, who maintain their sacred connection to the lake. Even Garrett’s Onondaga name, Ohneganoh, means “cool water.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“The lake is weeping,” says Betty, who is also executive director of the American Indian Law Alliance, an organization that has helped the Onondaga fight for rights to take care of the lake. “And we do, when we go and bring our children. I always cry when I go there.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;div id="slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/sidHill.jpg?itok=2Aqsr1UH" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"765","rel":"slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/sidHill.jpg?itok=DFnORHrv" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/sidHill.jpg?itok=DFnORHrv" alt="Sid Hill, the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) Confederacy’s leader, stands near Onondaga Lake, holding the Hiawatha Belt made of wampum beads" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="485" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tadadaho Sid Hill (Onondaga), the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) Confederacy’s leader, stands near Onondaga Lake, holding the Hiawatha Belt. This wampum belt represents the five founding nations of the confederacy, which were brought together by their prophet, the Peacemaker, at this lake.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of Providence Pictures from the PBS series&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;"Native America,"&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;2018&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tadadaho Sid Hill (Onondaga), the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) Confederacy’s leader, stands near Onondaga Lake, holding the Hiawatha Belt. This wampum belt represents the five founding nations of the confederacy, which were brought together by their prophet, the Peacemaker, at this lake.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of Providence Pictures from the PBS series&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;"Native America,"&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;2018&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/historicalPhoto_lake.jpg?itok=TDoCQ6DB" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"730","rel":"slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/historicalPhoto_lake.jpg?itok=H8DSfFci" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/historicalPhoto_lake.jpg?itok=H8DSfFci" alt="Aerial photograph of the western shore of Onondaga Lake during the mid-20th century" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="462" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;During the mid-20th century, the Solvay Process Company wastebeds on the western shore of Onondaga Lake were made up of brine and lime sludge left over from the manufacture of soda ash (sodium carbonate) by the ammonia-soda process that became known as the Solvay process.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Onondaga Historical Association, Syracuse, New York&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;During the mid-20th century, the Solvay Process Company wastebeds on the western shore of Onondaga Lake were made up of brine and lime sludge left over from the manufacture of soda ash (sodium carbonate) by the ammonia-soda process that became known as the Solvay process.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Onondaga Historical Association, Syracuse, New York&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/historicalPhoto_saltMine.jpg?itok=z3n-N59V" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"764","rel":"slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/historicalPhoto_saltMine.jpg?itok=xFbTmhPm" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/historicalPhoto_saltMine.jpg?itok=xFbTmhPm" alt="Salt vats on the shores of Onondaga Lake in the early 20th century" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="484" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;At the beginning of the 20th century, salt brine was pumped into open-air vats where, in the baking sun, the water evaporated. The remaining salt was raked into the end of the vat and shoveled into tubs to drain. Workers then emptied the salt into the carts.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Onondaga Historical Association, Syracuse, New York&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;At the beginning of the 20th century, salt brine was pumped into open-air vats where, in the baking sun, the water evaporated. The remaining salt was raked into the end of the vat and shoveled into tubs to drain. Workers then emptied the salt into the carts.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Courtesy of Onondaga Historical Association, Syracuse, New York&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/aerial_0.jpg?itok=lKwxOA0I" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"874","rel":"slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/aerial_0.jpg?itok=emA-9Pe7" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/aerial_0.jpg?itok=emA-9Pe7" alt="Aerial photograph of Onondaga Lake in 2020" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="686" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In 2007, Honeywell International (the descendent company of Solvay Process) began a $450 million effort to clean up Onondaga Lake. Today, the sludge-filled wastebeds are no longer visible and its water is significantly cleaner, but the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency still classifies it as a Superfund site.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of Honeywell International&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In 2007, Honeywell International (the descendent company of Solvay Process) began a $450 million effort to clean up Onondaga Lake. Today, the sludge-filled wastebeds are no longer visible and its water is significantly cleaner, but the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency still classifies it as a Superfund site.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of Honeywell International&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/eagles.jpg?itok=7Iyj4vgW" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"880","rel":"slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/eagles.jpg?itok=waqc1BeD" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/eagles.jpg?itok=waqc1BeD" alt="Two juvenile eagles fighting over a fish" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="682" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Eagles such as these juveniles fighting over a fish have been spotted at Onondaga Lake more frequently in recent years, which some say is evidence of the improved water quality.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Greg Craybas Photography (&lt;a href="https://www.gregcraybasphoto.com/index"&gt;www.gregcraybasphoto.com&lt;/a&gt;)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Eagles such as these juveniles fighting over a fish have been spotted at Onondaga Lake more frequently in recent years, which some say is evidence of the improved water quality.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Greg Craybas Photography (&lt;a href="https://www.gregcraybasphoto.com/index"&gt;www.gregcraybasphoto.com&lt;/a&gt;)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/protest_0.jpg?itok=MJ1fJIS_" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"817","rel":"slick-node-523-story-slideshow-images-default-8"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/protest_0.jpg?itok=JKJhXzTz" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/protest_0.jpg?itok=JKJhXzTz" alt="A child holds a protest sign that says "Onondaga is our sacred lake. Not your publicity stunt."" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="734" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In the summer of 2015, state regulators and local politicians jumped into the lake from a Honeywell pontoon boat to demonstrate the success of the cleanup. The Onondaga people held a protest on shore, saying the lake has a long way to go before it is considered clean and safe to swim.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of Sid Hill&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In the summer of 2015, state regulators and local politicians jumped into the lake from a Honeywell pontoon boat to demonstrate the success of the cleanup. The Onondaga people held a protest on shore, saying the lake has a long way to go before it is considered clean and safe to swim.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of Sid Hill&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h2&gt;The Foundation of Peace&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Though generations of the region’s Indigenous people once relied on Onondaga Lake for its abundant fish, this body of water has been far more than a source of sustenance. It was the setting for the establishment of the principles of the people of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy (which French colonists called the Iroquois). The Haudenosaunee say that about a thousand years ago, their prophet known as the Peacemaker brought the first five nations of the confederacy—the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga and Seneca (the Tuscarora joined the confederacy in 1722)—together in peace. On the shores of the lake, the Peacemaker set forth what would become the principles that their people would live by, including nonviolence, fundamental elements of democracy, stewardship of the natural resources that support all life and preservation of nature for future generations.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The confederacy is represented by a longhouse, and as the Onondaga Nation is traditionally the central meeting place for the nations, the Onondaga people are known as the Keepers of the Council Fire. The Onondaga today take the stewardship and preservation of nature no less seriously than they did when these charges were first brought to them. “We were taught how to give thanks to all the things that the Creator had put down for us,” says Sid Hill, who wears the ages-old mantle of Tadadaho, or leader of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“It’s a reciprocal relationship that we have with all the living things around the lake and the water,” adds Lyons. “It’s not a commodity.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yet European colonists thought differently. French missionaries began commoditizing Onondaga Lake almost immediately after they arrived in the 17th century and noticed it had rich deposits of salt. Word spread and during the next two centuries, the business boomed and the commodity was shipped across the country. Hundreds of acres around the lake would be converted to salt evaporation beds and boilers.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 1882, William B. Cogsworth staked out much of the eastern shore for his Solvay Process Company, named for a method of making soda ash, which is used in making common products from glass to baking soda. “There are three main ingredients you need for the Solvay process: limestone, salt and water,” says Robert Searing, staff historian at Onondaga County’s Historical Association. For that, he says, “You can’t find a much better place anywhere in America.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Searing calls the soda ash industry an “engine that connected Syracuse to American expansionism in the Industrial Age like no other.” Its process was also stunningly inefficient, producing about 50 percent more waste material than product. The most convenient place to dump the waste was right in front of the plant, along the lakeshore. Thus began a pollution legacy that would continue for more than a century.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;A Compounded Problem&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;By the close of the 19th century, defilement of the lake had already captured public attention, though many locals regarded it as more modern marvel than public nuisance. An 1897 newspaper account describes mounting layers of lime waste along the lake’s southwestern shore as “cliffs of pure white,” and declares that the already prodigious challenge of waste disposal from the Solvay Process Company had been “solved” by dumping it along the lake.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Terrace above terrace the lime is being built up, hundreds of tons a day being carried into the lowlands along the lakeshore,” reported the Standard, a Syracuse newspaper. “Plenty of Room for It,” a subheadline blithely declares. The article goes on to explain that leachate from the waste piles “whitens the bottom of the lake somewhat” but “does no damage.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Around this time, newspapers reported that the ironically named president of Solvay Process, Frederick Rowland Hazard, estimated that his operation was sucking 15 million gallons of water per day from the 4.6-square-mile lake while spreading 500 to 600 tons of waste material per day along its shores. Within a few years, the volume was reported as 2,000 tons per day.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;On the opposite corner of the lake, a different kind of metamorphosis had unfolded. Victorian-era pleasure seekers flocked to ornate leisure palaces such as The Iron Pier and The White City, “fleeing to the loveliest haunts of nature for a little respite from the busy cares of life,” as an 1870 promotional booklet described it. “Hundreds of row boats, scores of sail boats, and half a dozen or more tidy little steamers give life to the lake and its surroundings during the summer months.” Yet always visible across “this bright little body of water which lies at our very doors” were the ever-present columns of black smoke, billowing from industrial stacks on the southwestern shore.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“You had so many industrial concerns in Syracuse that were pumping into the watershed,” recalls Searing. “Solvay Process was just one of many; it just happened to be the biggest.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Syracuse got a sense of just how big on Thanksgiving Day of 1943, when residents near the plant woke up to a wall of caustic “white lava” that burst through waste bed Dike #7 and quickly inundated local roads, part of the state fairgrounds, and a cluster of homes in the nearby Lakeland district. The mess took two years to clean up. Some residential areas were rezoned to preclude new waste beds but little else came of it. Local officials deferred “beautification” of the lakeshore as part of their post-war agenda.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Alongside the soda ash plant, steel mills and other heavy industry completed this “wonderful metamorphosis on the face of nature,” as a 1903 newspaper account described it. Over the years, as heavy industry multiplied around the lake, a toxic “smorgasbord” of chemicals was added to the mix: heavy metals such as mercury and cadmium; volatile compounds, including benzene, toluene and acetone; polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) and dioxin. Storm outflows from the city’s wastewater treatment plant, positioned at the lake’s inlet, added ammonia, phosphorus and bacteria that starved the lake of oxygen and caused carpets of toxic blue-green algae to bloom every summer.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Onondaga Creek, which connects the Onondaga Nation with the lake, still carries storm runoff and heavy metals from defunct salt wells into the lake. However, after hundreds of millions of dollars were spent on upgrades to the municipal sewage infrastructure and plant, this is at much lower levels than in years past.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“It’s a severely hurt system,” says biologist Neil Patterson (Tuscarora), assistant director of the Center for Native Peoples and the Environment at the State University of New York. “It has been through a lot of physical and spiritual trauma.” Patterson cites a long history of draining wetlands around the lake, clearing timber to fire salt boilers, followed by 140 years of heavy industry on the lakeshore.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“There’s not one square inch of the shoreline that has not been disturbed,” laments Jeanne Shenandoah, clerk of the Onondaga Nation. “But we still hold it sacred.” Indeed, Betty Lyons says the Onondaga people still hold regular water ceremonies at the lake, in which Indigenous peoples from far and wide bring clean water from their own lands and make offerings of it “to help purify and clean” the lake.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Slow Progress&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 1994, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency declared the lake a national priority Superfund site, a designation reserved for the most egregious cases. In fact, so ubiquitous was the pollution that the EPA divided the area into 12 Superfund “sub-sites,” including several upland sources of pollution in the watershed, each with its own challenges.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;But progress on the cleanup was torpid and in 2005, the leaders of the Onondaga Nation concluded that the only way to save the lake would be to regain control of it. They filed a land rights lawsuit against the State of New York as well as the City of Syracuse, Onondaga County and industries along the lakefront, principally Honeywell International (formerly Allied Chemical and Allied-Signal, the descendant companies of Solvay Process). The suit sought the return of lands that have been home to the Onondaga people “since the dawn of time” and stated that those lands, including the lake, were unlawfully wrested from them by the State of New York in a series of fraudulent treaties between 1788 and 1822. The Onondaga Nation asserts that the pacts were never legally ratified by either side, nor were the rightful leaders of the Onondaga Nation even represented at the signing. State of New York officials also disregarded significant treaties between the United States and the Six Nations that had guaranteed the confederation sovereignty and recognized its lands. Today, the Onondaga Nation sits on only 7,300 acres, a small fraction of its former territory that once covered more than 2 million acres.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Onondaga people say their aim was never to oust anyone already living on their original lands from their property but rather to give the nation some leverage in negotiations to restore the lake. “The idea was to protect the land for our future generations,” says Freida Jacques, clan mother for the Onondaga’s Turtle Clan, “for all the people who live in this area.” It’s an attitude that dates far back in her culture, all the way to the Great Law of the Peace and its imperatives for sustainability. “I’m grateful that we still have our ways,” says Jacques, “enough to understand what our responsibilities are.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The land rights suit died quickly in federal district court. However, in 2007 a deal was struck with regulators and Honeywell providing that the company would undertake a $450 million cleanup program, which included dredging more than 2 million cubic yards of lake bottom and “capping” 475 acres to stabilize contaminants in the lake bed. Reports soon emerged that the sand cap had “slipped” on several occasions. Tadadaho Hill called it “a Band-Aid.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“They spent a half-billion dollars or so and they crow about how much that is,” says Joseph Heath, general counsel for the Onondaga Nation. “The problem is that in order to clean up that mess fully, it would’ve taken $2.8 billion.” That would require dredging most of the lake bottom and other costly measures that do not appear to be on the horizon. Officials at New York’s Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC), which oversees the cleanup, say the slippage was limited to relatively few acres, that those portions were redesigned and repaired, and that currently the cap is “performing as it was designed and constructed.” Currently, Honeywell is using a nitrate application to isolate mercury on the lake bed from most living organisms and operates a groundwater treatment plant to reduce toxic chemicals from reaching the lake through the water table.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;At this point, regulators consider the cleanup to be mostly complete. “We may not be necessarily at the end of our journey but we’re definitely pretty far down the road,” says DEC project manager Tim Larson, “And I would say it’s very encouraging, the state of the lake at this point in time.” Larson says industrial chemicals are now “at manageable levels” and contaminants from urban runoff are “within limits.” The remaining task is mostly monitoring to ensure that remedial strategies keep working, a process that he says will “be ongoing for a very, very long period of time.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We have containment here,” he adds. “We don’t have an issue where we have kind of a continual bleeding of contaminants out into the environment.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;More than 60 species of fish appear to be thriving in the lake, compared to fewer than nine in the 1970s. In response, bald eagles roost in the cottonwoods at the south end of the lake, a magnet for local birders and photographers.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We didn’t send out a memo and ask the eagles to come,” says Matthew Marko, the DEC’s Region 7 director. “They came because the environment is welcoming to them.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yet the leaders of the Onondaga Nation are not convinced. “Yes, it’s nice to see eagles at the lake,” says Tadadaho Sid Hill. “But what kind of fish are they eating? You can’t eat those fish.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;After a 45-year blanket ban on fishing, limited sport fishing is now allowed at the lake, though a sign at the public boat launch warns that, “Fish from these waters contain chemicals and should not be eaten by women or children.” The sign cautions that “others should limit what they eat,” though it doesn’t say by how much. Getting any sort of warning signs at the lake is something the Onondaga Nation counts as one of its rare victories in the decades-long lake struggle.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Recently local officials have proposed a public beach at the lake, though a 2019 survey by Onondaga County indicated that only two in 10 residents would feel safe swimming there. As of March 2021, the EPA had not removed Onondaga Lake from its list of priority Superfund sites.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Haudenosaunee continue to remind the state of New York and the U.S. government of their agreement to honor the sovereignty of the confederacy and recognize its lands, including access to Onondaga Lake. Each November, leaders of the confederation carry the wampum belts that represent these treaties to Canandaigua, about 70 miles west of Syracuse, and parade through the city where the 1794 treaty was signed. In 2016, Haudenosaunee leaders brought a replica of the George Washington Belt representing the 1794 Canandaigua Treaty to a meeting with White House officials as a reminder of the two governments’ promises. “We have to educate our neighbors,” says Betty Lyons.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Meanwhile the Haudenosaunee’s duty to preserve Onondaga Lake for future generations weighs heavily on Lyons and the other Keepers of the Council Fire. “We wake up every day fighting,” she says. Today this fight is mostly on the public education front, including loudly advocating for restoration of their lake and aspirations to update the K-12 curricula in local schools to include Haudenosaunee history.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“I feel a great sadness because the water is such a precious thing to us,” says Shenandoah. “That lake has such great spiritual significance to us. We listen to it in our teachings that helped to keep us as a people strong and spiritual and believing in our ways.” She says the Onondaga Lake struggle is “keeping our ways alive.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“I don’t think it’s gonna end next year,” says Lyons. “I think this is a fight my kids will have to pick up.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“When I look back at our ancestors, to what they have gone through,” Hill says he realizes “you know, we’re still here. We have what we call ‘oñgwagoñhsohda’.’ That means we’re survivors.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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Craig Miller
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-description"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Craig Miller is an award-winning journalist specializing in Earth science and natural resources. He’s currently a freelance writer based in Upstate New York. Follow him on Twitter @voxterra.&lt;/p&gt;
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  <pubDate>Thu, 15 Apr 2021 18:53:38 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>KlingbielEL</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">523 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>An Island Divided: Generations in the Hamptons' Shadow, the Shinnecock's Struggle for Sovereignty Sees Light</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/Shinnecock-Nation</link>
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-story-category field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;Current Affairs&lt;/div&gt;
      
