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For Oregon tribes, retracing the Rogue River Trail of Tears helps heal old wounds

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Saturday, May 25, 2024

Forged by an explosive volcanic eruption in southwest Oregon, Table Rocks took their shape over millions of years, carved by the steady waters of the Rogue River, which now flows more than 800 feet below the rim.Every autumn, as temperatures drop and rainclouds return, acorns fall from oak trees that surround the pair of flat-topped mesas. The return of the acorns precedes the return of Native peoples, who gather the bitter nuts, grind them up and turn them into a nutritious mush – a practice that goes back millennia.In recent years, the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde and the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians have created opportunities for members to reforge connections to the lands their ancestors knew intimately. Their removal from this place in 1856, an event some historians call the Rogue River Trail of Tears, has become a road map that many tribal members are retracing into the future.In the fall, the two tribes come together to gather acorns at an event called Acorn Camp in southwest Oregon. This June, they will host their first joint Camas Camp, where they will harvest camas lilies and other spring plants. And, just after Memorial Day Weekend, the Siletz tribe will host its annual Run to the Rogue marathon, a 216-mile relay down the coastline and up the Rogue River.Greg Archuleta, cultural policy analyst with the Grand Ronde tribe, said the current focus is on refamiliarizing tribal members with the places of their ancestors, as well as passing down practices that have survived for generations.“Our primary focus right now is really to get tribal members out on the landscape,” Archuleta said. “It’s all about presence.”That presence has also created a new sense of home for many Indigenous families who have spent generations living elsewhere – on reservations far away, in bigger cities or out of the region altogether.“It’s kind of like meeting a relative that you’ve heard about for a long time but never had a chance to meet,” Robert Kentta, tribal council member for the Siletz tribe, said of returning to southwest Oregon. “That connection is still there.”A popular hiking trail leads up to and around Upper Table Rock, a volcanic plateau near Medford in southern Oregon.Jamie Hale/The OregonianRobert Kentta, tribal council member for the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, stands on former reservation land that once belonged to his great-grandfather, who was removed from southwest Oregon in 1856. Jamie Hale/The OregonianTRAUMA AT TABLE ROCKSFor tribal members, revisiting Table Rocks isn’t always easy. There is trauma there, buried in the ground, filling the recesses of the hard, volcanic rock.At the start of the 19th century, the region was home to the Takelma, Shastan and Athabaskan peoples who had lived in the area for untold generations. But it was also becoming home to a growing number of non-Indigenous settlers. The first to arrive, French fur trappers called the Indigenous people in the region “rogues,” a derogatory nickname that was often used as a justification for violence, according to historian Gray Whaley in “Oregon and the Collapse of Illahee.”When gold miners showed up in 1849, they treated the “rogues” as a threat, and waged an open campaign of extermination, according to historical documents. That first year, a militia killed 60 Indigenous people after allegedly finding an Indigenous man “secreted” in a white woman’s home, according to Whaley. Tribal historians say their ancestors suffered violence both casual and organized, by both local militias and the U.S. Army.“Pretty much the whole philosophy was to exterminate the Indians,” Archuleta said. “It was something that was pretty extreme during that time.”In 1853, many of the Rogue River peoples gathered at Table Rocks to sign a treaty with the U.S. government in which they agreed to cede the lands in exchange for a permanent reservation, where they might be safe. Violence from militias continued during the treaty negotiations, an attempt to derail the process, tribal historians said. After signing the treaty, the people were removed to a temporary reservation at Table Rocks, where hardships continued.Being forced to remain in one location kept the Rogue River peoples from their traditionally mobile practices of gathering, hunting and creating seasonal homes, resulting in starvation in addition to disease and continued attacks, according to historians. Those who left the reservation were often hunted down and killed by local militias.The situation came to a head in 1855, when the deaths of two packers were blamed on Indigenous men. A white militia seeking to avenge the deaths left under the cover of darkness to the Table Rock Reservation, where they killed about 25 people sleeping by the banks of the river, according to historical accounts. As they left, the militiamen killed another 50 to 80 Indigenous people in the area, most of whom were women and children.The violence was particularly brutal. One witness recalled seeing two elderly