a different kind of battle (reflecting june 2021)

We drove five hours northward, following the curves up the Mississippi as the width of the river shrank beside us. Our origin was the Driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin and our destination was a set of coordinates on Anishinaabe territory in northern Minnesota. We took turns driving, sharing stories and uncovering memories as we passed through luscious grassy meadows and dense green forests. Stella is the closest to a sister I have, our years of friendship creating a bond that feels effortless. As we each grow into our lives and pursue individual journeys, we return to share with one another newfound learning and unearthed understandings.

Rolled open windows to winding country roads of deep familiarity. Yet this trip was not one of mere exploration and as we neared our destination my stomach tensed with each plastic pro-pipeline sign that littered the roadside. This was rural Minnesota afterall, prime pipeline country and ground zero for the conflict we were heading to the heart of. Dilapidated buildings and American flags dotted passing yards, the red white and blue symbolic of imperial aggression upon sacred tribal territory. The connotation of violence stood in harsh disconnect to the vivid and luxurious beauty of this natural environment.

Over the past months, water protectors had been organising a fight against the construction of a tar sands pipeline, putting their bodies between harsh iron drilling equipment in attempts to slow the destruction. The movement was led by indigenous community members who were welcoming and caring for allies and fellow fighters travelling in from across the country. Pockets of hope, stars in expansive darkness of a night sky - these camps were places of courage and storytelling. Of wisdom sharing and deep listening. Of sleeping on the earth and feeling each assault on the earth in one’s own body. Of an ever-present hum of resistance.

Dusty purple streaked skies over the expansive wilderness as we finally pulled up to the camp. The air was different here, the breeze warmer. The summer sun was soft on our skins, the mosquitos ruthless. Milling about were people of all walks, greeting us with smiles and wearing t-shirts with hand printed protest art. Make yourself comfortable, there’s a nice alcove over there to pitch your tent, go get some dinner while it is still warm; melodic welcomes greeted us as we followed the dirt path down to the water. Ferns of hip height covered the forest floor and the dense canopy of green arched overhead. Tents were nestled into the curves of the valley and dotted along the river embankment. Here the mighty Mississippi river was a mere five metres across but she still flowed with a swift current. This was one of the two planned intersection points where the pipeline planned to pass beneath. Just one of the 200 water crossings through which 750,000 barrels of tar sand were to be pumped. Just one of the innumerable times since the inception of this country, in which corporate interests and government greed nullify another indigenous treaty. In the gambling game of nature for capital, the surrounding Great Lakes Region tossed up as collateral damage. How does one get through to those propelled by this insatiable thirst to conquer and control, whose vision is blinded by money and power? Perhaps the system can take the blame yet it is individuals who are oiling the gears of it, separating people from land and erasing centuries of history, culture and community. One act of violence closely followed by the next, as the pretence of superiority isolates and divides. These ways of thinking are woven into the very language I am writing in, hidden in the ‘it’ used to describe non-human life forms.

After Stella and I found a protected alcove amongst tender saplings and high growing trees for our tent, we went up to the base-camp and introduced ourselves to the organisers. I stood back, cognizant of my own ignorance and aware of my role as a visitor in this space. While we were both new here, Stella has a lifetime and lineage of indigeneity passed down from her father, a Ho-Chunk elder and dedicated activist. ‘Have you been to the lodge yet?’ Amber asked. I could tell immediately that she was someoone in charge, her direct gaze and clear voice immediately commanding respect and her dark skin and long dreaded braids conveying her belonging to this place.

The lodge is the sacred prayer site in which a fire was kept alive day in and day out, and that the camp was there to protect. It sits on a crest directly overlooking the banks of the river, and is directly above the site at which the pipeline is to be dug. The lodge is a space of careful reverence into which one may not enter unless directly invited. Amber bid us to go and we returned back to the water’s edge, following the winding footpath through the woods and maze of ferns. A slim figured woman with two tight braids and a beaded necklace was tending the lodge when we arrived. Her long red skirt swishing her ankles as she circled the densely padded dirt floor and stoked the ever burning fire with a wooden staff. Stella and I and Juergen, a new friend we met along the way, entered into the clearing and the woman introduced herself by her indigenous name, correcting us as we tried rolling the unfamiliar consonants off our tongues. ‘Most people call me Daygots’, she said, her smile opening the space to our presence. She was from the Oneida tribe and had also recently arrived at the camp. ‘Have you ever heard our creation story?’ The smoke from the fire wafts up into the clearing as her voice transports us.