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      &lt;span&gt;An Island Divided: Generations in the Hamptons' Shadow, the Shinnecock's Struggle for Sovereignty Sees Light&lt;/span&gt;

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Spring 2021
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Vol. 22 No. 1
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Mark Hirsch&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;As COVID-19 ravaged communities across the world during the past year, many affluent New York families sought safe haven in places like the Hamptons, Long Island’s famed oceanfront retreat for the rich and famous. Roughly 100 miles east of midtown Manhattan, the Hamptons form a seaside paradise, where seagulls wheel over grand estates, multimillion-dollar mansions and chic boutiques, gliding on breezes that cool its string of upscale hamlets and villages such as Southampton, the first permanent English settlement in New York.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Just 2 miles west—yet a world away—is the home of the Shinnecock, American Indians whose ancestral roots on the island long predate the arrival of Europeans in 1640. Since then, the Shinnecock people have endured land grabs, population loss, poverty, marginalization and other threats to their existence from colonialism and later from lack of employment opportunities. Yet they have managed to retain about 900 acres, a portion of their original territory and one of only two Long Island tribes to do so. The Unkechaug Nation, a state-recognized tribe located on the Poospatuck Reservation less than 50 miles further west, also retained some of their homelands. Today, the Shinnecock are confidently asserting their rights as members of a sovereign tribal nation.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;div id="slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/beach.jpg?itok=eaHTt9Q6" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"566","rel":"slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/beach.jpg?itok=rnXtuSoY" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/beach.jpg?itok=rnXtuSoY" alt="Cuffee's Beach on the Shinnecock Indian Nation on Long Island" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="358" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Cuffee’s Beach on the Shinnecock Indian Nation’s territory near Southampton on Long Island, New York.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Jeremy Dennis (Shinnecock Indian Nation)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Cuffee’s Beach on the Shinnecock Indian Nation’s territory near Southampton on Long Island, New York.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Jeremy Dennis (Shinnecock Indian Nation)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/aerial.jpg?itok=J0z2jOm3" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"776","rel":"slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/aerial.jpg?itok=QD0qcpef" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/aerial.jpg?itok=QD0qcpef" alt="Aerial image of Southampton on Long Island, New York." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="491" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Southampton on Long Island is famous for its multimillion-dollar megamansions.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Gavin Zeigler / Alamy Stock Photo&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Southampton on Long Island is famous for its multimillion-dollar megamansions.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Gavin Zeigler / Alamy Stock Photo&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/baskets.jpg?itok=LNPrnbEN" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"898","rel":"slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/baskets.jpg?itok=rINpNSB2" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/baskets.jpg?itok=rINpNSB2" alt="Woven baskets" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="668" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;To earn money, the Shinnecock fashioned woven baskets (such as this one on the left) and other useful things that they sold to their non-Native neighbors. As fishing was not only a source of income but a way to feed their families, they also created their own bone fishhooks (center) and eel traps (right).&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Covered basket, Shinnecock, 1850–1880, Long Island, New York, wood, 14”x 11.5” x 9.5 “. 4406; Eel trap, Shinnecock, circa 1890, Long Island, New York, oak splints, wood, 15.5” x 9” x 9.5”. 7/3508; Fish hook, A.D. 350–1000 , East Hampton, New York, animal bone, 1” x 3.25”x .75. 15/100.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;To earn money, the Shinnecock fashioned woven baskets (such as this one on the left) and other useful things that they sold to their non-Native neighbors. As fishing was not only a source of income but a way to feed their families, they also created their own bone fishhooks (center) and eel traps (right).&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Covered basket, Shinnecock, 1850–1880, Long Island, New York, wood, 14”x 11.5” x 9.5 “. 4406; Eel trap, Shinnecock, circa 1890, Long Island, New York, oak splints, wood, 15.5” x 9” x 9.5”. 7/3508; Fish hook, A.D. 350–1000 , East Hampton, New York, animal bone, 1” x 3.25”x .75. 15/100.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/harpoon.jpg?itok=yShdQWi9" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"202","rel":"slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/harpoon.jpg?itok=AH08MeF6" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/harpoon.jpg?itok=AH08MeF6" alt="Whale harpoon, circa 1882." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="128" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;When the English arrived on Long Island in the 1640s, Shinnecock men taught them how to hunt whales near the shore. Over time, the Shinnecock became the key to success of the early whaling industry, using metal harpoons such as this one.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Whale harpoon with toggle head, circa 1882, New Bedford, Massachusetts, Iron, 34” x 6”. Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History AG 056243&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of National Museum of American History&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;When the English arrived on Long Island in the 1640s, Shinnecock men taught them how to hunt whales near the shore. Over time, the Shinnecock became the key to success of the early whaling industry, using metal harpoons such as this one.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Whale harpoon with toggle head, circa 1882, New Bedford, Massachusetts, Iron, 34” x 6”. Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History AG 056243&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo courtesy of National Museum of American History&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/protest.jpg?itok=pA8hlX6H" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"692","rel":"slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/protest.jpg?itok=8edugdue" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/protest.jpg?itok=8edugdue" alt="Members of the Shinnecock Indian Nation hold signs protesting construction on sacred burial sites." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="438" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In January 2020, members of the Shinnecock Indian Nation protested plans to develop a parcel of land in Shinnecock Hills, long known as a sacred tribal burial site. For years, builders have disturbed human remains and cultural objects.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Rachel Valdespino&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In January 2020, members of the Shinnecock Indian Nation protested plans to develop a parcel of land in Shinnecock Hills, long known as a sacred tribal burial site. For years, builders have disturbed human remains and cultural objects.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Rachel Valdespino&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2021-04/margoThunderbird.jpg?itok=8w2_cJB9" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1026,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-517-story-slideshow-images-default-10"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/margoThunderbird.jpg?itok=I5dcR74q" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2021-04/margoThunderbird.jpg?itok=I5dcR74q" alt="Shinnecock tribal member Margo Thunderbird stands in front of one of two billboards alongside a highway through their territory." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="394" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Shinnecock tribal member Margo Thunderbird stands in front of one of two billboards alongside a highway through their territory. The Shinnecock refer to them as monuments as they are symbols of the tribe’s sovereignty.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Bryan Downey&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Shinnecock tribal member Margo Thunderbird stands in front of one of two billboards alongside a highway through their territory. The Shinnecock refer to them as monuments as they are symbols of the tribe’s sovereignty.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Bryan Downey&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h2&gt;Shrunken Territory&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Shinnecock Indian Nation has approximately 1,550 enrolled members, of whom roughly half live on Shinnecock Neck, a peninsula that juts into Shinnecock Bay on the South Fork of Long Island. The Neck, plus approximately 80-acres in the nearby hamlet of Hampton Bays, is the heart of the Shinnecock tribe, the key to their history and cultural identity. “Everything that we do—our songs, our prayers, our dances, our sense of relationship to one another, our sense of community—all revolves around our connection to this land . . . and to the water that surrounds us,” says tribal member Aiyana Smith. “When I think about my Indigenous roots, . . . it’s really my relationship to the land and the people that hold this land in common.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“The Shinnecocks have owned their own lands since time immemorial and have never left,” says Lance Gumbs, vice chairman, Shinnecock Indian Nation Council. “We have never been removed from our land and placed in what most people know as a reservation.” However, he says, the Shinnecock territory has “shrunk through the theft of lands over the years.” Before Europeans arrived, the Shinnecock people occupied a 146-mile ancestral territory, which included oceanfront, bays, sounds, marshes, creeks, salt meadows, forests and grasslands. The Shinnecock world began to change in 1640, when village leaders permitted English colonists to share a portion of their lands in exchange for 60 cloth coats, 60 bushels of corn and the promise of military protection. The Englishmen considered the agreement a land sale, memorializing it in a “deed” that transferred to themselves a swath of Indigenous territory upon which they established Southampton. The land appropriation continued in 1703, when the nation relinquished territory to Southampton in return for a 1,000-year lease of 3,500 acres. This included the Shinnecock Hills, now home of the ultra-exclusive Shinnecock Hills Golf Club. And in 1859, the New York Legislature approved a shady deal that abrogated the 1703 lease, returned the Shinnecock Hills to Southampton and restored Shinnecock Neck to the tribe. The transaction, long considered fraudulent by the Shinnecock, reduced the tribe’s land base to its present size.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Increasingly bereft of land, Shinnecock tribal members were forced to find employment in the colonial economy. Women became domestic servants in non-Native households, and men worked as farm laborers and as whalers who harvested their quarry close to shore. Later, Shinnecock men made the transition to deep-sea whaling, joining crews that spent most of the year aboard vessels plying far-flung oceans. As the whaling industry declined in the late 19th century, Shinnecock men found work on salvage crews recovering cargo from ships that foundered off the coast of Long Island. In December 1876, 10 Shinnecock men died aboard the Circassian, a freighter that had in stormy seas run aground off the coast of Mecox Bay in Bridgehampton. The Hamptons’ emergence as a resort destination in the late 1800s opened new employment opportunities for Shinnecock men to work as hunting and fishing guides, golf caddies and chauffeurs. Women worked as cooks and maids for wealthy families and sold handmade baskets to tourists eager to acquire souvenirs. Today, employment opportunities in the Shinnecock community are scarce, and many tribal members must commute to jobs elsewhere on Long Island and in the greater New York metropolitan area.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;A Tidal Wave of Change&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In spite of four centuries of challenges, the Shinnecock have managed to remain on their homelands. But this place has been changing, often from external forces. In recent decades, the Hamptons, particularly Southampton, have seen an invasion of billionaires—Wall Street tycoons, Hollywood moguls, pop stars and assorted glitterati, many of whom are building multimillion-dollar homes and estates at a pace that is overwhelming their environment. The area has become “a playground for the very elite rich,” says tribal member Autumn Rose Williams. “There’s really a big dichotomy between the haves and the have-nots here.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Shinnecock can see the class divide from their doorsteps. Looking east across Shinnecock Bay, bulldozers raze homes that will be replaced by megamansions built for the richest 1 percent. Across Heady Creek from the Neck is Meadow Lane, also known locally as “Billionaire Lane,” where a home sold for $41 million in 2018. A five-minute car ride brings you to Cooper’s Neck Lane, which Zillow ranked the eighth richest street in the United States.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The luxury property boom has been a boon for real estate moguls, and it could provide a windfall to the Shinnecock residents were they to sell some of their coveted land. But “selling the land is not gonna happen,” insists Shinnecock tribal member Lauryn Randall. “Not in my lifetime, and I’m going make sure that my children know that’s not something that we do.” That seems to be the consensus on the Neck.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;With a ringside seat to unbridled development, the Shinnecock people see how construction and population growth pollute their water resources and diminish shellfish habitat. Increased nitrogen runoff from fertilizers used in lawn care and effluents from faulty septic systems in particular have sullied area waterways. Growing up, Aiyana Smith recalls how she and her fellow tribal members spent summers digging for clams and harvesting oysters, scallops and other seafood, a way of life for generations of Shinnecocks. Beginning in the 1980s, “I started to see the change in the environment and pretty soon there were no more scallops,” she says. Then she started to see fewer and fewer oysters and mussels. “The shellfish that used to sustain us just isn’t in the water anymore.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;That conclusion is shared by scientists at Stony Brook University, who in 2012 founded the Shinnecock Bay Restoration Program to document and reverse the bay’s deteriorating water quality. The program has been planting clams and seeding new eelgrass beds to help increase water filtration in the bay. This helps reduce nitrogen levels and algae blooms, which improves water quality and strengthens fish and shellfish habitat. But restoring fish and shellfish habitat is a slow and expensive process, made more difficult by the breakneck speed of nearby development. Meanwhile, more frequent storms and rising water levels are threatening to erode the Shinnecock shoreline—a problem the nation’s environmental department is trying to address by dredging sand, planting sea and beach grasses and creating a reef of oyster shells to reduce the waves’ power.  &lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;While they have struggled to preserve their shorelines, the Shinnecock have recently experienced some success in protecting ancient unmarked burial sites from desecration by construction crews. For years, builders plowed up Shinnecock human remains and cultural objects Finally, in September 2020, the Shinnecock Nation persuaded Southampton authorities to impose a six-month moratorium on new construction in areas believed to be ancestral burial sites and to establish protocols for encountering human remains at other sites. Last fall, the Shinnecocks and their supporters also held a rally to halt construction at Canoe Place, a historic heritage site where developers are building residential housing. Some units there will rent for $8,000 a month.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Bold, Bright Statements&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Despite the economic gap between those who live in the Hamptons and Long Island’s original residents, the Shinnecock say their grievances are not resulting from a conflict between rich and poor but rather their struggle for tribal sovereignty. This was finally affirmed in 2010, when the Shinnecock Nation was officially recognized by the federal government as a self-governing tribe.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Today, the exercise of Shinnecock sovereignty is perhaps best reflected in recent tribal efforts to erect highway billboards as well as open a gaming facility on Shinnecock land – economic development initiatives that have sparked opposition from area residents and New York State. The conflict around billboards began nearly two years ago, when the Shinnecock Nation began building one of two 61-foot, electronic advertising displays along both sides of Sunrise Highway. The rectangular towers are crowned by the official seal of the Shinnecock Indian Nation. Below, brightly lit digital panels display technicolor advertisements for local businesses, high-end consumer goods as well as public-service messages, including in spring 2020 government advisories relating to COVID-19 health and safety protocols.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Shinnecock leaders hope ad revenue will provide much-needed funding to create on-reservation jobs as well as subsidize tribal social programs. More than generating revenue, however, these monuments, as the Shinnecock refer to the billboards, are powerful symbols of Indigenous sovereignty and community pride, reminders to motorists and area residents that they are on Shinnecock land. But for some residents of Southampton, the billboards are a towering lapse of taste that sully the Hamptons’ upscale vibe. The New York State Department of Transportation also took umbrage, issuing a stop-work order on the first billboard and filing a lawsuit in 2019 to halt construction of the second. The state alleged that the Shinnecock Nation failed to seek a building permit, that the billboards posed a potential public safety risk and, significantly, that the billboards are on nontribal land.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Shinnecock Nation disputes all of these claims, especially that the billboards are not on their land. “This is the last remaining piece [of land] that we never lost, that never changed hands—that wasn’t stolen,” Gumbs asserted in 2019. And because the Shinnecock Nation is self-governing, he says, the state lacks authority to determine the monuments’ fate. Gumbs is hardly alone in that assessment. Last fall, a group of Shinnecock activists and local allies called the “Warriors of the Sunrise” set up a roadside encampment called “Sovereignty Camp 2020” to protest the state’s actions and educate passersby about the nation’s grievances and sovereign rights. The protest attracted considerable media attention as well as support from non-Native organizations and individuals, including Southampton resident and rock legend Roger Waters, co-founder of the band Pink Floyd.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The billboard conflict continues. In January 2021, New York State issued a stop-work order on the second, unfinished billboard, notifying the tribe that it would face a $2,000-a-day fine should work continue. If the nation failed to comply, the state warned, the billboard might be removed. The warning failed to weaken the Shinnecocks’ resolve. “We will never stand down for our right to use our land for the betterment of our people and future generations,” Gumbs asserted.” Construction of the second monument was completed in February.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;That month, the Shinnecock Indian Nation also unveiled plans for developing another potential engine of economic development: a 76,000-square-foot gaming facility on tribal land. The establishment, the first of its kind in the Hamptons, will include a bingo parlor, 1,000 video-lottery terminals and 30 Texas hold‘em table games. Construction is expected to begin this summer, pending approval of an environmental impact study, and would take about 12 to 14 months to complete. As with the billboards, the Shinnecock people hope gaming will help their Nation become more self-sustaining by providing much-needed jobs as well as revenue to finance social programs. Additionally, they say, gaming would diversify a reservation economy limited to smoke shops, convenience stores and the annual Shinnecock Powwow, a critical 74-year-old tradition and source of income that was closed to visitors in 2020 because of COVID-19.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Southampton Town officials look askance at the Shinnecock’s quest to promote economic development through gaming. They worry that a casino will increase traffic on an already congested artery, that more vehicles will generate more noise and more pollution. “This is not economic development I can support,” Town Supervisor Jay Schneiderman told a local television reporter. “It would be hard to find a worse property to locate a gaming facility.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Shinnecock people have heard this before. But the days of buckling under pressure from powerful neighbors are over. “We’re not just gonna be the stepchildren of the Hamptons anymore,” Gumbs says. “Every single time that we’ve tried to do something for self-preservation in terms of economic development, . . . we’ve been stopped with these roadblocks.” Now, he says, “We’re no longer going to be barked at and just bow down to the individuals who think that we’re this people who are just going to take it.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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Mark Hirsch
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-description"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Mark Hirsch is a senior historian at the National Museum of the American Indian. He served as a researcher for NMAI’s “Native New York” exhibition, which features the stories of the Shinnecock and other Indigenous people of this region and is scheduled to open at the museum in New York in 2021.&lt;/p&gt;
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  <pubDate>Thu, 15 Apr 2021 18:35:16 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>KlingbielEL</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">517 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>The Long Journey Home: Helping Native Veterans Heal</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/long-journey-home-helping-native-veterans-heal</link>
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      &lt;span&gt;The Long Journey Home: Helping Native Veterans Heal&lt;/span&gt;