women who were bashed to death with clubs and a child who was “taken by the heels and its brains dashed out against a tree.” According to Whaley, one attacker later said that while the extermination made him feel bad, “the understanding was that [the Indians] were all to be killed. So we did that work.”In response to the attacks, a group of Indigenous leaders retaliated with raids on homesteads and settlements. In less than a year, roughly 250 Indigenous people were killed, along with some 50 non-Indigenous soldiers and 44 civilians, according to historical records.Table Rocks are a pair of volcanic mesas above the Rogue River in southwest Oregon.Jamie Hale/The OregonianTravis Stewart, director of the Chachalu Museum and Cultural Center in Grand Ronde, stands outside a plankhouse named achaf-hammi.Jamie Hale/The OregonianA winter landscape at Fern Ridge Lake, a reservoir on the Long Tom River outside Eugene that is on the historic pathway of the Rogue River Trail of Tears.Jamie Hale/The OregonianTribal members have been holding those horrific memories for generations.“We have these historical legal traumas as well as physical and emotional and spiritual traumas,” which metastasized into issues like substance abuse and domestic violence, Kentta said. “We often hear about elders who don’t want to be hugged.”Kentta’s great-grandfather was 7 or 8 years old when his people were removed from their homelands. After the boy’s father was killed, his mother left him with his paternal grandparents while she left to find her family. She never returned. The boy left southwest Oregon as an orphan.In February 1856, amid the fighting, U.S. soldiers led by Bureau of Indian Affairs agent George Ambrose moved 325 people by foot from the Table Rocks Reservation to a place that would become the Grand Ronde Reservation, 263 miles away. The 33-day journey went over mountains and along rivers, north through the Willamette Valley, roughly following the future Interstate 5 corridor, and up into the Coast Range.Aside from the rugged environment, winter weather and generally poor conditions, the captive travelers also faced the constant threat of violence from militiamen stalking the group. Ambrose, who apprehended one man, eventually dissuaded militias from murdering members of the group, though casualties still mounted. According to Ambrose’s journal, the journey saw eight deaths among the captives – as well as eight births.The Rogue River people who chose to stay and fight against removal held out until that summer, eventually surrendering after brutal losses. The surviving holdouts were taken to both the Grand Ronde and Siletz/Coast reservations, according to tribal historians.Despite generations of oppression and the attempted genocide of a people, leaders in the Grand Ronde and Siletz tribes said they prefer a frame of resilience.“There’s pride in the resilience of our ancestors,” Kentta said. “And some of it’s probably a stroke of luck that they didn’t get swept away.”A view of Spirit Mountain from Fort Yamhill State Heritage Area in Grand Ronde. Jamie Hale/The OregonianChris Mercier, vice chair of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde tribal council, stands in the Uyxat Powwow Grounds at the Grand Ronde Community. Jamie Hale/The OregonianHOMECOMINGIn the Grand Ronde Community, just a mile down the road from the tribe’s Spirit Mountain Casino, is a quiet place: the Uyxat Powwow Grounds, home to an outdoor arena lined with turf and a large ceremonial plankhouse named achaf-hammi.Outside the plankhouse is a tall gray pole carved from a single western redcedar tree, marking this place as the end of the Rogue River Trail of Tears.Travis Stewart, director of the tribe’s Chachalu Museum and Cultural Center, created the pole with a carving group for the plankhouse’s dedication in 2010. Standing at the base of the roughly 26-foot pole, he pointed out the headman at the top and coyote running down either side. The length of the pole is decorated with five tiers of faces representing five treaties signed by the tribe, he said, each face crying a stream of tears.Those tears are not just from grief, Stewart explained, “they’re bringing their generational knowledge to this place and it’s coming out into the ground here.”Traditional practices like carving and basket weaving, as well as harvesting plants for food and medicine, are now representations of the resiliency of Indigenous people throughout generations of hardship, Stewart said. The pole, the plankhouse, and events like Acorn Camp and Camas Camp are proof that this generational knowledge still exists.“There was a lot of effort and sacrifice on behalf of those old people that made tough decisions ultimately in order to preserve that (knowledge),” Stewart said. “It’s a responsibility of ours to continue that.”After the removal from southwest Oregon, the Grand Ronde and Siletz reservations became home to more Indigenous survivors, people from neighboring lands who spoke different languages, ate different food and practiced their own customs. At first, most people kept to their own (going so far as to organize themselves geographically), according to tribal historians, but as the U.S. Government shrank the reservations – Siletz from 1.1 million acres to nearly 17,000 today, Grand Ronde from 61,000 acres to 11,500 today – the people came together, creating new tribal communities.