Have The Colonial’s Won?

 

 

“There is an ancient Indian saying that something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it. My people have come to trust memory over history. Memory, like fire, is radiant and immutable while history serves only those who seek to control it, those who douse the flame of memory in order to put out the dangerous fire of truth. Beware these men for they are dangerous themselves and unwise. Their false history is written in the blood of those who might remember and of those who seek the truth.” – Floyd Red Crow Westerman

We were talking for a long time, my young friend and I, as women will, and we began to talk more and more intimately about being fringe people.  Our conversation delved more deeply into conversation about what fringe people might be, in us.  Suddenly, with a broken heart, she cried, “The colonialists have won!  The Colonialists have won!”

Five generations have come since conquest.  A beautiful culture that have been here since millennia, living in sacred ways and laws , having promised Creator that they would take care of the land and take care of each other welcomed a new people who traveled in what looked like great swans, and they thought they were welcoming those who would have made the same pact with Creator. 

The People were not prepared for the turn of events; that greed shone through those newcomers eyes; that there would be massacre after massacre and a history of broken promises in order to annihilate or assimilate those who cared for the land, in order to own the land.  The conquerors really meant to annihilate by any means necessary, to own what could never be owned, to erase the ancient history of those beloveds that Creator set down on Turtle Island.  And the angry foreigners stole land, language, children, stole the knowledge, the ceremonies, the cultural practices, the ancient stories passed down, the gatherings, the dances, the pipes, the very breath of a pure-hearted people who had welcomed them in.

Quietly, in the forest, in the deserts, in the North, the East, the South and the West of the lands, in secret did some carry the history and knowledge of the Frist Peoples.  Everything that was banned was kept alive by a few, even by one, because of the ancient pact of Creator.  Back in the bush, they hid their sweat lodges, sang their traditional songs of gratitude and sacrifice to Creator.  The Indian Agents could only see the greater population.  In secret were ceremonies held, by those who were weakened by hunger, by woundedness, the elderly who still remembered and passed down their knowledge to a few who could find ways to sit at the feet of their teachers, always in secret, and the culture was kept alive through the generations following the attempted genocide of all of The People who had trusted in the newcomers.  As long as one of Creator’s beloveds remembers, then not all was lost. 

Not lost!  The Colonialists have not won.  There are still sweat lodges and now they are not hidden because of danger... they are there in the communities and held so holy that there are sacrifices to be made to be there. 

Not lost are the children who were stolen, the women who were murdered, the children who are still being stolen, the women who are still being murdered and missing.  There is coming retribution as the voices of the First Nations raise in testament to a resiliency of hearts that will never surrender.  In the forests, in the cities, in the small communities, on Reservations, the people are rising from their abusive environmental travesties…yes, many broken beyond belief, but rising nonetheless.

The First People are recovering from the effects of Residential Schools with broken hearts; addicted, suicidal, from residential school abuses, and the 60s scoop, lower standards of living, all from conquest that continues to try to annihilate or assimilate, and now, some are doing the job for the conquerors.  Many of the People are living lives divided, still not knowing who they are, still struggling to bond, still languishing in prisons, still struggling to simply make it one more day.  But look, still…off in secret corners of the land, the medicine people persist in caring and sharing; in healing and hearing the stories that break their hearts, but they persist!  There are the every day healers who reach out to the broken-hearted and longing people and nurture them, coach them, hold space for them.  The children of the villages are being cared for by the village.  The people are learning skills that were not passed down.  They are learning how to parent, how to break cycles.  The youth are being retrieved into education so the standard of living of The People will be raised, giving them a chance to work, to assimilate old ways with new ways of doing the old ways.  The People are hungry; some for what they can not know and some that know and want more.  Some are coping better than others.  Some are refusing to be victimized any longer and are taking the reins of healing in myriads of ways and offering it out to those who hunger for something they may even forgotten about.  There are still those fighting to conquer the day.

An army of The People are grabbing up the weapons of today…education!  That is the strength.  That is the way The People can fight off the trickle-down woundednesses.  They walk again on the Good Red Road, being offered substance of traditional ways in new ways that meets the demands of the day and a people who are fighting the fight of survival.

Quietly, in the deserts, in the mountains, in the plains, in the North, the East, the South, the West, those who have gained control of themselves and their destiny, are working in Band offices, in schools, in recreational buildings, sharing their healing with others so that no one feels alone in their walk.  I see them still being in the old ways of being.  I see it in my young friend.  That her heart breaks shows that she is driven to care.  The colonialists have not won.  Such as you and I are doing battle through our gathering and talking.  As long as one of the People remember, then all is not lost!  We remember, and we are two. 

"Hold on to what is good, Even if it's a handful of earth. Hold on to what you believe, Even if it's a tree that stands by itself. Hold on to what you must do, Even if it's a long way from here. Hold on to your life, Even if it's easier to let go. Hold on to my hand, Even if someday I'll be gone away from you."
- Crowfoot, Blackfoot warrior and orator 1830 - 1890

©Carol Desjarlais 11.6.23