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Fall 2020
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Vol. 21 No. 3
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Aaron Levin&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In 1968, U.S. Marine Tom Holm fought and survived the brutal combat of the Tet Offensive and other perilous operations during the Vietnam War. Sometimes, he was asked to identify the bodies of men—his friends— who had been killed in action. “It was pretty awful at times,” he recalls.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;After such experiences, a veteran’s reintegration into civilian life may be a rough journey. The journey can be even tougher when he carries additional burdens of historical trauma and discrimination. Some studies have shown that the rates of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in American Indians and Alaska Natives are twice those of non-Native, non-Hispanic populations. However, Holm (Creek/Cherokee) and many other Native veterans have been fortunate enough to draw on their cultures to find a path home, one that recognizes both their service to their country and their communities as well as their own individual experiences in war.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
  &lt;/section&gt;

&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodefield-story-slideshow-images clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      

&lt;div id="slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-10/navajo_veterans_with_flag.jpg?itok=M_qEo-EK" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1300,"height":868,"rel":"slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/navajo_veterans_with_flag.jpg?itok=iQWEs_nY" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/navajo_veterans_with_flag.jpg?itok=iQWEs_nY" alt="Members of the Oljato and Kayenta Veterans Associations refold an American flag" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="749" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Members of the Oljato and Kayenta Veterans Associations refold an American flag at the Oljato Veterans Day breakfast, trail ride and healing ceremony on the Navajo Nation in Utah’s Monument Valley on November 9, 2019.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Russel Albert Daniels&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Members of the Oljato and Kayenta Veterans Associations refold an American flag at the Oljato Veterans Day breakfast, trail ride and healing ceremony on the Navajo Nation in Utah’s Monument Valley on November 9, 2019.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Russel Albert Daniels&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-10/Pages%20from%2064341_Text_Soldiers%20Unknown%20interiors%20%281%29-2.jpg?itok=U4Q8_-1B" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":920,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/Pages%20from%2064341_Text_Soldiers%20Unknown%20interiors%20%281%29-2.jpg?itok=vyOYT0f1" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/Pages%20from%2064341_Text_Soldiers%20Unknown%20interiors%20%281%29-2.jpg?itok=vyOYT0f1" alt="Page from graphic novel “Soldiers Unknown”" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="354" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In the graphic novel “Soldiers Unknown,” Chag Lowry (Maidu/Yurok/Achumawi) and illustrator Rahsan Ekedal depict the story of Yuroks Charley Pecwan, his cousin and another tribe member who were drafted into service to fight in World War I. On this page, his great-great grandson is learning about how once Pecwan returned, he was forbidden to participate in ceremonies as he had killed others during battle. Yet he remained connected to his people because he could still pray and create regalia such as this headdress that his descendants will now wear in ceremony.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Image courtesy of Chag Lowery&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In the graphic novel “Soldiers Unknown,” Chag Lowry (Maidu/Yurok/Achumawi) and illustrator Rahsan Ekedal depict the story of Yuroks Charley Pecwan, his cousin and another tribe member who were drafted into service to fight in World War I. On this page, his great-great grandson is learning about how once Pecwan returned, he was forbidden to participate in ceremonies as he had killed others during battle. Yet he remained connected to his people because he could still pray and create regalia such as this headdress that his descendants will now wear in ceremony.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Image courtesy of Chag Lowery&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-10/DSC_0005.jpg?itok=p8Uyzc2H" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":940,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/DSC_0005.jpg?itok=D-od9ufe" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/DSC_0005.jpg?itok=D-od9ufe" alt="Ton-Kon-Gah, or the Kiowa Black Leggings Warrior Society, mounted eagle-feather war bonnets" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="362" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In 2006, the Ton-Kon-Gah, or the Kiowa Black Leggings Warrior Society, mounted eagle-feather war bonnets with U.S. military uniforms during a ceremony held annually near Anadarko, Oklahoma, to recognize Kiowa tribal members who served. Ton-Kon-Gah was established more than 200 years ago to honor combat veterans.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In 2006, the Ton-Kon-Gah, or the Kiowa Black Leggings Warrior Society, mounted eagle-feather war bonnets with U.S. military uniforms during a ceremony held annually near Anadarko, Oklahoma, to recognize Kiowa tribal members who served. Ton-Kon-Gah was established more than 200 years ago to honor combat veterans.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-10/D00142.jpg?itok=ee9EokK-" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1201","height":"705","rel":"slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/D00142.jpg?itok=6eGVIPn2" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/D00142.jpg?itok=6eGVIPn2" alt="Desert Thunder, an all-Cherokee drum group" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="446" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Desert Thunder, an all-Cherokee drum group played at the first American Indian powwow in a combat zone, held at the Al Taqaddum Air Base near Falluja, Iraq, in 2004.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Johancharles "Chuck" Boers&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Desert Thunder, an all-Cherokee drum group played at the first American Indian powwow in a combat zone, held at the Al Taqaddum Air Base near Falluja, Iraq, in 2004.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by Johancharles "Chuck" Boers&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-10/265148_001.png?itok=uxcZR9Us" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1300,"height":1271,"rel":"slick-node-469-story-slideshow-images-default-12"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/265148_001.png?itok=Xne8ohAG" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-10/265148_001.png?itok=Xne8ohAG" alt="Drum and drumsticks" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="511" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;A drum and drumsticks from the first American Indian powwow in a combat zone, now reside in the collection of the National Museum of the American Indian. Metal, wood, hide, twine, nylon cord, adhesive tape, plastic and nails; drum: 18" x 24" x 24", drumsticks (length) 19", 19" and 24". Gift of Sergeant Debra Kay Mooney and 120th Engineer Combat-heavy Battalion. NMAI 26/5148&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;A drum and drumsticks from the first American Indian powwow in a combat zone, now reside in the collection of the National Museum of the American Indian. Metal, wood, hide, twine, nylon cord, adhesive tape, plastic and nails; drum: 18" x 24" x 24", drumsticks (length) 19", 19" and 24". Gift of Sergeant Debra Kay Mooney and 120th Engineer Combat-heavy Battalion. NMAI 26/5148&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodebody clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      
            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h2&gt;Significance of Ceremony&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;American Indians have fought in all of America’s wars, from the American Revolution and Civil War to the recent conflicts in the Middle East. They served to defend their families, their country and—as the first Americans—their land. They did so “despite a long history of oppression, suppression of their culture and centuries of outright warfare by American troops,” says Herman Viola, curator emeritus of Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;As described in the book “Why We Serve: Native Americans in the Armed Forces” by Alexandra Harris and Mark Hirsch, a warrior tradition is integral to many but not all American Indian and First Nation cultures. In addition, “warrior” is a term that encompasses more than fighting prowess. “Members of the community view the warrior as a relative who takes part in battle not only to protect the community but also to restore justice and serve the people in other ways,” says Holm, now a retired professor of American Indian Studies at the University of Arizona. “The warrior’s virtues— honesty, humility and generosity—are part of any Indigenous society that is close to the land.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In Canada, Taiaiake Alfred (Mohawk) grew up near Montreal and spent three years in the U.S. Marines infantry in the early 1980s. “The warrior spirit is a way to express one’s self that is honored and revered by Native culture,” says Alfred. In the past, once warriors returned from war, the spiritual ceremonies helped them heal. "They told us that if you retake your traditional place, you would heal.” The Mohawk carry on their long warrior tradition, he says, and cites his involvement in a 1990 armed standoff with the Canadian Army and police over Indigenous land rights for a golf course in Oka, Quebec.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Two of the great 20th-century novels by American Indian writers follow the difficult return to their Native communities of soldiers who fought in the South Pacific during World War II. The protagonists of N. Scott Momaday’s “House Made of Dawn” and Leslie Marmon Silko’s “Ceremony” were deeply scarred psychologically by combat or captivity. Holm describes “House Made of Dawn” as “a story about a person who works through things and finally is at peace with himself,” and “Ceremony” as a novel that “indicates that you can make peace with yourself through the old ways.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Healing ceremonies are so important because soldiers carry their memories of the battlefield home. Navajo (Diné) psychiatrist Mary Roessel says that for her people, killing people is not permitted, so her tribe offers a way for warriors to come back to the community from war through a psychological and spiritual cleansing process. She says that the Diné’s ancient, week-long N’da (“Enemy Way”) ceremony was developed to ease symptoms that early records suggest were comparable to PTSD.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Today, the Veterans Health Administration (VHA) uses exposure therapy, where therapist and patient focus on the traumatic experience in a safe setting to lessen the anxiety associated with the memory of the event.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Traditions that Heal&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yet not all Native soldiers have had the benefit of healing through ceremony. Inspired by the lives of his two Yurok great-great uncles, Chag Lowry (Maidu/Yurok/Achumawi) and Members of the Oljato and illustrator Rahsan Ekedal depict in their graphic novel, “Soldiers Unknown,” a fictional recreation of the experiences of real Yurok and Maidu soldiers from rural California to the trenches of France. They were drafted to fight in the First World War, even before all American Indians were declared to be U.S. citizens in 1924. Because Charley, the lead protagonist, has killed an enemy in battle, he is forbidden to participate as a singer or dancer in Yurok ceremonies after his return. Nevertheless, he remains connected to his people because he can still pray and craft the regalia used by others in their ceremonies.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yurok and Maidu veterans are now able to participate in some of their tribal ceremonies says Lowry. “I think there was a gradual acceptance among our ceremonial leaders that our culture had changed and the law had to change because we’ve had so many generations of combat veterans,” he says.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Oklahoman John Emhoolah (Kiowa/ Arapaho) was attending the Riverside Indian School in Anadarko, Oklahoma, when he signed up for the National Guard in 1950 as a way to earn a few extra dollars. Shortly thereafter, the Korean War began and his unit was activated as the 45th Infantry Division. A substantial number of the soldiers in the famed “Thunderbird Division” were fellow American Indians. Emhoolah became a forward observer doing reconnaissance in the 158th Field Artillery and spent five cold months on a mountainside in Korea, where he and his crew directed fire from half a dozen 105 mm howitzers. “I did my job,” he says, as did his five brothers, who also served in Korea or Vietnam.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Emhoolah’s return home was eased by a Native American Church ceremony held with Kiowa elders. The Native American Church uses sacred medicine, fasting rituals and prayer intended to heal the disrepair of the world, including the stresses of war. “It was like the old days,” he said. “We sang the old songs. Because of that, I’m still here.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Since then, year after year, Emhoolah has attended ceremonies of the Ton-Kon-Gah, or Kiowa Black Leggings Warrior Society, which was established more than 200 years ago to honor combat veterans like him. However, the COVID-19 pandemic has put such community gatherings for healing on hold, says Emhoolah. “Everything is cancelled for this year until this bad medicine goes away.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Among the next generation, George Bennett Sr. (Tlingit) grew up in Hoonah, Alaska, during the 1950s and 1960s on a rugged island 30 miles west and a world away from the state capital in Juneau. Rain, cold and snow were ordinary facts of life. Bennett’s tribe lived off the land and sea but in harmony with nature.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We had so little knowledge of the world outside Hoonah,” he recalled, but he did learn from his elders’ respect for the forest and the ocean. “We took only what we needed. When we went berry picking, my mother would talk to the bears who might be out in the forest, asking their forgiveness for intruding on their homelands.