NEAR CANNON BALL, STANDING ROCK SIOUX NATION – Thousands of Native American people and their allies have gathered in the hills 40 minutes south of Bismark to protest the Dakota Access Pipeline. Many have flown in, but just as many have been driving for days to reach this place. It takes two days to drive here from Denver, most of it via county roads without cell phone service.
Coming from the south towards Cannon Ball, signs protesting the pipeline begin to show themselves as soon as one enters the Standing Rock Reservation. Sitting Bull, the great Lakota leader and freedom fighter who resisted the United States for decades, was murdered nearby and once interred here. Like Nat Turner, Sitting Bull was moved by a vision to take up arms against his oppressor.
But there are no weapons allowed here at Red Warrior Camp. Security at the entrance to the camp from ND-1806 says weapons, along with drugs and alcohol, are prohibited. People here are gathering to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline with just their bodies – by chaining themselves to machines or simply standing in front of them. They are here to demand sovereignty over their water, and are attacked by dogs, mace and mass arrest in reply.
The weather is warm and the wind dry up on the only hill that gets cell phone service in the camp. People ride horses bareback and drum and sing long into the night. Hot food is prepared and served by the Standing Rock Sioux, and the donation tents are busy sorting cold-weather clothes for the months ahead. There are no plans to leave any time soon. People are winterizing their tents and tipis and chopping wood for fires.
166 flags stand at the entrance to the camp, representing the 166 Native American Tribes and Organizations present, as well as other flags from solidarity activists from Palestine, Russia, Laos, Brazil, Honduras and elsewhere. There are First Nations people from British Columbia, Quechua people from Peru, Native Americans who drove from North Carolina or New York or San Diego.
Thousands of people are present at Standing Rock, united around the idea of national sovereignty and the desire to save the earth from what activists here call The Black Snake.
Near Red Warrior Camp, performers rap over a PA system about Standing Rock, Sitting Bull, the Black Hills and growing up on reservations. They rap about jail, the US government and opiate addiction. People wear t-shirts that have BLACK SNAKE KILLA emblazoned in spray paint.
LOS ANGELES – Stephen Zeigler received a text message about the red-tailed hawk outside his building in the Skid Row neighborhood of Los Angeles from a friend. They told him it had flown into the alley. “I found the hawk huddled behind a garbage dumpster. I could tell that he was injured and in need of help, so I called animal control.”
He called animal control, and word is the hawk got better and they released it back into the wild. “The wilds of Los Angeles,” he says. “From that time I accepted that hawk as the spirit animal and protector of the alley. He came to calm our anxieties and let us know he was looking out for us, and that we wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”
Stephen lives in the building that makes up one side of this alley and acts as its unofficial curator. He came down after he saw me looking at the art in the alley and hollered to ask if I wanted to speak with someone about it. The building is one of the oldest in Los Angeles, he tells me. 1870. Bright colors travel down the alley, making up several murals of various types and styles.
They are Native murals that tell the story of the indigenous people of the United States, some of whom used to live rough in this alley during the 1970s. Stephen tells me that in Skid Row, the homeless who live in the area are often segregated by race. This alley was where the Native Americans used to live.
I met a young artist in Santa Clara Pueblo while I was in New Mexico. He’d told me about a place called Indian Alley – said I had to visit once I reached Los Angeles. There’s a sign posted on East 4th to indicate the alley’s presence behind a metal gate. Stephen tells me he made the sign. “Indian Alley,” it says, and in tiny letters underneath: “PROPERTY OF THE PEOPLE.”
We start with a wheatpaste that is almost the size of the door it’s posted on. “This is a piece that was a photograph that I found in the LA Times Archives. It was a photograph – I unfortunately don’t know the photographer’s name – but it was taken in 1987. It’s a photograph of some graffiti from that time that was etched on the door, where people would leave their tribal names, as well as different artwork.”
The names read: Apache, Navajo, Menominee.