Long, long ago there was only water and sky. Vastness of blue as deep and as wide as one can possibly imagine. And in the highest heights, the realm above, there lived the Sky People. They were sealed off from below, until one day, a man dug into the roots of the great tree and created a hole to Under. Sky Woman was drawn to the glittering surface beneath, leaning so far out of the hole until there was no going back. Down she fell, limbs stretched in flight as the winds pulled at her clothes and tangled her hair. The creatures from below saw her coming, drawn at first to the light coming from the hole in the Sky World. They gathered together in counsel - who would be the one to receive this visitor from above? It was the turtle who offered his back and he swam to the place, just there where the woman from above touched onto the water. Sky Woman got comfortable on the back of the turtle, stretching her limbs and bringing feeling back into her numb extremities. She looked around her at the endless horizon, stretching infinitely in each direction. Only sky meeting water as far as the eye could see. But she was not alone. Besides the patient and generous turtle she was perched upon, several other creatures from the water and sky had gathered around her, watching their beautiful visitor from the Sky expectantly… ‘Does anyone know where I can find some Earth?’

The story, paraphrased from my foggy memory, continues - but I will not. Written words do no justice to the profound power of oral history, in which one has the ability to transition from being a mere spectator to an acting participant in the revolution of life around us. These stories are not separate but have been a deep part of who we are and, even more so, are formative into who we become. Our world is shaped through understanding, which is taught and learned within society. In times of increasing scientific explanation, the stories told about the organic world around us are more often stale formulaic constructions than such imaginative quests. Just as a heart rate monitor cannot convey how it feels to listen to the beat of a heart, the inexplicably expansive realm of feeling remains beyond the grasp of logic or reasoning.

A slender snake passing on the earthen path before me breaks my reverie and returns me to the present moment. I am walking softly here, aware of my lack of knowledge and the depth of unlearning I must uproot from years of institutionalised education and the rigid hierarchies of professional training. I am deeply touched at the receptiveness with which the local indigenous members have opened their space and welcomed those of us without direct native heritage onto their land. I don’t yet know how to be a water protector but I am here to learn and I have come to the right place. This camp is the ‘welcome centre’, the first stop along the line of protest camps in northern Minnesota. Come, lay aside your ego and previous realities and listen to the teachings of land, spoken through the voices of the elders who know her so well. Here we are not separated into individual identities but are brought closer to our roots. Some must look closer than others, but if we lean in far enough we will discover indigenous ancestry within all of us. The clash is here, in backyard of my childhood, because of this pipeline. Yet its importance extends far beyond the headwaters of the Mississippi. If you look closely, the frontlines are everywhere.

At this camp the group of active members was close to ten, with additional people flowing in and out each passing day. Chores were divided up and Turtle cooked each meal at the base for us, eaten on wooden stumps in a large circle. At all times there was a small group of people keeping the fire in the lodge alight. On the second evening, Stella, Juergen, Alex, Caroline and I took the shift, swiftly passing through the hours of the night as we huddled into the dynamic discussions of the group. Each of us from different corners of life and place, our conversations wove together of their own accord, floating from comfort to conflict and turning over the stones of our knowing to compare the underneath. Nothing felt off limits as we learned the corners of each other’s minds and illuminated our own in the process of exchange. The darkness around us amplified the warmth of the fire and the aliveness of our words. While at times the weight of the world felt heavy on our shoulders and devastatingly overwhelming, with each turn it also seemed a bit lighter. Unlocking new doors and practicing languages of being, feeling, dreaming. And somehow, despite difference, closer than apart. The wee hours approached and our bodies claimed fatigue, yet our thoughts were still awake and resistant to break the wholeness that our togetherness had created. Finally, as the glow of the sun started saturating the velvet sky, we slowly rose. The world around us was slowly waking up again. The air was quiet and expectant under another dawn of rebirth. From the river’s edge, steam was rising off the surface and melting into the luminescent rose pastels violets that held place for the sky.

This newborn clarity colours my memories of these days, while the warmth in my centre is held by the words of an elder on our last night around the fire. As the glow of the flames warmed our upturned faces and the cold of the evening hugged in around us, Panther told us a story that he gathered while participating in the resistance at Standing Rock. ‘No matter what happens here, it is important for you to remember; even if this fire is put out, you carry within you the embers. Take care to tend to them and when the time is right, be ready to use their spark to light another fire.’