I. What is Standing Rock?
The Standing Rock movement started not with a camp but with letters, written by youth from the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation. In early April 2016, they wrote petitions to the Army Corps of Engineers in opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline, scheduled to run just half a mile north of the reservation. At stake: the water of the Missouri River, which sustains twelve million people, as well as sacred burial grounds. Inspired by their words, Ladonna Bravebull Allard, a member of the Standing Rock tribe, hosted the first prayer camp. The Standing Rock Youth group posted more videos, asking for support. The videos went viral. What started as a five-person prayer camp became a gathering of thousands from across the world.
When the original proposed route for the pipeline put it upstream of Bismarck’s water supply, city residents strongly voiced their concerns. The pipeline was rerouted. Energy Transfer Partners, DAPL’s owner, now offers reassurance that the pipeline will not pose a safety risk to the reservation. Since 2010, however, Sunoco, the project’s manager, has reported over 200 onshore pipeline spills, the highest incident rate for any operator. An in-depth 2010 study from Worcester Polytechnic Institute found that those who come into contact with oil-contaminated drinking water face higher rates of cancer and digestive problems. Those who launder or bathe with contaminated water suffer more frequent incidents of skin problems, ranging from eczema to malignant skin cancers.
Though Midwest water quality poses no immediate threat to my own East Coast existence, I go to Standing Rock to stand alongside the Indigenous, to be part of a movement unified in defense of the Earth. Standing Rock offers a vision of the future rooted in sustainability. I want to learn their ways of resistance.
There are several points of access to understand the Standing Rock movement, none of them wholly sufficient in and of themselves. Consider the more-than-100-year struggle by the Sioux Nation to protect its people from colonialist, at times genocidal aggression. A string of broken treaties. Government initiatives to slaughter herds of buffalo, the tribes’ primary source of food. And the Whitestone Massacre, where US troops slaughtered over 300 Sioux men, women, and children. The 1868 Fort Laramie Treaty designated land through which the pipeline would pass as part of the Great Sioux Reservation. It furthermore acknowledged the Sioux as a sovereign nation with the right to negotiate on a government-to-government basis. In 1889, though, Congress ignored that right, stripping much of that land from the reservation. To this day, the Sioux themselves have never ceded their right to that land.
And one can see the movement more generally: a unified resistance to the ongoing exploitation of Indigenous people around the world. Standing Rock has become the largest gathering of Indigenous groups in modern American history. Flags line the drive into camp, each a representative of the over three hundred tribes from around the world. United by the degradation of their own lands, they come as modern-day warriors in nonviolent resistance to police in riot gear and snarling dogs.
And one can understand Standing Rock not on a theoretical but concrete level: the day-to-day reality of the main camp itself. Oceti Sakowin camp, they call it, Sioux for the “Seven Council Fires,” relit for the first time since Sitting Bull brought together the tribes of the Great Sioux Nation to defeat Custer in the Battle of the Greasy Grass. Now the Sacred Fire burns at the heart of camp, carefully tended by a rotation of fire-keepers. I sit by the fire listening to Sitting Bull’s great-grandson as he shares the enduring Sioux wisdom that continues to provide the spiritual center for resistance. “This is a camp of prayer,” he urges. “Every moment of every day, this is a camp of prayer. We are here as water protectors, not protesters. We are here to protect.” Men and women from across the world kneel before the fire, offering votives in the form of sprinkles of tobacco, sweetgrass, and sage.
Hundreds of cars, army tents, yurts, and teepees spread throughout the valley. There is a medic tent, a natural remedies tent, a legal tent, a press tent, and an orientation tent to welcome each day’s surge of newcomers. Sweat lodges and an acupuncture teepee. Seven kitchens that offer food to whoever comes hungry and floor space at night for those without adequate accommodations. Buffalo stew, elk chunks, cole slaw, fry bread, beans, rice, and in Grandma’s kitchen, dessert and a hug. A construction headquarters, still under construction as the builders race to winterize the camp, to put barriers between people and frozen ground. A donation tent for winter clothing, another donation tent for sleeping bags and blankets. The geodesic dome where representatives from different parts of the camp meet every morning.
At the hill overlooking the camp, people pace back and forth chasing cell reception, then recharge at a bike- or solar-powered charging station. Even amidst halting conversation and dropped calls, the view of hundreds of Native flags whipping in the breeze inspires.
To make the camp function requires a hell of a lot of work. I serve food, wash dishes, chop wood, run plates to the camp security, dump compost, sort winter gear, and build a floor for a tribe from Nevada. Around me, hundreds, thousands go about their work. If there’s an unmet need, a voice on the loud speaker calls out, “Relatives, we need someone to help out over here.” And the need is met.