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;That life was interrupted when Bennett got his draft notice in 1966 and was sent to Vietnam. “I was excited about doing my share,” he says. “I was always envious of guys in uniform when I was a kid.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The U.S. Army trained him to be a radio operator, a major responsibility in an era before miniaturization, when bulky field radios were carried in a heavy backpack. Once in Vietnam, he soon enough became acquainted with the realities of war. At one point, his unit engaged in two days of continuous fighting, often at close quarters at night.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;With so much needless death around him, he says, “I felt the values of my culture drifting away,” recalling the reverence he had learned as a boy for the land, the animals and the people. At the same time, he admired the Vietnamese he encountered as fellow Indigenous people.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;He left Vietnam in October 1968. Public opinion was already turning against the war. Like so many other veterans of his generation, he received no grand welcome at home. He found he couldn’t talk about his experiences. He had nightmares and was drinking too much, he says. Eventually, he entered an outpatient alcohol program in Anchorage and was assessed for PTSD. He took part in a Lakota sweat lodge, an experience that required him to be sober for 30 days. Finally, he went to his father's home in Sitka, Alaska, encouraged by his wife, Mary, who he married in 1970. “She always believed that one day, that good guy would come out,” he says.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“I got in touch with my culture, my language and our songs again, and I dealt with the guilt, shame and dishonor I had brought into my tribe,” he says. “Later, I was able to share the pride that I was a Vietnam veteran. In the ceremonies, I saw the respect of the clans. They were there all the time. I just had to show up.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Holm finally returned home in December 1968. Combat had taken its toll, but he was welcomed back by his family and his people. His uncles who served in World War II took care of him and exchanged experiences— perhaps an informal version of talk therapy. He took part in “Going to Water,” a ceremony to free a veteran from the inevitable evils that take place in war, he said. The painful memories were still there but now he was able to live with them.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Participation in our ceremonies of honoring and purification helps individuals work through the problems associated with post-traumatic stress,” Holm said in a 2013 presentation as part of the Vine Deloria Jr. Distinguished Indigenous Scholar Series at the University of Arizona. “Western medicine attempts to heal the body, mind and spirit. Our medicine people do the same, plus they add the element of the environment. A sick or troubled person can upset the harmony of that which surrounds him. So place has to be part of healing and that includes the family, the neighbors, the plants, the animals, the universe, and that may take more than one ritual or type of medicine.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;If Native people are unable to bring dead warriors home for burial or funerary ceremonies, sometimes other ceremonies can acknowledge and help ease the loss, says Holm. “There’s a song about a horse standing alone on a hill, the implication being that the warrior who rode it didn’t make it back.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Among the Navajo, families seek resolution and acceptance of the loss of a warrior missing in action, says Roessel. They might have a “burial” for the spirit. “We want the spirit to be at rest and at peace, and so we conduct ceremonies,” she says. “The ceremony also helps the spirit come to rest to avoid harming the surviving family.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Care Through Community&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Acknowledgment of service from one’s community can also help servicemen and women heal. Most Native tribes and First Nations host powwows and other gatherings during which veterans are honored.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Finding that sense of community during military service can be difficult for Native servicemen and servicewomen, especially since soldiers from the same tribe are rarely found together in the same unit. Debra Kay Mooney (Choctaw) recognized this need after she joined the Oklahoma Army National Guard in the 1990s and was deployed to Iraq in 2004 and 2008 in a combat-heavy engineer battalion and then with the 45th Infantry in detainee operations.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 2004, she was chatting about powwows with her Native tentmates at the Al Taqaddum Air Base near Falluja, Iraq. Word spread to her commanding officer who agreed to let her organize the first powwow held in a combat zone. In just six weeks, Mooney and her fellow soldiers were able to round up the appropriate regalia from family and friends in the United States, organize and rehearse dances and even fashion steel tomahawks from Humvee armor plating and a steel drum from an oil drum, all of which she and a combat battalion later donated to the collection of the National Museum of the American Indian.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 2008, she sustained head and back injuries from a fall from a truck, which led to extended treatment at both military and tribal medical facilities. However, “by the grace of God, I got to come home. I’m blessed,” she says. “The most important thing coming home is the right support system.” Today, her brothers and their wives as well as the powwow community provide that coaching and support.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Finding Balance&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Master Sergeant Johancharles “Chuck” Boers (Lipan Apache) photographed that historic 2004 powwow in Iraq. Boers grew up in California, where part of his tribe had been relocated from Texas in 1950. Even as a youth, he says, “I knew I wanted to be in the military,” so he entered the U.S. Army right after he graduated from high school in 1983. He undertook tribal ceremonies before going to war and was given a medicine pouch to carry with him to keep him safe.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Trained as a combat photographer, he was deployed to Grenada, Bosnia, Kosovo and five times to Iraq. There he saw heavy fighting in Falluja, Najaf, Samarra and elsewhere. During his 26 years of service, he accumulated three Purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars. He also sustained traumatic brain injuries that left him with migraines, light sensitivity and memory problems.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The choice to take part in tribal ceremonies is a personal one and some Native veterans may decide on more conventional avenues for care. Boers, who is now retired in California, has used every available avenue of help, from the on-base military system to the VHA to the Indian Health Service (IHS) to tribal ceremonies. “The IHS gives vets a place to get together,” he said. “Veterans from World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the more recent conflicts could gather and talk and help each other out. It was a way to bring us together as a community of veterans.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Veteran Administration’s National Vietnam Veterans Readjustment Study, which began in 1984, included subsections on Black and Hispanic soldiers. However, not until Rep. Spark Matsunaga and Senator Daniel Inouye pushed for a survey in the late 1980s were Native American, Native Hawaiian and Japanese American troops studied for the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Eventually, the VHA began to include culturally appropriate care for American Indian and Alaska Native vets. The VHA now hosts sweat lodges developed with the collaboration of local tribes at 13 VHA locations. There are also tele-mental health services for Native veterans who live far from existing VHA sites.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;War upsets everyone’s inner balance, says Boers. “Ceremonies help restore that balance, help bring inner peace, help you with things you’ve seen or done,” he says. “I’m not who I was before going off to war, but ceremonies let me be okay with myself.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Ultimately, the spiritual care and recognition emanating from one’s culture and community is crucial to Native soldiers and veterans. As a Ho-Chunk elder in Wisconsin once told Tom Holm, “We honor our veterans for their bravery and because by seeing death on the battlefield they truly know the greatness of life.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;div style="background-color:#eee; padding:30px; margin-bottom:10px;"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;&lt;img alt="Vietnam veteran Allen Hoe (Native Hawaiian) holds a flag that he and his son, First Lieutenant Nainoa Hoe (in painting) carried into battle" data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="cdfadbc5-3c7f-476c-82b8-8a18fc2b815e" src="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/inline-images/Allen%20Hoe%20with%20flag.jpg" width="100%" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p style="font-size:13px; line-height:1.5"&gt;Vietnam veteran Allen Hoe (Native Hawaiian) holds a flag that he and his son, First Lieutenant Nainoa Hoe (in painting), carried into battle. Nainoa was killed serving in Iraq in 2005. Photo Courtesy of Allen Hoe&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Remembering Those Taken&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;War takes its toll, not only on servicemen or servicewomen injured and killed but also on the friends and family of those who never came home. Native Hawaiian Allen Hoe was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1966 and trained as a combat medic. First stationed at Travis Air Force Base in California, he wished to prove himself as a warrior and requested a transfer to Vietnam. Hoe carried a small American flag with him in his backpack as a talisman.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Hoe arrived in December 1967 and joined an infantry battalion reconnaissance team in the 196th Light Infantry Brigade. After a brief R&amp;R in May 1968, he was waiting for a helicopter to return to his unit at Kham Duc when he learned that it had been overrun by the North Vietnamese Army. Among the missing and presumed dead was his buddy, radio operator William “Skip” Skivington Jr. Their bodies would not be recovered for 38 years.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“My biggest disappointment was that I couldn’t be there for my guys,” Hoe says. He was given the option of serving the rest of his time in Vietnam at a base hospital but preferred to stay in the field.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Hoe left Vietnam in September 1968 and went to college and law school. He remained in contact with Skivington’s father, Bill, a World War II veteran, and joined him when Skip’s remains were identified and repatriated in 2006.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Hoe’s return to life in Hawaii was cushioned by strong family support and their deep Christian faith. But he also embraced the traditional Hawaiian ideal of “‘ohana,” the extended envelopment of family members to create a secure and safe space. “There was an acceptance of what you had gone through that allowed you to be part of the family.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Years later, capricious fate would again intervene in Hoe’s life. His son, First Lieutenant Nainoa Hoe served in the 3rd Battalion, 21st Infantry (which was part of the 196th Light Infantry Brigade in Vietnam). He was struck down by a sniper’s bullet in Mosul, Iraq, in 2005. In his backpack, Nainoa carried the same flag his father bore in Vietnam.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Despite the pain of losing his son, Hoe understands his decision to enlist and serve. “Nainoa went into the Army with his eyes wide open. He loved being a platoon leader,” Hoe says. Still, he says, he regrets that “my son wasn’t able to enjoy the things he had worked so hard for.”&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;p&gt;&lt;em&gt;Concepts in this article are based on "Cultures of War" in the NMAI's publication "Why We Serve: Native Americans in the United States Armed Forces."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-title"&gt;
Aaron Levin
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-description"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Aaron Levin is a freelance journalist based in Baltimore, Maryland.&lt;/p&gt;
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  <pubDate>Mon, 05 Oct 2020 15:04:00 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>ChampionC</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">469 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>More Than News: Indigenous Media Empowers Native Voices and Communities</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/Indigenous-media</link>
  <description>&lt;div class="row bs-1col-stacked"&gt;
  

    &lt;div id="story--background-image" class="col-sm-12 col-md-12 col-lg-12 bs-region bs-region--top"&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-story-category field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;Current Affairs&lt;/div&gt;
      
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      &lt;span&gt;More Than News: Indigenous Media Empowers Native Voices and Communities&lt;/span&gt;

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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-nothing"&gt;&lt;span class="views-label views-label-nothing"&gt;From Issue:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="field-content"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/issues/summer-2020" class="link--to-issue"&gt;
&lt;span class="from--issue-story"&gt;
Summer 2020
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Vol. 21 No. 2
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Bryan Pollard&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Indigenous people across North America depend on Native media outlets for essential information about their communities and tribal affairs. These newspapers, newsletters, magazines, radio and television broadcasts as well as online publications are often produced in places that otherwise lack a reliable source of timely, accurate and contextual coverage of what impacts their daily lives. Indigenous media, however, does more than distribute news. It serves as a community forum that can help reinforce cultural values and languages. Ultimately, it holds the potential to reaffirm an Indigenous community’s identity.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;section class="block block-ctools-block block-entity-fieldnodefield-story-slideshow-images clearfix"&gt;
  
    

      

