Lakota
members marched during the annual Liberation Day commemoration of the
Wounded Knee massacre. (Deep Roots United Front/Victor Puertas)
On February 27, Oglala Lakota and
American Indian Movement
activists joined in a four-directions walk to commemorate Liberation
Day, an event to mark the 1890 massacre at Wounded Knee. As they do each
year, four groups gather to the north, south, east and west and then
walk eight miles until converging on top of Wounded Knee, where they
honor the fallen warriors and the tribe’s rich history of resistance.
“It is an acknowledgement of the resiliency of who we are as a
people,” explains Andrew Iron Shell, an organizer and activist of the
Sicangu Lakota Nation. “It gives permission and courage for our
up-and-coming generations to face the challenges of their time.”
The history of the occupation began with a massacre more than 100
years ago. On a cold day in December 1890, the United States army killed
300 Lakota men, women and children in a massive shoot out after a
member of the First Nations refused to give up his arms. It marked the
first bloodshed on Wounded Knee – although there had been many massacres
of First Nations people by the colonialists before it. The event was
also considered the end of the Indian Wars.
Eighty-three
years later, on Feb. 27, 1973, about 200 Lakota
members took siege of the town of Wounded Knee. Reclaiming a location
that was written in the history books as a place of defeat, the Lakota
stood their ground. They were there in protest of a failed attempt at
impeaching the tribal president at the time, Richard Wilson, who was
known to be corrupt and abusive. Initially a protest against the tribal
government, the occupation took a turn when U.S. police forces arrived.
The protestors switched the occupation’s focus to the United States’
frequent violation of treaties.
The armed warriors maintained control over the town for 71 days while
the FBI encircled them. At the final standoff, two warriors were
killed, about 12 people were wounded and over 400 were arrested. The
Oglala were able to harness national attention through their occupation,
using the spotlight to question the United States’ treatment of First
Nations people.
As history passed, later generations rarely heard about the
occupation of Wounded Knee — or about first nation people at all. This
skewed national memory should be unsurprising: When you have a society
and a nation built upon the subjugation of people of color, you can
expect nothing more than the constant erasing of certain histories.
Ongoing genocide
I recently visited Prisoner of War Camp 344, also known as the Pine
Ridge Indian Reservation. It wasn’t my first time in the sovereign
Oglala Sioux Nation, but it was my first time joining in the ceremonies
celebrating the 41st annual Liberation Day to remember the 1890
reoccupation of Wounded Knee.
The vibrant American Indian Movement flags waving in the harsh South
Dakota winter wind reminded me of the old black and white photos I used
to see in my history books. The Lakota would not disappear without a
fight, regardless of what the United States’ intentions were. Children
walked alongside elders who had taken part in the occupation, showing
clearly the group’s intergenerational wisdom. These are children who are
stripped of learning their people’s history in schools, but instead
learn it through stories and dances. They are children who live in a
sovereign nation that contains two of the poorest counties in the United
States and who recognize the threats their families face every day.
One of these threats come from the
so-called town of White Clay, Neb.,
where visitors can witness the way violence against the First Nations
people has changed — but not disappeared — over the generations.
Consisting of only 12 people and four liquor stores, White Clay was once
part of a 50-square-mile buffer that prevented alcohol from entering
the reservation. In 1904, President Roosevelt signed an executive order
that removed 49 of those square miles. Since then, the town’s economy
has been driven by the $4 million in alcohol sales to the people of the
Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. There is no legal place to drink in or
around White Clay: Alcohol containers can’t be opened on the property of
the distributor, it’s prohibited to drink in the street, and the
reservation is dry territory. Yet, somehow, the town of 12 people
manages to keep four liquor stores open. Barely two miles from the
reservation’s epicenter, and less than 200 feet from the dry reservation
line, the town perpetrates a type of violence that is, on the
reservation, known as liquid genocide.
The reason for this name becomes apparent when one examines the
teenage suicide rate on the reservation, which is 150 percent higher
than the U.S. national average for this age group. Many attribute this
death rate to the sale of alcohol to minors, which White Clay store
owners are known to do. The liquor stores also break the law by selling
to intoxicated people, and by trading alcohol for pornography, sexual
favors — including from minors — and welfare checks. The effects of
free-flowing alcohol are devastating: On the reservation, 90 percent of
all court cases are related to alcohol use.
Kate, a Tokala warrior, believes that alcoholism is part of a larger
problem of the disappearance of indigenous culture. For her, the only
way to live in the geographical region of Pine Ridge is the indigenous
way. “We are the ones on the back roads, still chopping wood. We are
living the way we used to live,” she said. “It’s not hardship; it’s the
way it’s supposed to be.”
Kate and many others know that alcohol was introduced to her people
as a means to steal from them. Living deeply connected to the history of
their nation, they believe that if they shake free of the colonized
mindset, alcohol wouldn’t even be an issue.
Threats to the land
In addition to trying to close down White Clay, the Oglala Lakota
Nation is actively fighting the construction of the Keystone XL
pipeline. This 1,700-mile pipeline, which would carry 830,000 barrels of
crude oil each day from western Canada through South Dakota en route to
Texas. At two points it would even intersect with a pipeline that
serves as a main water source for the Sioux Nation, affecting all of the
Pine Ridge reservation as well as the nearby Rosebud reservation.
Advocates for the pipeline argue the pipeline is the safest way to
transport crude oil. TransCanada, the company in charge of the pipeline,
predicted that the first Keystone pipeline, which runs from Alberta to
Illinois, would spill once every seven years. During its first year in
operation, it spilled 12 times. The Lakota, along with other First
Nations, have vowed to use direct action to stop construction of the
pipeline.
For a nation whose land and sovereignty has been threatened for
hundreds of years by U.S. politics, the Keystone XL pipeline is part of a
long history of threats to the Lakota Nation – and to the earth itself.
“They want to get rid of the Lakota, the protectors of the earth,”
said Olowan Martinez, an organizer in the Lakota community. “But what
they don’t know is when they get rid of the Lakota, the earth isn’t too
far behind. Our people believe the Lakota is the earth.”
President Obama is scheduled to be make a final decision on the
pipeline by the middle of 2014. While the Lakota are hoping he will not
approve the project, they are also getting ready to stand up and fight.
During the Liberation Day celebrations, the Lakota’s dances and stories
relayed messages about sacred water and Mother Earth. The tribe has also
united with other First Nations to organize a three-day
direct action training called Moccasins on the Ground, which was designed to prepare people to act if the pipeline is approved.
“Dead or in prison before we allow the Keystone XL pipeline to pass,”
the Lakota warriors, many mounted atop horses, repeated during the
Liberation Day celebration. Their words carried the weight of 521 years,
and counting, of lived resistance.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License.
Camila Ibanez is a first generation "American" trying to connect
with her indigenous Aymara roots in South America. She spends her time
working at the intersections of climate justice and migrant rights on
the National Coordinating Committee of Deep Roots United Front. In
between telling the powerful stories of the frontline warriors, you can
find her in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, learning from the nearest migrant
wimmin and eating arroz con leche. Follow her on twitter @QuePasaApaza
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