The Standing Rock Victory You Didn't Hear About
Friday, 04 November 2016 00:00 By Desiree Kane, YES! Magazine | News
Analysis
A single elder, a veteran, repeatedly walked out during an October 27
demonstration at Standing Rock and yelled: "Send one unarmed like I am out
here to negotiate. Please. We are protecting the water for our children and
yours. Send one out here to negotiate. Let's talk! Please!" (Photo: Desiree
Kane)
Last week, the world watched in horror as a massive militarized police force
attacked prayerful Indigenous Water Protectors fighting for the water of 18
million people. Over and over, people were brutalized, pulled out of sweat
lodges while in ceremony wearing only their underwear. Medics and
journalists were arrested alongside Water Protectors. Cars were searched and
impounded, personal possessions were taken by police.
Everyone by now has seen the videos of the assault last Thursday. Here at
Standing Rock, the age-old story of government forces raising arms against
Native people is being repeated in real time through social media.
But lost in that day, in the horrific stories of degradation, is a small
story of victory, of how 40 to 50 Native people stood against more than 250
police on a bridge on County Road 134 in rural North Dakota.
Word-of-mouth announcements went out to the Oceti Sakowin camp that there
was going to be a police raid of the front-line camp that had been set up in
the way of the pipeline. A raid means people are in imminent danger, and
that is widely understood here. Over Labor Day, campers were attacked by
dogs and pepper sprayed by Dakota Access security. And since then, we've
seen increased militarization. It has been apparent that the government,
specifically Morton County Sheriff's office, is the security force
protecting the pipeline, so no one doubted that this time the police would
be the ones to desecrate bodies and lifeways.
My original plan was to take County Road 134 to photograph the pipeline
being forced into the earth.
Instead, I found a blockade of wood logs and hay bales set up in an area
where water divided the back country road. No one there was armed with
anything other than prayer. It was a strategic juncture because police
vehicles couldn't cross the narrow embankments on their way to the raid. If
they were stopped at this bridge from the east, they could only come from
the north.
In the morning, police did come, and from both sides. When I arrived, this
blockade had already stopped an LRAD -- a sonic weapon often called "sound
cannon," which can cause permanent hearing loss -- from making it to the
camp. Even as police numbers grew, eventually well beyond 200, the Water
Protectors held their ground, fearless.
Then the dancing began.
People began dancing to a hand drum, entranced by the power of prayer. A
single elder, a veteran, repeatedly walked out and yelled: "Send one unarmed
like I am out here to negotiate. Please. We are protecting the water for our
children and yours. Send one out here to negotiate. Let's talk! Please!"
He was met with no negotiation.
But the Water Protectors held the bridge. For hours and hours, police
advanced and retreated.
This was an unforgettable moment unfolding. With the dancing going on and
the veteran trying to negotiate out front, a young woman stepped up and
began moving her body to the beat of the drum. She was power incarnate. Her
arms were wide open, her pink fingernail polish glistening. She was crying.
Just waiting to be pepper sprayed, she wore a painter's mask, one which
would have done nothing much for protection.
That standoff's foundation was ceremony and song, the truest essence of
religious freedom.
This is what colonial violence looks like: 250 police -- some of them
snipers, some with guns drawn on the crowd -- in a standoff with 40 to 50
unarmed Indigenous people who just want to be allowed to live.
The untold story of this day was that those troops never made it from the
east to join the others in raiding the camp, dehumanizing the friends and
families of those on that bridge. There were 250 fewer officers able to show
up to brutalize people and pervert prayer ceremonies on October 27. History
rarely teaches us about when Natives win against the state. And that's how
injustice flourishes: in the shadows.
So let me be clear. On October 27, when a colonial force armed with military
weapons faced off on a bridge against veterans armed with only prayer, the
Natives won.
This piece was reprinted by Truthout with permission or license. It may not
be reproduced in any form without permission or license from the source.
DESIREE KANE
Desiree Kane is a Miwok woman and multimedia journalist focused on producing
stories with a conscience at the intersection of Indigenous peoples, energy
production and the environment.
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The Standing Rock Victory You Didn't Hear About
Friday, 04 November 2016 00:00 By Desiree Kane, YES! Magazine | News
Analysis
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reference not valid.