&lt;div id="slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/010_pht_013_002.jpg?itok=8k2d3kYw" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1199","height":"1078","rel":"slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/010_pht_013_002.jpg?itok=TkP5lNTO" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/010_pht_013_002.jpg?itok=TkP5lNTO" alt="President of the Anchorage Camp of the Alaska Native Brotherhood Miles Brandon" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="556" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;President of the Anchorage Camp of the Alaska Native Brotherhood Miles Brandon holds up a 1954 edition of the Native Voice, a publication produced by the Native Brotherhood of British Columbia. The organizations were established to fight to preserve Native civil rights. National Congress of American Indians Collection, NMAI 010_PHT_013_002&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;President of the Anchorage Camp of the Alaska Native Brotherhood Miles Brandon holds up a 1954 edition of the Native Voice, a publication produced by the Native Brotherhood of British Columbia. The organizations were established to fight to preserve Native civil rights. National Congress of American Indians Collection, NMAI 010_PHT_013_002&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/Cherokee_Phoenix_old.jpg?itok=37xsOCva" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":841,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Cherokee_Phoenix_old.jpg?itok=DqmThXGm" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Cherokee_Phoenix_old.jpg?itok=DqmThXGm" alt="First edition of the Cherokee Phoenix newspaper" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="323" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The first Native newspaper in North America was the Cherokee Phoenix, which the Cherokee Nation initially published in both English and Cherokee on February 21, 1828. Image courtesy of the Cherokee Phoenix&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The first Native newspaper in North America was the Cherokee Phoenix, which the Cherokee Nation initially published in both English and Cherokee on February 21, 1828. Image courtesy of the Cherokee Phoenix&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/Cherokee_Phoenix_new.jpg?itok=Dc0c0bnG" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":691,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Cherokee_Phoenix_new.jpg?itok=cg4FVvV5" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Cherokee_Phoenix_new.jpg?itok=cg4FVvV5" alt="Cherokee Phoenix cover page" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="266" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Since 2018, the Cherokee Phoenix has published a special annual edition in the Cherokee language, which features a QR code that, when scanned with a smartphone, reads the issue in Cherokee. Image courtesy of the Cherokee Phoenix&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Since 2018, the Cherokee Phoenix has published a special annual edition in the Cherokee language, which features a QR code that, when scanned with a smartphone, reads the issue in Cherokee. Image courtesy of the Cherokee Phoenix&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/IMG-4643.jpg?itok=hTOI_F7X" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1201","height":"919","rel":"slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG-4643.jpg?itok=XqDbhBLZ" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG-4643.jpg?itok=XqDbhBLZ" alt="High Country News reporter Jolene Yazzie (Diné) photographs Utah Navajo Health System board member Wilfred Jones" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="653" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;High Country News reporter Jolene Yazzie (Diné) photographs Utah Navajo Health System board member Wilfred Jones in San Juan County, Utah. Photo by Graham Lee Brewer (Cherokee Nation), High Country News&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;High Country News reporter Jolene Yazzie (Diné) photographs Utah Navajo Health System board member Wilfred Jones in San Juan County, Utah. Photo by Graham Lee Brewer (Cherokee Nation), High Country News&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/IMG_1435%20%281%29.jpg?itok=UJZ33GK5" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1300,"height":823,"rel":"slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG_1435%20%281%29.jpg?itok=Wl3wBB6V" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG_1435%20%281%29.jpg?itok=Wl3wBB6V" alt="Indian Country Today Editor Mark Trahant (Shoshone-Bannock Tribes) interviewing then-presidential candidate Montana Governor Steve Bullock" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="760" height="481" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In September 2019, Indian Country Today Editor Mark Trahant (Shoshone-Bannock Tribes) interviewed then-presidential candidate Montana Governor Steve Bullock. The month before, the outlet co-hosted the Native American Presidential Forum attended by 11 candidates in Sioux City, Iowa. Photo courtesy of Indian Country Today&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;In September 2019, Indian Country Today Editor Mark Trahant (Shoshone-Bannock Tribes) interviewed then-presidential candidate Montana Governor Steve Bullock. The month before, the outlet co-hosted the Native American Presidential Forum attended by 11 candidates in Sioux City, Iowa. Photo courtesy of Indian Country Today&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/IMG-2954.jpg?itok=WPRNq8Aw" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1068","height":"794","rel":"slick-node-436-story-slideshow-images-default-14"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG-2954.jpg?itok=hdkGlsWA" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG-2954.jpg?itok=hdkGlsWA" alt="KYNR 1490 AM radio host Reggie George (Yakama Nation)" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="673" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Mentor Darren Brown (Cochití Pueblo) and CATV 47 student journalist Hunter Hutulke (Seminole) interviewed KYNR 1490 AM radio host Reggie George (Yakama Nation) as part of a fellowship newsroom experience during the Native American Journalists Association’s 2019 National Native Media Conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Photo courtesy of Native American Journalists Association&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Mentor Darren Brown (Cochití Pueblo) and CATV 47 student journalist Hunter Hutulke (Seminole) interviewed KYNR 1490 AM radio host Reggie George (Yakama Nation) as part of a fellowship newsroom experience during the Native American Journalists Association’s 2019 National Native Media Conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Photo courtesy of Native American Journalists Association&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h2&gt;Founded in Culture&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Native American Journalists Association (NAJA) estimates about 400 Indigenous news outlets—including print, digital and broadcast— operate throughout the United States and Canada. Their followers range from a few hundred readers or listeners to millions of online and television viewers.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Loris Taylor is president and CEO of Native Public Media, a nonprofit organization that supports Indigenous broadcasting. A citizen of the Hopi Nation, Taylor says that modern technology enables media to amplify the time-honored Native tradition of bringing people together: “The plaza is a very distinct space within the Hopi community, where ceremonies take place, where the community gathers for anything that is significant.” She says that tribal radio “is a drum within that space that transmits to the current generation and to future generations the value of our history, of our language, of our oral traditions.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;For Native media professionals, deeply ingrained cultural values are often foundational to journalism. Francine Compton, a citizen of Sandy Bay Ojibway First Nation, is an executive producer at the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network (APTN) based in Winnipeg, Canada, and a NAJA board member. She says that what she learned growing up in her culture guides her work: “The seven teachings are love, respect, courage, honesty, wisdom, humility and truth. That guides me as someone who grew up with my culture, and it guides me in my job. It’s journalism—it’s a passion to find the truth.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;NAJA conducted a survey in 2019 among nearly 500 Indigenous media producers and consumers as part of its Red Press Initiative to gain a better understanding of the values of and challenges to Indigenous media. When asked if their Indigenous media reinforced cultural values, more than half of all those surveyed responded “most of the time,” while nearly 95 percent responded at least “some of the time.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Some media outlets reinforced their Indigenous culture by publishing or broadcasting in their Native language. Nearly 10 percent of those the Red Press Initiative surveyed responded they did so most of the time and 80 percent responded, at least sometimes.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The first Native newspaper in North America was the weekly Cherokee Phoenix, which the Cherokee Nation first published in both English and Cherokee on February 21, 1828. Since 2018, the newspaper has published a special annual edition in the Cherokee language that features a QR code that, when scanned by a smartphone, reads the issue in Cherokee.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;APTN broadcasts National Hockey League games in the Plains Cree language. “When it comes to languages, absolutely media has a role to play in educating and preserving,” Compton says. “That’s something that is giving back to the community,” she says.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Making Native Voices Heard&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Indigenous media has always served as a platform to empower Indigenous voices. “Tribal media is the glue that is so vital to the freedoms that we enjoy. For tribal communities, it’s really about how we support everything that’s important to us,” Taylor says. “It’s about our water and land rights. It’s about our right to be who we are. It’s about our right to practice our culture, and it’s really about the right to own our own identity.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Many of the more than two dozen journalists who founded the Native American Press Association (now NAJA) in 1983 represented newspapers that were telling Indigenous stories written by Indigenous journalists. The publications included the Lakota Times, Southern Ute Drum, Spilyay Tymoo, Jicarilla Chieftain, Smoke Signal, Indian Times, Wotanin Wowapi, Indian Finance Digest, Talking Leaf and Navajo Times Today. More than 300 Indigenous print and digital publications exist today.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Native radio broadcasts began to bloom in the United States and Canada in the 1970s, and continue to be an important source of news, especially to those in rural areas. Nearly 70 Indigenous radio programs broadcast today.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Canada’s APTN launched the first national Indigenous television program in 1999. First Nations Experience (FNX), the first national Native television network based in the United States, launched in 2011 and went national in 2014. FNX just partnered with Indian Country Today to help distribute its new newscast, the first weekday Native television newscast in the United States. Less than a dozen Native television stations are operating.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Filling the Gap&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;These Native media outlets report the stories of vital interest to Indigenous communities that mainstream media outlets are often unable or unwilling to cover. Many mainstream media outlets lack the personnel to report in remote locations or they may not understand the cultural, societal and economic realities of Indigenous life.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Jodi Rave Spotted Bear, a citizen of the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara Nation in central North Dakota, founded the Indigenous Media Freedom Alliance and its blog, Buffalo’s Fire. She advocates for more robust Indigenous news sources because she says mainstream reporting is insufficient. “We’re really not on their radar,” she says. “We had tribal elections about a year or so ago and it was an important election for a new chairman of our tribe. I called the Bismarck Tribune and talked to an editor there and asked if they were going to do any news reporting of our election, and they said no because they didn’t have a reporter in the area anymore.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Compton has felt the harm inflicted by the invisibility of Indigenous stories in mainstream media, even stories worthy of national attention. In 2000, when she first started working at the APTN television station, she covered a little-known story about the Canadian military removing sun dancers from their dancing grounds on unceded territory that had become a farmer’s ranch. “I come from a sun dancing family. I couldn’t believe that the Canadian government sent the military in to remove sun dancers doing their traditional ceremony,” she says. “Why did it take for my people to have their own network for me to hear about that? That goes straight to the heart of why I feel so passionately about Indigenous media.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Even well-intentioned mainstream journalists may lack the context and perspective necessary to tell Indigenous stories with nuance and authenticity. Or worse, such media coverage can careen into sensationalism, reinforcing stereotypes about Indigenous identity. These shortcomings in mainstream reporting are so persistent that NAJA has released a series of reporting guides to help inexperienced or non-Indigenous journalists. “The guides are designed to help non-Indigenous journalists navigate areas that they are completely uninformed about,” says NAJA President Tristan Ahtone, “areas that are likely shaded by bias, pop culture and lingering colonial ideas about Indigenous ‘plight.’”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;On the other hand, Compton says, Indigenous journalists carry a perspective that enhances and balances coverage: “We are the experts that connect to our people, and we know how to talk to our people in our communities. We know how to fairly represent them,” she says. “We have life experiences that relate to the stories that we are covering. We bring that experience to our roles as journalists; that gives the story a different voice. Indigenous media is giving voice to people who have never had much of a voice in the last few hundred years.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Challenges from Within&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Underrepresentation of Native stories in mainstream media may be exacerbated by a disempowerment of Indigenous media from within. Despite the need for vigorous Indigenous news operations, many outlets may not have the resources or freedom to report fully on issues that concern their audiences.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When asked to rank the greatest threat to Indigenous media, more than half of respondents to NAJA’s Red Press Initiative survey identified budgetary constraints and lack of financial resources as a top threat. Although many Native publications have gone to digital-only formats to save printing and distribution costs, many Indigenous newspapers are still also available in print to serve their residents who prefer that format or may not have quality internet access. Many of these publications rely on funding from their tribal government because revenue from subscriptions and local advertising is limited.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Even the widely recognized national magazine Indian Country Today had to temporarily suspend publication. The former print newspaper published by the Oneida Indian Nation in New York became an online publication called Indian Country Today Media Network in 2011. In 2017, the Oneida Nation put the news platform on hiatus and donated its publication assets to the National Congress of American Indians. The NCAI corporation was saved by switching to a new business model: producing a mobile-based publication funded not only by advertising but by donations from the public and foundations. It relaunched in June 2018. Editor Mark Trahant (Shoshone-Bannock Tribes) says the intent was to “build a new kind of news organization—one that is sustainable, can inform Indian Country, establish a career path for Native journalists and educate everyone else.” In 2019, it added a television broadcast and now offers its online and broadcast content to other tribal and public television outlets. To give timely updates on the COVID-19 outbreak in tribal lands, it created a weekday news broadcast that airs on FNX and public television stations. Through these and its website and social media channels, the broadcast has the potential to reach more than 50 million viewers.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Another challenge for Indigenous media is maintaining independence in what is often a small community with strong tribal government influence, conditions that can hamper the basic journalistic practice of maintaining objectivity. Nearly a quarter of Indigenous media producers who responded to the Red Press survey stated that stories about tribal affairs or officials went unreported due to censorship all or most of the time. Nearly a third say that prior approval of stories by government officials was required all or most of the time.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;These obstacles lead to a narrowed scope of information reaching its intended audiences. Nearly a quarter of the readers, listeners and viewers of Indigenous media responded that their Indigenous media outlets only sometimes or never reflected the range of opinions and concerns of tribal citizens. Ten percent of this group also reported that tribal citizens never have adequate information about tribal affairs.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We need more transparency mechanisms in place so our readers know what is happening with their tribal media,” says Spotted Bear. “Who owns the tribal newspaper? How much funding comes from the tribal government? How often is the tribal council or some other governmental body shaping what goes into the newspaper or not? I think it’s imperative that our readers know the extent of control the tribal government has in filtering the news.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Spotted Bear says that to properly fulfill their roles as truth-tellers, Indigenous media must have full access to leadership and be shielded from political influence. “We need to create a legal framework to protect our tribal media operations for them to be able to do their work as if they were independent,” she says. “This would require the tribes to buy into that idea, and there needs to be no strings attached to funding.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Media for the People&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When Indigenous media is supported to operate independently, then it is more than just a conveyor of information. It is an engaged partner, serving its community and its audience with depth, clarity and perspective. When Indigenous people see and hear their authentic representation in media, it empowers their voice and reinforces their Native identities.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Taylor says without Indigenous media, Native people and their issues would be near invisible in the mainstream culture and tribal governments would be less able to sustain their self-determination, or the freedom to define themselves. The role of Indigenous media, she says, is to “have control over what the narratives are about our own people. If you are not in control, if you don’t have media control and ownership, somebody else is going to have that power. It’s a huge power that we don’t often acknowledge. It’s vital, it’s pivotal and it affects everything.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;However, true self-determination may be more difficult to attain if tribal media outlets are unable to fulfill their full potential. James R. Mountain, the former governor of San Ildefonso Pueblo in New Mexico and now owner of the community’s newspaper, the Valley Daily Post, asserts that the key for Native media to succeed is for it to connect to its cultural roots. “We must be true to our Indian way—‘Naa in-bee Towa Koo paadeh peh,’ our Indian way comes first. Those are the gifts that were given to us by our creator. Be true to that. We must put that first, as part of our principles as tribal media outlets,” Mountain says. “This is one way, and it’s a very powerful way.”&lt;/p&gt;
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Bryan Pollard
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&lt;p&gt;Bryan Pollard is a citizen of the Cherokee Nation and a project manager at the Associated Press. He is the former associate director at the Native American Journalists Association, John S. Knight Journalism Fellow at Stanford University and executive editor of the Cherokee Phoenix.&lt;/p&gt;