These are the names of the tribes of the people who lived in this alley, as well as those who lived in the Mission nearby. Women and children on the third-floor bunks. Men on the second floor. Soup kitchen on the ground floor.
Nowadays, when indigenous people visit the alley, they sign their names with their tribes over the wheatpaste, adding to the history. “I always encourage them to add their names to it, to make it not only historical but very contemporary as well, as a reminder.”
“A lot of people from my [white] ethnic background have a tendency to have amnesia in regards to racial injustice that maybe their relatives have incurred, or have caused.”
He wants to keep the memory alive?
“These people are still here, and they’re still suffering racial intolerance.”
We step back and he explains the mural above us. He says they are four stages of women: the baby in the papoose, the young girl, the “white woman” (or changing woman) who is going through her coming-of-age ritual, and the elder, fashioned after the artist’s aunt, who is an indigenous rights activist in Arizona. She is part of a group currently occupying Oak Flats, sacred land for the San Carlos Apache tribe.
“It’s gotten very little media attention,” he says. “I run into a lot of, for lack of a better term, white people who will say ‘God, that was so long ago. Can’t they get over it?’ and I’m like, so long ago? It’s still happening. What do you mean so long ago?”
He compares the hazards of fracking on Native land to settlers giving smallpox-infected blankets to Native Americans.
We move on to a mural of Toypurina, the Los Angeles Native who fought Spanish colonialism. Her punishment for leading an uprising was to convert to Catholicism, marry a white man and bear his children.
We move on to the mural of Robert Sundance. Legend says he was arrested more than 500 times for public intoxication. “He sobered up and became an activist,” Stephen says. Sundance sued the LAPD for their treatment of intoxicated people.
While people who painted the walls of the alley at first were both indigenous and non-indigenous people, Stephen decided that since no other part of the country was dedicated to Native art, that non-Native people would be excluded from painting the walls. “Along with all of this comes a lot of trauma, and history, and wrong doing, and racial injustice. And myself being a white person whose ancestors are guilty of a lot of that, it’s been a challenge at times.”
And, of course, the racism and poverty that is afflicted on Skid Row is still pervasive today. The 54-block neighborhood is on Google Maps. Rough sleeping is allowed on the sidewalks from 9pm to 6am. According to the census, the majority of people who live there are people of color – and many are Native Americans.
Stephen has lived in Skid Row for 11 years. He calls himself an anarchist. He has spent time in the neighborhood trying to improve things by picking up garbage in the streets or painting murals elsewhere, and that his efforts were supported by the homeless and cops alike.
Gentrification has slowly lapped at the edges of the neighborhood. He points my attention across the street. “That building was a warehouse that would catch on fire once a year. Prostitutes would turn tricks down that alley, in the doorway that’s now the entrance to a very hipster nightclub. And I would sit there, and look, and there was scaffolding up and down the building when they were redoing it, and I would watch, and it was like watching a slow-moving tsunami.”
He speaks about a business that opened on the bottom floor that went out of business recently. “All these people are like ‘Oh, the new downtown! It’s so nice now! and it’s like, Yeah, ain’t that nice. I still have people shooting heroin and smoking rock on my doorstep basically every day.”
“It’s kinda hard to have a nice kinda yuppie restaurant while some guy’s taking a shit on the sidewalk across the street.”
Stephen has an issue with gentrification, but it’s nuanced. While gentrification in places like Boyle Heights pushes out families, Skid Row is “sad”, with drunks, drug addicts and homeless everywhere.
But where will these people go if they’re pushed out?
“That’s a good question. But why are they here in the first place? Because the federal government, saw in all their wisdom, and the state government, to close the mental health facilities downtown, and to put all the social services in one area. So you’re on the streets and then you finally get a room, and you’re drug addicted and you go to some meetings and you get sober. And you walk out your door every day and there’s a dude selling crack right in front of your door, and there’s mentally ill people walking up and down the street. How are you supposed to maintain that sobriety?”