. A single elder, a veteran, repeatedly walked out during an October
27 demonstration at Standing Rock and yelled: "Send one unarmed like I am
out here to negotiate. Please. We are protecting the water for our children
and yours. Send one out here to negotiate. Let's talk! Please!" (Photo:
Desiree Kane)
. Last week, the world watched in horror as a massive militarized
police force attacked prayerful Indigenous Water Protectors fighting for the
water of 18 million people. Over and over, people were brutalized, pulled
out of sweat lodges while in ceremony wearing only their underwear. Medics
and journalists were arrested alongside Water Protectors. Cars were searched
and impounded, personal possessions were taken by police.
Everyone by now has seen the videos of the assault last Thursday. Here at
Standing Rock, the age-old story of government forces raising arms against
Native people is being repeated in real time through social media.
But lost in that day, in the horrific stories of degradation, is a small
story of victory, of how 40 to 50 Native people stood against more than 250
police on a bridge on County Road 134 in rural North Dakota.
Word-of-mouth announcements went out to the Oceti Sakowin camp that there
was going to be a police raid of the front-line camp that had been set up in
the way of the pipeline. A raid means people are in imminent danger, and
that is widely understood here. Over Labor Day, campers were attacked by
dogs and pepper sprayed by Dakota Access security. And since then, we've
seen increased militarization. It has been apparent that the government,
specifically Morton County Sheriff's office, is the security force
protecting the pipeline, so no one doubted that this time the police would
be the ones to desecrate bodies and lifeways.
My original plan was to take County Road 134 to photograph the pipeline
being forced into the earth.
Instead, I found a blockade of wood logs and hay bales set up in an area
where water divided the back country road. No one there was armed with
anything other than prayer. It was a strategic juncture because police
vehicles couldn't cross the narrow embankments on their way to the raid. If
they were stopped at this bridge from the east, they could only come from
the north.
In the morning, police did come, and from both sides. When I arrived, this
blockade had already stopped an LRAD -- a sonic weapon often called "sound
cannon," which can cause permanent hearing loss -- from making it to the
camp. Even as police numbers grew, eventually well beyond 200, the Water
Protectors held their ground, fearless.
Then the dancing began.
People began dancing to a hand drum, entranced by the power of prayer. A
single elder, a veteran, repeatedly walked out and yelled: "Send one unarmed
like I am out here to negotiate. Please. We are protecting the water for our
children and yours. Send one out here to negotiate. Let's talk! Please!"
He was met with no negotiation.
But the Water Protectors held the bridge. For hours and hours, police
advanced and retreated.
This was an unforgettable moment unfolding. With the dancing going on and
the veteran trying to negotiate out front, a young woman stepped up and
began moving her body to the beat of the drum. She was power incarnate. Her
arms were wide open, her pink fingernail polish glistening. She was crying.
Just waiting to be pepper sprayed, she wore a painter's mask, one which
would have done nothing much for protection.
That standoff's foundation was ceremony and song, the truest essence of
religious freedom.
This is what colonial violence looks like: 250 police -- some of them
snipers, some with guns drawn on the crowd -- in a standoff with 40 to 50
unarmed Indigenous people who just want to be allowed to live.
The untold story of this day was that those troops never made it from the
east to join the others in raiding the camp, dehumanizing the friends and
families of those on that bridge. There were 250 fewer officers able to show
up to brutalize people and pervert prayer ceremonies on October 27. History
rarely teaches us about when Natives win against the state. And that's how
injustice flourishes: in the shadows.
So let me be clear. On October 27, when a colonial force armed with military
weapons faced off on a bridge against veterans armed with only prayer, the
Natives won.
This piece was reprinted by Truthout with permission or license. It may not
be reproduced in any form without permission or license from the source.
Desiree Kane
Desiree Kane is a Miwok woman and multimedia journalist focused on producing
stories with a conscience at the intersection of Indigenous peoples, energy
production and the environment.
Related Stories
Standing Rock Sioux Chairman: Dakota Access Pipeline "Is Threatening the
Lives of My Tribe"
By Amy Goodman, Democracy Now! | Video ReportStanding Together to Protect
the Earth
By Guy Reiter, Environmental Health News | Op-EdStanding Rock Protectors
Strip-Searched, Jailed for Days on Minor Charges
By Amy Goodman, Democracy Now! | Video Report
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