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  <pubDate>Fri, 05 Jun 2020 19:30:00 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>ChampionC</dc:creator>
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  <title>Being Native: Showing the Consequences of Non-Natives Defining Who is An American Indian</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/being-native</link>
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      &lt;span&gt;Being Native: Showing the Consequences of Non-Natives Defining Who is An American Indian&lt;/span&gt;

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Vol. 21 No. 2
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;I grew up in western Montana on the Flathead Indian Reservation surrounded by a very large family. In my Salish and Kootenai community, people don’t have just one mom or four grandparents, and our aunties are not just our parents’ siblings. I have dozens of aunties, uncles, grandmas and grandpas. I have friends who are cousins and cousins who are sisters. I also have a sister who is my mom’s friend’s daughter, and her mom is my mom, too. My community raises children together.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;div id="slick-node-445-story-slideshow-images-default-16" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick unslick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--less slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/Irvine.jpg?itok=hQzxAdV8" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"797"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Irvine.jpg?itok=gJYRm4H4" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Irvine.jpg?itok=gJYRm4H4" alt="Salish and Kootenai photojournalist Tailyr Irvine" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="753" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Salish and Kootenai photojournalist Tailyr Irvine on her tribes’ Flathead Indian Reservation in western Montana. Photo by Freddy Monares&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Salish and Kootenai photojournalist Tailyr Irvine on her tribes’ Flathead Indian Reservation in western Montana. Photo by Freddy Monares&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The beauty of being raised by an extended family is what makes home special to me and, as I later discovered, is inherently Indigenous. The way I was raised shaped who I am and the work I do as a photojournalist, as the home I know is in stark contrast to how it is often represented in mainstream media.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 2011, when I left the reservation at the age of 18 to attend Washington State University in Pullman, I discovered what it truly felt like to be a minority in a country that forgets Native Americans exist. I realized my peers only thought about Indigenous peoples in the past tense, as stereotypes or not at all. They were painfully ignorant, and their constant questions and comments about Native Americans made me feel isolated. I was the only Indigenous person some of my peers had ever met, and they were disappointed: I wasn’t brown enough, I spoke “too white” and I didn’t live in a tepee. I was constantly defending myself and my family. I felt othered and longed to be in a place where I didn’t have to think about my identity or explain my life to anyone. After one semester there, I returned home.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Two years later, when I attended the University of Montana, I faced the same dilemma of being surrounded by almost entirely white classmates. But I soon discovered the power of photos to help me speak. I took a media history class that showed “Falling Man,” an image of a man plummeting off one of the towers of the World Trade Center on 9/11. The emotional punch the image packed more than a decade after it was photographed showed me the potential power of photography. I took journalism and photography classes so that I could illustrate my own news stories and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in journalism in 2018. I then worked as a photojournalist for several newspapers around the United States before becoming an independent photographer in 2019.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;I did not realize, however, that the constant questioning I faced in college would follow me for the rest of my life. It’s the part of being Native for which no one prepares you—being the only Native American on a dorm floor, in a class or in a newsroom and forced into the position of choosing whether to dispel ignorance or sit in silence.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Even so, I don’t look for a “Native angle” to the stories I tell with my camera because my life is the Native angle. The stories I tell today are the stories that surround me, those that affect me and my family. I want to be one of the people telling these stories because I care about the way my community is represented and I want to do its stories justice.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;This is what inspired me to portray the struggles that my own family and community have had because of “blood quantum,” a policy that dictates how much “Native blood” one must have to qualify as Indian. I grew up knowing that if I followed these regulations, they would dictate with whom I could have children. For the National Museum of the American Indian “Developing Stories: Photographers in the Field” exhibition entitled “Reservation Mathematics: Navigating Love in Native America” (AmericanIndian.si.edu/developingstories), I approached my younger brother, Michael Irvine, because his partner, Leah Nelson, and my cousin who was raised as my sister, Tiana Antoine, were both expecting a child in the fall of 2019. These families’ lives illustrate the effects “blood quantum” can have on relationships and the politics associated with something as personal as creating a family.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;My brother’s relationship with Nelson, a woman from a different tribe, demonstrates what members of a tribe have to lose if he or she falls in love with a nonmember. For example, the “blood quantum” regulations do not allow a person to enroll in more than one tribe, so the couple was forced to choose in which tribe to enroll their baby. Conversely, Antoine and her partner, Nathan Drennan, show what life can be like for two members of the same tribe who follow the regulations.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;As my camera is always on around my family, documenting holidays, ceremonies and other events, my siblings were already desensitized to my photographing them when I started the project. I, on the other hand, was full of anxieties. Everyone I photographed for this exhibition is from my community. The pressure to insert myself into their relationships and do their stories justice was intimidating, but the end result was worth it. I’m proud to present my family and friends in this exhibition. The diverse group of Native Americans in this project articulate the complexities of this issue well, and I am grateful to be trusted to tell their stories.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When I returned home from my first semester at college, I thought I failed. Reflecting on that time now, I see that going home made me realize that I had to find my voice. I hope the stories I photograph offer non-Natives a window into authentic Native America. I want them to connect with us and see us as contemporary so we as Native people can be brought into America’s 2020 consciousness. I’d like my work to be a tool to educate and help dismantle stereotypes that have plagued Indigenous peoples since photographer and ethnographer Edward S. Curtis labeled us the “vanishing race.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;We haven’t vanished. Indeed, many talented Native photographers are doing outstanding work to show this. Following in their footsteps, I push hard to get access to spaces that are not built for Indigenous peoples because every time I occupy those spaces, I leave the door open for other Native Americans to enter. The more space our work occupies, the less space will be available for ignorance.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;See the &lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/reservation-mathematics-navigating-love-native-america"&gt;“Reservation Mathematics: Navigating Love in Native America”&lt;/a&gt; photo exhibition.&lt;/p&gt;
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&lt;p&gt;Tailyr Irvine is a Salish and Kootenai independent photojournalist from the Flathead Indian Reservation in Montana. She currently works from Missoula, Montana, and Florida.&lt;/p&gt;
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  <pubDate>Fri, 05 Jun 2020 19:20:00 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>ChampionC</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">445 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>On the Front Lines: Journalism May Never Be So Needed—Or So Endangered</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/journalism-on-the-front-lines</link>
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      &lt;span&gt;On the Front Lines: Journalism May Never Be So Needed—Or So Endangered&lt;/span&gt;

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Vol. 21 No. 2
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by The Editors of American Indian Magazine&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Since January, we have read about and watched on television the massive devastation wrought by a disease as it spread from nation to nation. COVID-19—caused by a novel coronavirus that was first traced to a live animal market in Wuhan, China—only became known to the public through the brave pleas of doctors for urgent action and the journalists who were eventually able to convey their messages, even though the outbreak originated in a country that censors news.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In the months of self-quarantining that followed, we have depended upon the media’s daily updates that digest the complex, rapidly changing information. Reporters and other news personnel risked exposure to this deadly virus to bring us breaking news from medical personnel, first responders and others on the front lines. Media professionals were among the more than 5 million infected worldwide—and the hundreds of thousands who consequently died.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;This issue of American Indian magazine is a tribute to all those in the media profession, particularly Indigenous journalists and photojournalists who are closest to the issues impacting Indigenous peoples. During the past few years, Indigenous affairs that had been virtually absent in mainstream media have once again been brought into the light. In part, this is due to the hard work of Indigenous journalists, some of which has inspired art and some of which has become art.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;div id="slick-node-457-story-slideshow-images-default-18" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-457-story-slideshow-images-default-18-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/SR-56.jpg?itok=jpIjutH3" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"1157","rel":"slick-node-457-story-slideshow-images-default-18"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/SR-56.jpg?itok=SJkzsoQb" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/SR-56.jpg?itok=SJkzsoQb" alt="U.S. Marine veterans leading Dakota Access Pipeline protestors" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="519" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tlingit photographer Zoe Urness captured this iconic image of U.S. Marine veterans leading Dakota Access Pipeline protestors in a perfect V formation, as if into combat. The photo captured the spirit of the protest and became a symbol for Indigenous civil rights. Photo by Zoe Urness&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tlingit photographer Zoe Urness captured this iconic image of U.S. Marine veterans leading Dakota Access Pipeline protestors in a perfect V formation, as if into combat. The photo captured the spirit of the protest and became a symbol for Indigenous civil rights. Photo by Zoe Urness&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/IMG_3395.JPG?itok=d2pj3YaD" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":1145,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-457-story-slideshow-images-default-18"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG_3395.JPG?itok=rwrsl8kW" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/IMG_3395.JPG?itok=rwrsl8kW" alt="Métis artist Jaime Black performs a tribute" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="440" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Outside the National Museum of the American Indian in 2019, Métis artist Jaime Black performs a tribute to the hundreds if not thousands of North American Indigenous women and girls who have been murdered or disappeared during the past four decades. The dresses in her REDress Project installations represent those now gone. Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Outside the National Museum of the American Indian in 2019, Métis artist Jaime Black performs a tribute to the hundreds if not thousands of North American Indigenous women and girls who have been murdered or disappeared during the past four decades. The dresses in her REDress Project installations represent those now gone. Photo by NMAI Staff&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/Howard%20High%20Rex-33.jpg?itok=OPNdSyTk" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":867,"height":1300,"rel":"slick-node-457-story-slideshow-images-default-18"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Howard%20High%20Rex-33.jpg?itok=U6vwsF4O" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/Howard%20High%20Rex-33.jpg?itok=U6vwsF4O" alt="Tsawout First Nation carver Howard La Fortune (right) stands beside his wife" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="334" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tsawout First Nation carver Howard La Fortune (right) stands beside his wife, Tuesday, near their home in Victoria, British Columbia. They are wearing bear masks that La Fortune carved out of yellow cedar in honor of those impacted by COVID-19. While not for protection against the coronavirus, they offer comfort. He says, “the bear symbolizes strength, and that is what we need about now to get through all this.” Photo by Sydney Woodward.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tsawout First Nation carver Howard La Fortune (right) stands beside his wife, Tuesday, near their home in Victoria, British Columbia. They are wearing bear masks that La Fortune carved out of yellow cedar in honor of those impacted by COVID-19. While not for protection against the coronavirus, they offer comfort. He says, “the bear symbolizes strength, and that is what we need about now to get through all this.” Photo by Sydney Woodward.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2020-06/ktownEOC3_STRAIGHT.jpg?itok=R84hW1p6" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1200","height":"847","rel":"slick-node-457-story-slideshow-images-default-18"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/ktownEOC3_STRAIGHT.jpg?itok=5lo34QL4" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2020-06/ktownEOC3_STRAIGHT.jpg?itok=5lo34QL4" alt="Navajo Nation President Jonathan Nez speaks with Fire Department Lieutenant Randy Frank" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="708" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Navajo Nation President Jonathan Nez speaks with Fire Department Lieutenant Randy Frank near Chilchinbeto, Arizona, a town where some of the first residents of the Navajo Nation infected with the coronavirus were identified. Photo by Arlyssa Becenti, Courtesy of the Navajo Times&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Navajo Nation President Jonathan Nez speaks with Fire Department Lieutenant Randy Frank near Chilchinbeto, Arizona, a town where some of the first residents of the Navajo Nation infected with the coronavirus were identified. Photo by Arlyssa Becenti, Courtesy of the Navajo Times&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;h2&gt;News as Art&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The American Indian Movement that activists founded in 1968 and the organization’s participation in the occupation of Alcatraz the following year brought Native American civil rights to the attention of mainstream media. But that attention waned in the decades that followed. Many people say the 2016 protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline running next to the Standing Rock Indian Reservation in North and South Dakota united Native Nations as never before and gathered supporters from around the world, reigniting their passion to speak on behalf of Indigenous affairs. An iconic photo born of these protests (“December 5, 2016/Standing Rock,” right) became a symbol for those fighting for Indigenous civil rights.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Tlingit photographer Zoe Urness wanted to join the protestors at Standing Rock, but, she says, “I didn’t want to go there to just take up space.” She decided she could contribute best by documenting this historic event. From a bridge, she was warming her freezing digital camera beneath her coat when she saw the protestors marching toward her. She ran down through the deep snow to snap a photo. Just after she took the shot, she stumbled and fell into a ravine. When she looked at the image through the preview window, she realized she had captured a unique moment in time that encapsulated the spirit of the protest: U.S. Marine veterans were leading the protestors in a perfect V formation, as if into combat. One of them wore a red Tlingit robe and another was waving her tribe’s flag. Urness says she began to cry: “It was fate.” Her award-winning photo has been displayed in several museums and was even nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Since the Standing Rock protests, other Indigenous affairs have gained national media attention and inspired artists to create works that heal. The tragedy of Native women being raped, abducted and murdered, known about for decades, finally began to be acknowledged in the mainstream press as demonstrators in red dresses were seen across the United States and Canada. The ongoing crisis prompted Métis artist Jaime Black to launch the REDress Project, a series of red dress installations, one of which was displayed outside the National Museum of the American Indian in 2019. The dresses eerily floating in the wind symbolize those who are gone.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;This year, people throughout the world have turned to all forms of art—paintings, drawings, music, dance, sculpture and more— to cope with the depressing fear and isolation caused by the coronavirus. Tsawout First Nation Howard La Fortune in Victoria, British Columbia, has been a wood carver for the past 40 years. He carved a bear mask out of yellow cedar that emulates the masks everyone is now having to wear for protection from the coronavirus because “a bear symbolizes strength, and that is what we need about now to get through all this.” After his mask won first place in First American Art magazine’s virtual exhibition of COVID-19-inspired masks called “Masked Heroes,” he received requests for several more. Even though La Fortune’s masks aren’t for medical protection, he is writing “COVID-19 Pandemic 2020” on each of them because, he says, his customers “want to remember.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;For Native Communities&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Stories, whether told through words, images or art, have immense power to move people and cross cultural boundaries. However, Indigenous peoples are not always in control of their own narratives. That was the inspiration behind NMAI’s new photo exhibitions for “Developing Stories: Native Photographers in the Field,” which are featured in this issue and online at AmericanIndian.si.edu/developingstories. NMAI’s Cécile Ganteaume, who curated the exhibitions, says the museum wished to collaborate with Native journalists in the telling of their own stories.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Ganteaume and other NMAI staff worked with Tristan Ahtone (Kiowa), president of the Native American Journalists Association, and John Smock, the director of photojournalism at the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at the City University of New York, to select two projects that stood out from the 12 that photojournalists submitted. While they cover vastly different topics, both photo essays tell “unique, contemporary stories not well known to non-Native audiences,” says Ganteaume.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;For the first, &lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/genizaro-pueblo-abiquiu"&gt;“The Genízaro Pueblo of Abiquiú,”&lt;/a&gt; Diné and Ho-Chunk photojournalist Russel Albert Daniels lived among the residents of this small community during the fall of 2019. These Spanish and American Indian descendants have lived in this pueblo in northwest New Mexico for more than 250 years. Smock says that Daniels’s work has “a timeless quality.” His black-and-white portraits, Ganteaume says, “just have a way of getting directly to people’s characters.” In &lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/photography-as-medicine"&gt;"Photography as Medicine"&lt;/a&gt; in this issue, Daniels talks about his experience living among the Genízaro people and his own journey to becoming a photographer.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In &lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/being-native"&gt;"Being Native"&lt;/a&gt; in this issue, Salish and Kootenai photojournalist Tailyr Irvine talks about the challenges of interviewing her family and friends on her Flathead Indian Reservation in western Montana for her photo essay,&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/reservation-mathematics"&gt; “Reservation Mathematics: Navigating Love in Native America.”&lt;/a&gt; This exhibition dives into how U.S. government regulations that use the concept of American Indians’ so-called “blood quantum”—or amount of tribal affiliation in a person’s ancestry—to determine tribal enrollment eligibility impacts their choice of partners. Ahtone says that while this is an issue known to every Native American, “putting faces to the issue is important.” Irvine’s work, he says, puts “a human touch to it.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Journalists and photojournalists are professional storytellers who objectively pursue and report the facts. However, everyone’s life experiences invariably shape what one sees and hears. Smock says the field of photojournalism is “reinventing itself” to respond to the growing need to give members of traditionally underrepresented groups “more of a voice in how their story is told.” Ahtone says, “mainstream media tends to be reporting about communities rather than reporting for communities.” On the other hand, as Cherokee Nation journalist Bryan Pollard writes in &lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/Indigenous-media"&gt;“More Than News”&lt;/a&gt; in this issue, Indigenous media “is an engaged partner, serving its community and its audience with depth, clarity and perspective.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Journalism at Work&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Given the great potential of people to be infected by the coronavirus that “social distancing” may continue for some time, Indigenous journalists who live within their communities are needed more than ever. “We are telling the stories that no other publications can tell,” says Navajo Times reporter Arlyssa Becenti. “The national media focuses on the negative. We are providing positive stories—stories about who has survived and how we are all pitching in to help each other and take care of our elders.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Yet journalists on the ground may not be able to do business as usual. Becenti’s normal beat is the tribal government, yet as the Navajo Nation has not been gathering to hold council meetings, she is almost entirely covering the impacts of the virus. She also can no longer always talk face-to-face with those she is interviewing. “In this community, you introduce yourself because we are all relatives. You tell them your clan and shake hands,” she says. “The phone is not personal.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;While restaurants, farmers and other producers have been hit hard by the economic downfall that followed in the wake of the virus’s outbreak, other casualties have been media outlets and even freedom of the press in some countries. After their advertising revenue suddenly plummeted, some newspapers furloughed staff and other small community publications folded. As the Navajo Times is normally distributed through local businesses that closed during the outbreak, Editor Duane Beyal says that while the newspaper is prepared to weather the storm, “We’re suffering a big hit in circulation.” On a broader scale, the 2020 World Press Freedom Index recently reported that some authoritarian nations such as China also may be taking advantage of people’s fear of the virus to take further controls and hamper press freedoms.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Whether media is covering a worldwide crisis or a local school board meeting, every well-researched news story has at least one journalist behind it. Journalism is a critical cog in the functioning of a society, and the contributions of Indigenous journalists are not only essential but also often inspirational. Whatever news we read, listen to or watch from the safety of our homes, we must value our media professionals and remember the effort they undertake to bring the news to us. The editors of American Indian magazine thank all our media colleagues for their work and wish them the strength to continue the fight, whether they are behind the scenes, at a desk or on the front lines.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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The Editors of American Indian Magazine
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&lt;p&gt;Tanya Thatcher, James Ring Adams and Anne Bolen.&lt;/p&gt;
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  <pubDate>Fri, 05 Jun 2020 19:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
    <dc:creator>ChampionC</dc:creator>
    <guid isPermaLink="false">457 at https://www.americanindianmagazine.org</guid>
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  <title>Gaining Higher Ground</title>
  <link>https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/gaining-higher-ground</link>
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      &lt;span&gt;Gaining Higher Ground&lt;/span&gt;