“This was intentional right? And this was by the powers that be. They called it a ‘containment zone’. The LAPD calls it ‘The Box.’ And the people who live there, ironically enough, call it ‘the reservation.'”
While he’s received some passive comments that indicate not all people are pleased, Stephen believes that the work on display in the alley does a small part to assuage the pains of the reality surrounding us on Skid Row.
“We’re a horribly divided country right now that doesn’t understand or even care to spend time to understand other people’s issues. Everybody is ‘me me me’. I would say capitalism is probably the biggest problem. The idea of capitalism as I was taught, and that a lot of people repeat, that you’re able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and create something if you want to? That’s great! But it’s not true.”
“You can’t rely on the powers that be, because their interests are not your interest. They don’t give a shit about you. They don’t give a shit about your mom. They don’t care about your kids. They don’t care about your fucking grandma. You don’t enter into it. So you cannot rely on them. You have to do.. we have to do what we can, on a local level, to build strong communities and end the divisiveness.”
“I’ve seen art bring people together in a powerful way. Is it stronger than bombs and police batons, and all the mechanisms of the capitalist hierarchy? Probably not.”
SANTA FE – The air is crisp, cool and fresh. The sun is warm, but not too much. Residents picnic at a pond complete with cruising swans and ducks. The vistas of the Jemez Mountains and the mesas of the Pajarito Plateau are breathtaking. Flowers are in bloom. Everything is green. The historical structures are quaint and rustic, ranch style houses made of wood and corrugated tin. The city is quiet and peaceful, a perfect slice of small-town America. It’s difficult at times to remember that this is the part of the world where the nuclear bomb was invented. It’s hard to picture the hundreds of thousands who died in Hiroshima and Nagasaki while standing in this environment, filling your lungs with fresh air. It’s hard to hear the sounds of parades, laughter and dancing at the celebrations that ensued after receiving the news via telegram from Truman while you listen to the wind rustle through the trees. No one could hear the screams of burning children halfway across the world from all the way up here.
You are standing in Los Alamos. It is the definition of a boomtown – a town that was built in a hurry. After the site was selected in 1943, 8,900 acres of private land were condemned by the US government and its inhabitants evicted. The government got quite a deal on what would one day be the most valuable property it owned – it paid $225 per acre to the white landowners, while the Hispanic homesteaders received far less – some only $7 per acre, some not paid at all.
When the first pioneers of nuclear holocaust arrived, they bussed up the Native American and Chicano men to build the structures. They bussed up Native American and Chicana women to be maids, cooks and nannies – paid them about $3 an hour in today’s money. What Oppenheimer had estimated would be a city of only a hundred people ballooned into 6,000 almost overnight. These scientists and soldiers needed help. They found it in the valleys below “The Hill” – from the nearby San Ildefonso and Santa Clara Pueblos, and from the nearby city of Española.
The site of Los Alamos was chosen in consideration that there were few people nearby – though according to census numbers available at the time, there were tens of thousands of people already in the area. The majority of the history you’ll find in the area speaks about the Los Alamos Boy’s Ranch, a scout-like health resort for the sons of the wealthy, staffed by Harvard and Yale alumni. No surprise that the census numbers for Pueblo people during that time are difficult to find. It’s difficult to find the numbers of people who came up to work from the Pueblos, from the nearby Spanish-speaking villages and cities. Rebecca Collinsworth, Archivist for Los Alamos, tells me they’re probably buried in an archive in Washington D.C., and maybe even classified. As far as history tells it, Los Alamos was mainly built on a land without people for a people without land.
Much else is classified: the weapons of mass destruction being built nearby, the 10,800,000 cubic feet (enough to fill 1.4 million 55 gallon drums according to the Los Alamos Study Group) of radioactive waste stored in the ground, the theft of land and contamination of natural resources, the exploitation of local labor and the cancer rate. Forget the ghosts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, shuffling by with mouths agape in shock at this peaceful scene, witnessing children playing in the shadows of monuments honoring the architects of mass slaughter. You can see the ruins of a Tewa Pueblo from Oppenheimer’s back porch, hollowed-out like the Genbaku Dome left standing as skeletal memorial in Hiroshima. The only war memorial I could find in town is to honor the dead from the 9/11 attack on the Pentagon.