We work in the shadow of what feels like a military occupation. At night, lights blare from the DAPL-occupied ridge where snipers have been stationed. For hours at a time, illegal DAPL planes circle overhead, rumored to be disrupting cell phone reception.
The camp is a mosaic of backgrounds, all weaving into a shared purpose: protection of not just water, but land, air, future.
There is James: one of the Indigenous security forces, for hours on end guarding the entrance to the camp. He has many scars, physical and emotional: shot ten times, even by his brother and cousin, and disowned by his family.
“I never cover my face,” he says. “The elders says we should be proud of who we are, and I’m proud.”
There are the pair of friends who dash from kitchen to mess hall calling for more spoons as if some great drama were unfolding. They met as part of a gay acting group in Maryland and have moved to the camp indefinitely to be part of the movement.
My new friend, Garret, drove from Detroit intending to interview people in the nearby town of Cannon Ball. After getting here, though, he has thrown himself into helping with the winterization efforts. “I thought I was going to do a journalism project, but I got here and there were plenty of journalists, and who was going to build a floor for that family before it snows?” After a couple days helping to set up structures, he was appointed as a crew leader, often working past dark to complete structures.
Mona, a Syrian seminary student, made a project to construct and pray over 70 kites, which were then flown by children at the camp. “We’re just going to send our prayers up, in a non-Western, decolonized way that signifies we are here, we are resisting, our minds are open. We’re here because we’ve had enough.”
Everett came from the Hoopa Valley tribe in Northern California, where the people face their own issues with water, as their rivers are diverted to sustain vast farms of almond trees. “I used to be able to swim in the river any time. That water, it was the most beautiful color. Now, maybe two months you can swim before the water gets too low and the algae explodes and people get sick.” He pauses, staring into the fire, then adds, “I came here, just out of jail. I had my family to take care of, but they want me to be here. To learn how to fight, so I can come home and fight for our water.”
And Darnene Pipois, of the Saskatchewan Dakota tribe, drives three hours each way every weekend she can to support the camp. “We’re not here for any other purpose, except to care for the land, and the water,” she says. “In our time, we went through all kinds of trauma. Now here we are again, the young people, they’re going through trauma again. Why? Why?”
In the midst of all the dedication, others seem to have less clarity about their purpose. “I was planning to go to the Griz Cats football game,” explains one young man. “My friend was like fuck football, we’re going to Standing Rock. Now I’m here.”
“This is not a vacation,” reminds an Indigenous voice over the loudspeaker announcing the 6:30 am prayer. It would be foolish to assume that the camp is a place of perfect harmony. Some come only for a couple days, ill-researched and ill-supplied, expecting those in for the long haul to play gracious host. Some criticize the cultural expectations laid down by the local elders that this is a camp of prayer: drug, alcohol and weapon-free. More tenuously, women are expected to wear ankle-length skirts. There is also tension, mainly but not exclusively along the lines of young and old, over how confrontational to be in resistance to the corporation. Conflicts ensue, but those at the heart of the movement maintain an underlying commitment to work through them, to stand united.
Whatever their reason for going, those who come to Standing Rock cannot help but be moved by what is going on.
What is Standing Rock? Life as prayer, prayer as resistance, resistance as community.
II. The Bridge
A man runs into the kitchen where I have just started to wash dishes.
“All able-bodied people to the front.”
He looks bashful, as if intruding, not certain of the veracity of his call. He too must have heard talk of previous false calls for direct action. But his eyes flash urgency.
“I can finish,” says another man at the wash station.
I follow the caller outside. Dark shapes stride past. I march to the bridge: quiet, tense, determined without knowing for what.
The lights are visible long before I get there, bright enough for a stadium. Coils of glistening barbed wire line one end of the bridge. On one side, hundreds of water protectors. On the other, rows of police in riot gear flanking armored vehicles.
“Mni Waconi,” the crowd chants. Water is sacred.
“No DAPL.”
“We love you,” several shout towards the police. “This is your children’s water too.”
Others stand in silent, peaceful opposition.
With no warning, all hell breaks loose. A police officer atop an armored vehicle unleashes a water cannon on the assembled protectors. The first wave of tear gas sweeps over the crowd.
“Keep calm,” reassure medics as hacking coughs fill the air. “Help each other. It’s going to be ok.”
I struggle off the bridge and collapse onto the ground, blinded, hacking. Those who avoided the gas rush to wash chemicals out of their neighbors’ crying eyes. As my lungs burn, I feel hatred towards the police. Energy Transfer Partner’s even paying their overtime, I hear. 21st century Pinkertons.