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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-nothing"&gt;&lt;span class="views-label views-label-nothing"&gt;From Issue:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="field-content"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/issues/winter-2018" class="link--to-issue"&gt;
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Winter 2018
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Vol. 19 No. 4
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          &lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="views-field views-field-field-story-author"&gt;by Douglas Herman&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
    
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-field-pre-gallery field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;“We are displaced. Our once large oak trees are now ghosts. The island that provided refuge and prosperity is now just a frail skeleton,” says Chantel Comardelle, tribal secretary of the Biloxi- Chitimacha-Choctaw. We are sitting in one of the few houses left on the Louisiana Gulf Coast island of Isle de Jean Charles, which has shrunk from 34.5 square miles to half a square mile. Out front a stagnant canal festers, obstructed by a recent levee built by the Army Corps of Engineers to protect the remainder of the island.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The community of Isle de Jean Charles understands that climate change is affecting them. “The weather patterns are changing; storms are much more frequent” Comardelle says. “People really started leaving in the 1960s. In the 1980s and 1990s, following storms like Juan and Hurricane Andrew, a lot of people left. Their houses got blown away – torn up, or flooded – completely gone, some of them.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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&lt;div id="slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20" data-blazy="" data-colorbox-gallery="" class="slick blazy slick--skin--split slick--optionset--carousel slick--colorbox"&gt;&lt;div id="slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20-slider" data-slick="{"adaptiveHeight":true,"infinite":false,"lazyLoad":"blazy"}" class="slick__slider"&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--0 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/Ghost%20Tree.jpg?itok=5_7ZGJMW" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"750","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Ghost%20Tree.jpg?itok=UKnFBoSG" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Ghost%20Tree.jpg?itok=UKnFBoSG" alt="Dead tree" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="667" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;“Every hurricane, someone leaves because their house gets blown away,” says deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr. Today, 95 percent of the tribal community no longer lives on the Isle. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;“Every hurricane, someone leaves because their house gets blown away,” says deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr. Today, 95 percent of the tribal community no longer lives on the Isle. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--1 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/IMG_5532.jpg?itok=AgN2Tqiq" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"750","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/IMG_5532.jpg?itok=0mK5E-N4" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/IMG_5532.jpg?itok=0mK5E-N4" alt="Houses by river" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="667" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;“Every hurricane, someone leaves because their house gets blown away,” says deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr. Today, 95 percent of the tribal community no longer lives on the Isle. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;“Every hurricane, someone leaves because their house gets blown away,” says deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr. Today, 95 percent of the tribal community no longer lives on the Isle. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--2 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/Cemetery.jpg?itok=hYHn99dD" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"750","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Cemetery.jpg?itok=GguV2Z4i" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Cemetery.jpg?itok=GguV2Z4i" alt="Cemetary with white cross." src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="667" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;A large white cross marks the location where residents of the Isle de Jean Charles believe their cemetery is located, following the damages of multiple hurricanes over the past few decades. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;A large white cross marks the location where residents of the Isle de Jean Charles believe their cemetery is located, following the damages of multiple hurricanes over the past few decades. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--3 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/Billiot%20House%202.jpg?itok=qKrR6X27" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"693","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Billiot%20House%202.jpg?itok=LHpOG80N" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Billiot%20House%202.jpg?itok=LHpOG80N" alt="House with bridge and caution sign" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="722" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Home of Deputy Chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. and his mother. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Home of Deputy Chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. and his mother. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--4 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/IMG_5514.jpg?itok=bSa6cZNK" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"750","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/IMG_5514.jpg?itok=yEnXka0k" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/IMG_5514.jpg?itok=yEnXka0k" alt="Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. &amp; Mother" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="667" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;According to elderly residents on the island, Isle de Jean Charles was once home to as many as 750 people, occupying 70 homes arranged on both sides of the bayou in a line village pattern. Now only 20 or so families remain. Deputy Chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. and his mother at their home on the island. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;According to elderly residents on the island, Isle de Jean Charles was once home to as many as 750 people, occupying 70 homes arranged on both sides of the bayou in a line village pattern. Now only 20 or so families remain. Deputy Chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. and his mother at their home on the island. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--5 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/Storm%20debris.jpg?itok=u7LBC4Ff" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"750","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Storm%20debris.jpg?itok=IFhNGafT" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/Storm%20debris.jpg?itok=IFhNGafT" alt="Road leading onto island" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="667" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The island’s only access road, littered with storm debris in April 2018. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;The island’s only access road, littered with storm debris in April 2018. Photo by Doug Herman.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--6 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171025_050.JPG?itok=MjtIm-3v" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"667","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171025_050.JPG?itok=dVcpNkji" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171025_050.JPG?itok=dVcpNkji" alt="Man looking at a pestle made of cypress held in the Smithsonian collections" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Looking at a pestle made of cypress held in the Smithsonian collections, deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. later commented: “I would never have imagined they had so much stuff." Photos courtesy Recovering Voices, Smithsonian Institution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Looking at a pestle made of cypress held in the Smithsonian collections, deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. later commented: “I would never have imagined they had so much stuff." Photos courtesy Recovering Voices, Smithsonian Institution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--7 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171025_030.JPG?itok=iaR0FBTm" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"667","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171025_030.JPG?itok=GzoaF_ig" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171025_030.JPG?itok=GzoaF_ig" alt="Heather Stone, assistant professor, University of Louisiana at Lafayette" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Heather Stone, assistant professor, University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Says Chantel Comardelle of the trip to the Smithsonian, “We had four generations there.” Photos courtesy Recovering Voices, Smithsonian Institution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Heather Stone, assistant professor, University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Says Chantel Comardelle of the trip to the Smithsonian, “We had four generations there.” Photos courtesy Recovering Voices, Smithsonian Institution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--8 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171023_012.JPG?itok=dNVLAapP" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"667","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171023_012.JPG?itok=MFk8jWK2" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/rv_IDJC-BCC_20171023_012.JPG?itok=MFk8jWK2" alt="Left to Right: NMNH curator and director of Recovering Voices Gwyneira Isaac, Chantel Comardelle, Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr., Chief Albert Naquin" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="750" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Left to Right: NMNH curator and director of Recovering Voices Gwyneira Isaac, Chantel Comardelle, Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr., Chief Albert Naquin. Photos courtesy Recovering Voices, Smithsonian Institution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Left to Right: NMNH curator and director of Recovering Voices Gwyneira Isaac, Chantel Comardelle, Wenceslaus Billiot, Jr., Chief Albert Naquin. Photos courtesy Recovering Voices, Smithsonian Institution.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slick__slide slide slide--9 slide--caption--bottom"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__content"&gt;&lt;div class="slide__media"&gt;&lt;a href="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/max_1300x1300/public/2018-11/118264_mul_001_20070611_ps.jpg?itok=nqNTDvK3" class="blazy__colorbox litebox" data-colorbox-trigger="" data-media="{"type":"image","width":"1000","height":"750","rel":"slick-node-340-story-slideshow-images-default-20"}"&gt;&lt;div data-thumb="https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/118264_mul_001_20070611_ps.jpg?itok=TkxhMWUL" class="media media--slick media--loading media--switch media--switch--colorbox media--image"&gt;&lt;img class="b-lazy media__image media__element img-responsive" data-src="/sites/default/files/styles/media_style_for_slider/public/2018-11/118264_mul_001_20070611_ps.jpg?itok=TkxhMWUL" alt="Chitimacha baskets" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" width="667" height="500" typeof="foaf:Image" /&gt;&lt;span class="media__icon media__icon--litebox"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="litebox-caption visually-hidden"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Chitimacha baskets in the NMAI collection, all from Louisiana and made with cane and dye. Left: ca. 1920, 8.3" x 4.3" x 5.4". Purchase. (11/8264) Middle: ca. 1900, 7.1" x 7.1" x 3.9". Joseph Keppler Collection. (9558) Right: ca. 1890, 5.1" x 5.1" x 5.5". Gift of Dr. Margaret J. Sharpe. (22/5207). Photo courtesy of NMAI Photo Archives.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="slide__caption"&gt;&lt;div class="field field--name-field-media-story-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Chitimacha baskets in the NMAI collection, all from Louisiana and made with cane and dye. Left: ca. 1920, 8.3" x 4.3" x 5.4". Purchase. (11/8264) Middle: ca. 1900, 7.1" x 7.1" x 3.9". Joseph Keppler Collection. (9558) Right: ca. 1890, 5.1" x 5.1" x 5.5". Gift of Dr. Margaret J. Sharpe. (22/5207). Photo courtesy of NMAI Photo Archives.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;nav class="slick__arrow"&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-prev" aria-label="Previous" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Previous&lt;/button&gt;&lt;button type="button" data-role="none" class="slick-next" aria-label="Next" tabindex="0" role="button"&gt;Next&lt;/button&gt;&lt;/nav&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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            &lt;div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"&gt;&lt;p&gt;Her father, deputy chief Wenceslaus Billiot Jr. adds: “Every hurricane, someone leaves because their house gets blown away.” Right now, 95 percent of the tribal community no longer lives on the Isle.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The residents and tribal members are now the first federally funded community to be moved because of environmental degradation and displacement. In 2016, the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) awarded a $48.3 million grant through Louisiana’s Office of Community Development- Disaster Recovery Unit (OCD-DRU) to fund the relocation of the Isle de Jean Charles band of the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe. Following a two-year search and negotiation, some 500 acres of former sugar-cane land was purchased for nearly $12 million near Schriever in southern Louisiana. Development is slated for 2019.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In anticipation of the move and amidst plans for relocation late last year, a tribal delegation arrived at the Smithsonian Institution to view the cultural heritage collections related to their tribe and to their history and that have been held for decades at the National Museum of Natural History and the National Museum of the American Indian. As part of the Recovering Voices initiative to preserve cultural knowledge, the delegation examined museum artifacts and was asked to contribute memories and recollections.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We had four generations there,” Comardelle says, “my kids traveled up with us, seeing this dugout canoe from our ancestors. With all the storms and such, we’ve lost a lot of things, including pictures. So, to see something of that magnitude that was preserved there, that was just amazing.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“I would never have imagined they had so much stuff,” Billiot says. “They had some artifacts that they didn’t know what they were. We showed them what they were and how they worked. They had a little device for hooking up the Spanish moss and spinning it into rope, and they didn’t know what that was for. There was a &lt;em&gt;pirogue&lt;/em&gt; from the early 1800 – dugout – that was from here.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We often talk about displacement of our tribe here, but as a whole tribe, we are displaced from our parent tribes,” says Comardelle. “And that was evident seeing the artifacts. They had baskets like ones from the Choctaw tribe of Alabama. Same weave pattern. And the games, we had similar games, we just didn’t have the same materials. For a tribe like us having to go back and find things and put pieces together, being able to sit in the collections and see baskets from the Choctaws that you know the pattern and know how they’re made; and clothing of the Biloxis that are similar to ours; it proves that we do have this history, and it helps to put those pieces back together and confirm that history.