No one I interviewed for this dispatch agreed to be photographed. Some refused to allow me to record the interviews by audio. There’s a surface tension in this part of the Pajarito Plateau that is hard to navigate. The only man who was open and loud about his opinions regarding Los Alamos was Ed Grothus, who ran a military supply store called The Black Hole and preached against nuclear war from his nearby A-frame where he held “bomb unworshiping” ceremonies.
I was encouraged by an associate who had made this trip up the hill before to visit this place, this wart on the smooth skin of an otherwise placid company town, but Grothus died in 2009. His store and nearby church is now boarded up, empty and rotting. I thought about his words reported to Mother Jones in 2003: “I don’t change their minds. They’re convinced. I just try to make them cognizant of what they do. If I weren’t here, there’d be nobody speaking out — nobody.”
In 2016, it feels like he’s right. Occasionally there are protests put on by people – “from Santa Fe”, I’m told – not from around here.
This is, as Jean Wilson calls it, “a company town.” She’s been here since the age of 7, when her father came up to run the meat commissary for the military. She does not agree to be recorded, though we speak for nearly an hour. She tells me about busses that brought up men and women from neighboring Pueblos and “Hispano” villages to work as laborers and maids. She describes a caste system, with the most elite scientists at the top earning their houses on “Bathtub Row” (named because they were the only dwellings with bathtubs) while the majority lived in substandard living conditions. She doesn’t speak much about the people who were bussed up to do the janitorial and domestic labor.
Jean tells me that no one really knew what was going on, not except those at the top. Machinists made parts, physicists solved problems, and the different components were assembled by a select few. People had an idea, however. When The Gadget was taken to the desert near Socorro, Jean’s mother took her to Nebraska after hearing rumors that the atmosphere would catch fire. But her father wrote saying that the “cat screamed all night” after they left, code for the success of the first detonation of an atomic weapon on the planet, 16 July 1945, called “Trinity” after Oppenheimer’s love for the poetry of John Donne, and for the love of his dead Communist mistress who first introduced him to Donne’s work. The wives who had stayed in Los Alamos after The Gadget left for Southeast New Mexico stood on top of the mountains nearby to see the light of the explosion almost 200 miles away. Jean tells me that the drinking was heavy in those days.
There were celebrations. More parties after the bombs ripped through Hiroshima and Nagasaki, blasting away hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians and sending a message to the Soviet Union, who, now having defeated Hitler in Europe, turned their attention to Japan in the East.
It remains a company town even after the war, says Jean. She tells me that the city isn’t too political, that it’s family oriented. She tells me the only real problems they have in this quiet, idyllic community are high rates of brain cancer – though scientists are just as quick to swat away these statistics of four-fold rates of thyroid cancer by insisting there’s too small of a sample size, or that perhaps other factors are responsible. Not the millions of barrels of nuclear waste nearby, no, not necessarily.
The other problem, Jean tells me, are the drugs being brought onto the hill by those people from the valley. She’s probably not incorrect – in addition to having high rates of poverty, communities such as Española and Chimayo are known for having the some of the highest rates of heroin use in the country. That they sit next to and service the most affluent city in New Mexico (and second most affluent in the United States) is no accident – here is a poor community that’s probably too busy fighting heroin and poverty to put up a fight about nuclear war.
I’m curious about this labor. It goes almost unmentioned in the history outside of oral histories and a few pages in books such as John Hunner’s “Inventing Los Alamos“. There’s an exhibit at the Bradbury Museum of Science on “Voices of Project Y” which features a Santa Clara Pueblo woman named Dasheno Chavarria – one of those paid around $4 an hour in today’s money to clean up after scientists who were poisoning her ancestral land. She says simply: “I was disappointed to learn that making a bomb was what was being done in Los Alamos.”