As the symptoms recede, I remind myself that hatred has no place here. The Indigenous leadership offers a vision of solidarity, not just among protectors, but everyone: police and protector alike realizing the commonality of our shared environment. I move back to the bridge trying to find peace in my heart as the next barrage of tear gas rips through the crowd. The police expand their targets to include dry grass on both sides of the bridge, sparking fires with embers from exploding tear gas canisters. They bring out additional water cannons and train them on individuals for over ten seconds at a time in the 23 degree cold. One protector stands making two peace signs in the spray, defiant. Others laugh, whoop, dance, hysterical in the freezing cold.
“I’ve got to stay,” shivers a young woman woman when a medic tries to lead her to safety. Her skin has a bluish tinge to it. “They’re spraying elders!”
The protectors do not back down. They set up fires on the mud flats to keep warm, using tarps as shields against the unending water barrage from the police. I drag log after log from the woods to keep the fires burning. The fires sputter, then are fanned back to life accompanied by cheers from the water protectors. My coat has frozen into a block of ice. I am exhausted but cannot leave. Each load will be my last, but seeing the determination of those holding the tarps, I go back for yet one more trip.
The police take aim, fire rubber bullets from their arsenal, hitting those around me. They shoot one woman directly between her eyes. James, the security guard, is teargassed 15 times and shot in the leg with a rubber bullet. Medics rush to the front to transport a stream of victims back to the camp, then on to the hospital for many. And after I have gone to bed, a woman’s arm will be blown to shreds by an exploding concussion grenade.
“I’ve got to stay,” shivers a young woman woman when a medic tries to lead her to safety. Her skin has a bluish tinge to it. “They’re spraying elders!”
The protectors do not back down. They set up fires on the mud flats to keep warm, using tarps as shields against the unending water barrage from the police. I drag log after log from the woods to keep the fires burning. The fires sputter, then are fanned back to life accompanied by cheers from the water protectors. My coat has frozen into a block of ice. I am exhausted but cannot leave. Each load will be my last, but seeing the determination of those holding the tarps, I go back for yet one more trip.
The police take aim, fire rubber bullets from their arsenal, hitting those around me. They shoot one woman directly between her eyes. James, the security guard, is teargassed 15 times and shot in the leg with a rubber bullet. Medics rush to the front to transport a stream of victims back to the camp, then on to the hospital for many. And after I have gone to bed, a woman’s arm will be blown to shreds by an exploding concussion grenade.
“The whole world is watching,” the crowd chants to the police. But are they really? What are they being told? The Norton County Sheriff’s Office first claims that they used the water cannon to put out car fires started by the protectors, that an “ongoing riot” was underway. They claim that the woman’s arm was eviscerated while trying to gerry rig an explosive device, that they even heard a propane explosion and were not in fact using concussion grenades. CNN and other news outlets repeat these claims unchecked until videos surface of police spraying peaceful water protectors, even after the burn wounds showed no sign of a propane explosion. Public outcry. Will it make a difference?
Only a few days later, the Army Corps of Engineers orders immediate evacuation of the Oceti Sakewan camp. The governor of North Dakota, Jack Dalrymple, issues a similar order, claiming concern for public safety and lack of emergency personnel availability for the encroaching winter. Local Native Americans have been surviving North Dakota winters for centuries. One would think the protectors capable of handling the winter as long as they aren’t being bombarded by water cannons.
How is it that the state’s conversations about public safety makes no mention of climate change? The causes are too many, too integral to our economy and daily lives, maybe, for any one actor to take responsibility for their part. While this pipeline will not tip the scales of climate change by itself, it is a piece of the growing existential threat to humanity. Stopping the pipeline will do little to prevent oil from being extracted in the Bakken fields of North Dakota. But it is a step towards accepting ownership of the problem. When the public and private sectors fail to take substantial action, who is left but the public itself to demand change?
The movement maintains its discipline, solidarity. Here is a wisdom rooted in love: for each other, the water we drink, the air we breathe, the land we live on, and the next generation. When the next day a group of protectors still stand on the bridge, ready to be arrested, the Sioux elders go out and ask them to return to camp. The protectors return to heal and prepare for direct action another day. Enough harm has been done.
An air of exhaustion and wariness hangs over the camp. The brutality is nothing new for most of the Indigenous, but I stumble around camp shocked, helpless at the visceral realizationof just how much harm has been done for so long.
The camp grinds back into its winterization efforts. The sounds of generators, hammering, and wood splitting fill the air. And still the DAPL plane circles overhead.
Two days later, an unprecedented number of people arise for the morning prayer. Elders guide us down to the Cannonball River as ceremonial tobacco is passed around to all. Silence, then a song for the river, a prayer to the river. Hundreds squelch down the muddy banks to the water. I imagine a world of justice and stewardship, so different from our own, and scatter the tobacco into the water. I draw strength from all those who have put their old lives on hold to be a part of all that is Standing Rock. I draw strength from their sacrifice. The corporation is strong, but so are the people. Boots coated in mud, we return to our chores, to organizing.