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Picking up the Pieces&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Putting the pieces back together again was important to state officials, too. According to Jessica Simms of the OCD-DRU, the state of Louisiana wanted to make sure that all Isle residents would be settled in a location that was suitable to their socioeconomic and cultural values and that former Island residents could rejoin the community in its new location. “Many of whom,” she says, “were displaced over time following repetitive disaster events.” According to elderly residents on the island, Isle de Jean Charles was once home to as many as 750 people, occupying 70 homes arranged on both sides of the bayou in a line village pattern. Now only 20 or so families remain.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Louisiana is said to be home to more American Indian tribes than any other southern state. There are four federally recognized tribes, 10 tribes recognized by the state of Louisiana and four tribes without official status. Located in Terrebonne Parish, the Isle de Jean Charles tribe is one of three ancestrally related but independent tribes of what was, until recently, the Biloxi-Chitimacha Confederation of Muskogees. This is traditionally Chitimacha country. Scholars estimate that in 1650, there were 4,000 Chitimacha Indians. Up through the 20&lt;sup&gt;th&lt;/sup&gt; century, 13 to 15 names of their many villages could be recalled and their sites identified.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;But when the French and Indian War ended in 1764, Louisiana tribes underwent a lot of movement. And even more occurred with the Indian Removal Act. The Biloxis had already been well traveled and knew the channels and ridges of the area. Some Biloxi and Choctaw Indians, fleeing the Trail of Tears, sought refuge first in the Houma area north of the Isle, then further down in the remote marshes of the Mississippi delta. There they commingled with the Chitimacha, hoping American authorities would not find them and force them onto reservations in Oklahoma. The language now is mostly a mix of Choctaw with French, and Comardelle’s father and grandmother speak to each other in these soft Cajun tones.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;An Island for Trade, Art and Oil&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Isle was once accessible only by small dugout canoes, or &lt;em&gt;pirogues&lt;/em&gt;. Later the canal was made bigger so boats could navigate the area. “When the Great Depression happened, people on the Isle didn’t even know it was happening,” recalls Billiot. “People on the Isle lived by trade – fishing, making furniture, building houses, on up into the 1940s. The community took care of itself. We had three stores on the island when I was growing up. The land provided blackberries. Once a year we would have a big party where we killed a pig for the community. We raised our own chickens, cows.” Palmetto baskets – made from the heart of the young palmetto before it starts flaring up – became an art form.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Then the oil fields came in and drillers started making canals to bring in more rigs. In 1953 a road was built to access the oil tanks. Salt water seeped into the canals. “When I was growing up, it was mostly brackish water, lots of fresh water,” Comardelle recalls. “I was told these were rice fields, but you wouldn’t know because now it’s just water over there.” The road accessing the Isle from the mainland used to have land on either side. Now it’s all water, and that water all too often flows over the road itself.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“The top few meters of land consists of mostly organic matter, made up of plants and roots – a biological system,” explains R. Eugene Turner of the department of oceanography and coastal sciences at Louisiana State University. “When it dries out, the soil oxidizes and turns to CO&lt;sub&gt;2&lt;/sub&gt;. And the land sinks.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The ecosystem depended on the growth of plants and the production of organic matter to produce the soil. The tides are only six to 12 inches during the day, a bit higher in summer, but this provided enough water to keep the plants surviving. The problem, according to Turner, stems from the dredging of canals through this land by the oil industry, which began early in the 20th century and accelerated after 1940. The canals are dredged much deeper than a natural channel – 12 to 15 feet versus a foot or two – and then the materials dredged are piled on either side to build a levee called a spoil bank, which can be up to 10 feet high. It doesn’t let water in that often, and when it does, it doesn’t get out as easily.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“The total length of these spoil banks is enough to cross south Louisiana 80 times – or to go to London and back with miles left over,” Turner says. “These ‘spoil banks’ really interfere with the natural flow of water. They are higher than the water would ever go, except in a hurricane.” The land behind them does not get the water it needs, so the plants die, and as the organic soil dissolves into CO&lt;sub&gt;2&lt;/sub&gt; , the land sinks. “Where there are more canals, there’s more land loss; where there are less canals, there’s less land loss, so these are correlated,” Turner states.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“It depends on always growing on top,” Turner says. “Add sea level rise to this subsidence and it’s going to turn to open water. Sea level rise is going to start a whole new chapter of land loss.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Back then, a hurricane hit, we’d get a foot of water on the land here,” Billiot states. “Now, if there’s a hurricane in Texas, we get seven or eight feet of water here. There’s no more land, no buffers, no barrier islands to stop the surge. Not just from the canal digging, but hurricanes and subsidence. And sea level rise. There are some docks that in the 1970s were two feet above the water. Now they’re under water and they had to build a new dock above it.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Oil companies were the bread and butter of the economy. “You couldn’t fight them,” says Billiot, “because everything is oil over here, it would be a losing battle. On the other side, most of the people down here work in the oil field, so it’s a double-edged sword.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;The Relocation Buy-in&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The Tribal Community began discussions about relocating Isle residents in 1999. That year, the Corps of Engineers changed the path of the levee so that it no longer protected the remaining homes. In 2002, community members began working with the Corps to relocate the Isle’s residents, but the Corps would not move them individually, only as a community; only if there was 100 percent buy-in. “How often do you get 100 percent?” Billiot muses. Leaders managed to get about 90 percent of the residents to agree, but it was not enough.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;In 2008, after Hurricanes Gustav and Ike, the Tribal Community tried again to seek funding to relocate tribal members from the Isle. It found a place that seemed like it would do the job. The community had support from the local government and some other funders and backers, but the people from the area to which they were looking to move protested, saying their presence there would cause more flooding. “We were Indian and they were white,” Comardelle says. “The chief got up, gave his introduction, and was told ‘Your time’s up, please sit down.’”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;But this effort, like the first one, required 100 percent buy-in, and not everyone was on board.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We kept looking for ways to help our tribe, which led to continued planning,” says Comardelle. “The Tribal leaders aligned us with some non-profits, who said they could help. At the time, the planning was not specific, just planning for a better future. The planning was for a place where the tribal community could live and not deal with environmental issues every other moment. The Isle of Jean Charles community planned with visions and dreams of a future getting back to the way life on the Isle used to be, when our community was fruitful and not just a ghost of itself.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The planning process eventually lead to a meeting with the Louisiana Department of Community Development. Several Tribal communities were present to discuss applying for the initial phase of a National Disaster Resilience Competition grant. In 2016, HUD made $48.7 million available to relocate the Isle’s residents.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“They were one of 67 entities in the U.S. that could apply and win,” says Pat Forbes, executive director of the Louisiana Office of Community Development. “We are HUD’s grantees for this project, so we administer the grant in compliance with them. The task is to move a community from an at-risk place to a lower-risk place where they can be high and dry for a long time. And to do that in such a way that can demonstrate lessons learned and best practices as we go through it, so we will be better at it the next time we try.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We were familiar with the tribe’s previous effort to move,” Forbes adds, “so we engaged with them and they participated with us as we wrote the application. Now our role is to ensure that we bring the project to fruition, meaning getting everyone in this community who wants to go, moved from the Isle. They could be moving to this new location, or somewhere else. We want to lay the groundwork for a model of how to do this in the future.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The model for future communities is being developed while navigating a complicated process. “After HUD awarded the grant, the State’s first step was to conduct a census of the Isle’s residents,” says Simms of the OCD-DRU, “and document existing infrastructure on the Isle. Through this initial effort, the State began forming vital relationships with the Isle’s residents and its broader community.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The residents determined they wanted to be further up away from the coast. But it was difficult to balance the desire to live a safe distance from the water with the need for proximity so that they could continue their traditional trades. Several possible locales were considered, but residents wanted to live on higher ground. “Island residents submitted preference surveys,” Simms explains, “indicating which site they preferred. The site we are under option on was the one that residents ultimately indicated they wanted to move to.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Higher Ground&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The State purchased a binding option on land that had been used for sugar-cane fields north of Houma. But it can’t commit HUD funds until after an environmental review. The new land is 12 feet above sea level.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“It’s north of Highway 90,” Comardelle says, “where they say everyone should be, based on a 100-year map projection of coastal flooding and sea level rise. It has good drainage, and it’s safe for future development.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The new community would initially involve resettlement of current Island residents. But the intention, and the expectation, is that tribal descendants of Isle de Jean Charles could also return to the new site. “It needs to grow back into a robust community,” Forbes says. “While we might move 45 to 50 families from the Island, we need to build an infrastructure that can take 150 to 200 homes. They’ll use HUD standards, so there aren’t necessarily extended families living in one house like they are now. Lots of folks on the Island are currently living in substandard housing.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Lots of resettlements actually displace tribes,” Comardelle explains. “We’re being displaced by the environmental changes and things happening inside our community. When we get to the resettlement, it will actually bring the tribe back together. People who left can come back to the community. You’ll be able to walk next door and it will be your aunts and your cousins, like it used to be. And then we can get our culture back. Kids can learn how to weave baskets, make cast nets, build boats. And we’ll have our community back to where it is self-sustaining again: if someone was sick, the neighbors of other members of the community would cook and feed them. But now they might be 45 minutes away. We’ll be all close to each other again.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;h2&gt;Weaving Together a Community&lt;/h2&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Comardelle is now planning a tribal museum and has acquired a museum studies degree to learn about collecting. “We want a part where we show our history, but we also want an interactive part where we teach our history. Here’s how you weave a basket. Not just for us, but for the outside community. The museum on the resettlement plan is not just a building, but a heart, pumping and circulating our past into the present and on to the future.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We can demonstrate how to make a &lt;em&gt;pirogue&lt;/em&gt;,” Billiot adds. “I have a blueprint for it. I created it in AutoCAD.”&lt;br /&gt;
 &lt;br /&gt;
“We have only a few things for the collections,” Comardelle remarks. “Right now, we can’t collect because we have no place to put things. So, we’re looking at how we can start a digital archive. A lot of people still have old pictures; we want to be able to scan them so not only do we have them, but the people themselves can get prints back from us if the originals are lost. We can have an archive for private use and also to show the outside community – with permission.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;This cultural detail is being brought into the second phase of master planning with the State to ensure the new community retains the Tribe’s cultural identity. The process aids in producing a model for all communities across the coastal region.&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“We’ve proven that you can take and adapt to whatever land you’re in, and still retain your culture and your identity,” Comardelle adds. “I have no doubt that we will be able to do that here.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;The writing is on the wall not just for this tribe, but for other Louisiana tribes. As early as 1987, scholars sounded a warning: “Today, the decline in Louisiana’s Indian population is matched by the deterioration and outright destruction of the state’s once magnificent natural environments. Many tribes have disappeared; the rest are decimated. The likelihood of their eventual demise is strengthened by environmental ruin. The problem is one for all Louisianans. Irreparable ecological damage can be tolerated no longer, and the Indian, like his neighbors, have begun to demand protection.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Now that demand has manifested itself as action. “We understand the ramifications of our work, relative to others who are going to be going through this,” Forbes says. “So, there’s the importance of getting it right and learning from it, so other people can learn from our experiences and do it better than we have on the first pass. It’s so new; it’s going to be a constantly improving approach.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Nobody is really dying to leave the place where they grew up, and where they live and own property. Every resettlement project is going to face this,” he says. “Louisiana is going faster than anywhere else in the U.S., between sea level rise and ground subsidence making for a higher, relative sea level rise. So, we are the vanguard of this experience.”&lt;/p&gt;

&lt;p&gt;&lt;em&gt;Copyright 2018 Smithsonian Institution. Reprinted with permission from Smithsonian Enterprises. All rights reserved.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
      
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Douglas Herman
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&lt;div class="authors-bottom-description"&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Douglas Herman, Senior Geographer at the National Museum of the American Indian - Smithsonian, specializes in the cultural knowledge of Hawaii and Pacific Islands and is a member of the Polynesian Voyaging Society. In 2013 he built his own outrigger canoe and has blogged about building it (&lt;a href="http://blog.nmai.si.edu/main/hawaii/"&gt;http://blog.nmai.si.edu/main/hawaii/&lt;/a&gt;).&lt;/p&gt;
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