I drive to the San Ildefonso Pueblo and watch a VHS for the first time in years. It was produced in the late 1990s and is about the relationship between the San Ildefonso Pueblo and Los Alamos. “In our backyard, we have the capability of wiping out the entire planet,” says one of the members on the tape. Outside, thunder rumbles across the valley and rain starts to fall. The tape says the biggest threat to the Pueblo is the storm water pushing “legacy waste” into the Rio Grande, where not just the Pueblo, but many millions downstream get their water.
“The tribes weren’t really fully aware of what was going on,” says Elmer Torres, former governor of the San Ildefonso Pueblo. I speak with him in the back of his shop where he sells jewelry and art to tourists driving past on NM-502. He is soft spoken, hands folded on the table.
“Years before, it was very uneasy. Like I said, the trust wasn’t there.”
Elmer says that in the early 1970s, the Lab started to bring up local tribal leaders to visit their ancestral sites and explain what was going on with the Lab. “Just like any other high official they would bring in, congressional folks from Washington, they were treated the same. As a VIP.”
Does he think if that visit had happened before the Manhattan Project that the Pueblos and local communities would have allowed the Los Alamos Laboratory to proceed? Elmer thinks so, but then again, “I think we had so many different players at that time. A lot of our tribal leaders or governors at that time were not as educated as we have now. I think they would have stepped up to the plate a little bit more. But back in those days, everything was handled through the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
What does he mean, “step up to the plate more”?
He pauses, thinking. “They probably would have asked a lot more questions. And to see what was really going on, why they were going to be there, all that. And maybe, they probably would have said ‘we don’t want Los Alamos up there’. But, that’s in the past now.”
How does he think people in the San Ildefonso Pueblo reacted when they found out what was being built at Los Alamos?
“I think they were pretty shocked to hear what happened. But at the same time, they may have supported it, back in the early days.”
I told him that in my research, I read of celebrations taking place at the Pueblo to commemorate the success of the bomb.
“I think it was mainly for them [the scientists] as well, but I think for the Native Americans in this area, it was probably not, as one of those, you would say, a celebration.. it was more a somber type, knowing something else happened.”
I ask him what he thinks is the biggest challenge facing the country today. He is immediate and firm in his response. Elmer’s main concern is stewardship of the environment. “If you don’t have clean water, clean air and clean soil, there’s no way we’re going to survive.” I ask him about how the Lab has contributed to the environment in the area, and he tells me he’s grateful for that they are starting to teach the tribe how to conduct its own water, soil and air monitoring for contamination. The EPA has standards he says, but there’s no way they can enforce everything.
Elmer worked at the lab himself for many years. He says things are more diverse on the Hill now, and that management makes an effort by including tribal members in quarterly meetings and allows the San Ildefonso Governor to request to visit their ancestral sites on the Hill. But that the town is still in its own “little world” in many ways. He says that some of their sacred sites had been vandalized by “young kids from Los Alamos”, so LANL put up barriers.
Does he feel welcome in Los Alamos?
“Some of the people up there don’t know about the Pueblos. That’s their livelihood. They go to the office, go to the lab and work, but if you ask them about the Pueblos they have no idea, they have no clue.” And, Elmer tells me, the Pueblo is only 5 miles away from Los Alamos as the crow flies.
Back in the day, he says no one thought there were people living in the area when they chose the site for Los Alamos. But surely the Bureau of Indian Affairs would have known, right?
“On the one hand, you’d trust the federal government to protect the Native Americans for something like that, but on the other hand they kind of let us down.”
Other Pueblo people I speak with are more open about how they are treated. One man told me that when he takes his family to the movie theater in Los Alamos, he gets looks from the residents that indicate to him that he’s not welcome. A woman living on the Hill tells me that her son wears his hair long in the traditional Native style and gets the same stares, sometimes even disrespect.
Emma is friendly and says she judges people by their good energy. She is half Chicana and half Pueblo Indian, originally from Southern New Mexico, from Luna County, the fifth poorest in the state. She grew up thinking that people in Los Alamos were well-off because they got everything handed to them – though, to be fair, Los Alamos is one of the most federally-subsidized cities in the country. After living here since the 1970s, though, she has changed her mind. “It’s probably because we have very hard working people. That’s what it really comes down to. You have to work hard, apply yourself, and persevere.”
Emma married into a family of some of the first scientists to arrive in the 1940s. “Nothing was handed to them. They worked hard.”
“I’m sure they weren’t greeted with open arms, but after a while, they were. We’ve seen pictures of Pueblo families entertaining physicists. And vice versa. The governor of the San Ildefonso Pueblo would come up here and make bread.” She smiles broadly. “He made wonderful bread.”
“Throughout the years, the relationship that I’ve seen between the people and the Pueblos have been pretty, pretty good. They’re kind to each other.”
But there are others who say when they come up to the Hill, they don’t feel altogether welcome, like they stand out. Does she think that’s true?
“I do. I do. Back then, I don’t know, I wasn’t here, but I think they had a pretty decent relationship with them. I know that some of the Pueblo people were up here. I know Louis Bradbury and his wife went to the Pueblo for feast days. But I think right now, there might be that.”
“It’s hard to explain because for many years, this perception about Los Alamos and the people up here is that they’re handed everything, they’ve got all these opportunities, uh, they’re snooty, they’re right… and people who live down in the Española Area, the San Ildefonso and Santa Clara, and what is it – the Okeo Winge Pueblo in that area? They’re struggling a lot. And that’s from years and years of poverty. Not just ten, fifteen, twenty. It goes back generations and generations. And sometimes I think when they’re not given a hand up, they feel like they’re let down, left behind, oppressed.”
So she thinks it’s all about perceptions?
Emma pauses, admits: “I think it’s a combination.” She relates a story where she was out with some special needs students she works with and was crossing the street with the right of way, when a woman rolled down her window to shout racial slurs at her. The children with her started to cry, not understanding what was going on. She brushed it off and told them to “just turn around and laugh.”
She relates another story where she was waiting to be helped at a store and the clerk at the counter told her to step aside so she could help the two blonde boys behind her first. I asked when this happened. She says it was two years ago.
Emma chuckles dryly, shaking her head. “It does happen here.”
The Los Alamos National Laboratory was built with Pueblo and Spanish-speaking labor. Children were raised by Pueblo and Spanish-speaking women. The land being poisoned by nuclear waste is Pueblo land. The San Ildefonso hope to remain on their land forever, but the rich who work in the labs will retire elsewhere. Spanish-speaking homesteaders were evicted by the government when it came time to build a weapon that would wipe out a quarter-million Japanese men, women and children. Was this city built on the idea that some lives are worth more than others?
“Back then it was a different world. And I don’t think it was ‘our lives matter more than their lives’.”
History tells a more complicated story.
To Emma, Los Alamos will always be around. Even though some of the scientists felt bad about what they were doing, she tells me, the government owned the bomb.
Los Alamos is indeed a microcosm of the US. Some people might feel bad about what’s going on, but our individual consciences don’t override that kind of policy. The history reads that it was a land without a people for a people without a land, those touched by brilliance to push the boundaries of human accomplishment, Prometheus-style. No matter that it was built with exploited labor – they are not included in the history anyway. No matter that it was done to kill hundreds of thousands of civilians – there is no memorial here for them.
Things will continue on in Los Alamos no matter who is elected president in November. The political roots run deeper than the surface justifications of security or scientific advancement. And, like the rest of the United States, the lasting effects Los Alamos has had on the planet will be felt for millennia to come, if humanity outlasts the product of its labor for at least 24,100 years – the half-life of plutonium-239.