“We’ve made our footprint here,” said Chris Mercier, vice chair of the Grand Ronde tribal council. “It wasn’t under the best circumstances that the tribal people were ushered up here, but I like the fact that we’ve established this community, one that’s been existing for over 150 years now.”Of the 5,700 enrolled members of the Grand Ronde tribe, only about 1,200 today live in or around Grand Ronde, Mercier said. But those who do enjoy a tight-knit community, where the past, present and future of the tribe seem to collide at every turn.The Rogue River runs through Valley of the Rogue State Park near Grants Pass in southern Oregon. Jamie Hale/The OregonianBuddy Lane, cultural resources manager for the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, stands on the banks of the Siletz River down the road from the tribe’s headquarters.Jamie Hale/The OregonianThe Siletz River flows through the Coast Range near the Siletz Reservation. Jamie Hale/The OregonianFor several generations after removal, people didn’t want to directly confront the traumas of the past, tribal leaders said. That was in large part due to ongoing struggles, including being forced to send their children to boarding schools, which were rampant with abuse, and the 1954 termination of western Oregon tribes, during which the government severed all federal support.Only in the past few decades have the tribes directly faced the past, they said, seeking healing through conversation, support and returning to places of tragedy.In the mid 1990s, the Siletz tribe started Run to the Rogue, in which tribal members run and walk their way down the coastline, then up the Rogue River to a place called Oak Flat, about 50 miles from Table Rocks, where in 1856 several bands of the tribe’s ancestors surrendered to the U.S. Army.Buddy Lane, cultural resources manager for the tribe, has been organizing the event since 2012. He said runners of all abilities participate to different degrees. The tribe’s youngest members take the first mile in Siletz, and the elders take the final mile to Oak Flat. The strongest runners take the hardest miles along U.S. 101 at Cape Perpetua, a stretch Lane has done before.“The trek is a lot easier than it was for our ancestors,” Lane said.Many tribal members follow runners along the route, supporting their effort and finding ways to reconnect with their roots, he said. Some pay visits to the lands where their families once lived, or gather in parks, staying up late into the night as runners come and go.“It’s an emotionally charged event,” Lane said. “We’re not celebrating something, but we’re remembering things and making sure those folks with stories are not forgotten.”The relay, along with the Acorn Camp and Camas Camp, represents a new generation of tribal members who are actively connecting with their past through new experiences in the present, they said. The fact that these homecoming events all include a return trip back home – to Siletz, Grand Ronde and other places – underlines a complex question: What is “home” to a displaced people?For Kentta, who has lived his whole life in Siletz and whose ancestors are from the Applegate Valley as well as Finland, southwest Oregon is like a home away from home.“Whenever I’m in the Rogue Valley it’s kind of an emotional feeling of like a connection, even though I didn’t grow up there,” he said. “It’s an ancestral home rather than my current home.”Archuleta grew up primarily in east Portland and traces his ancestry to the Willamette Tumwater, Clackamas Chinook, Cascades Chinook, Santiam Kalapooia, Shasta and Rogue River peoples. He has family ties to the Warm Springs, Yakama, Siletz and Klamath tribes. “Pretty much all of western Oregon” is home, he said.“It’s really each person, each family’s perspective of how they see it,” he said.While many other places may be home, for these sister tribes, there’s still something special about the land in southwest Oregon. Table Rocks has always been an important place, a site of harvest and ritual, as well as the setting of creation stories, tribal historians said. Today, for non-Indigenous people, Lower Table Rock and Upper Table Rock are primarily places for recreation and conservation, managed by the Bureau of Land Management and environmental nonprofit The Nature Conservancy.The area is home to more than 340 species of plants and 70 animals, including the tiny dwarf-wooly meadowfoam wildflower, which grows nowhere else in the world, as well as a threatened species of fairy shrimp, which hatches in vernal pools that form in the rocky soil every winter.For the descendants of the Takelma, Shastan and Athabaskan people, it is also once again becoming a place to build community, while communing with a landscape that holds a rich and complicated history.“Some of these activities that we’re doing is to bring back healing, bring back families together, and to connect to the landscape, and to continue that stewardship and responsibility to the land,” Archuleta said. “Just being able to fish in a place where your ancestor fished or gathered … it’s restoring what’s always been there, and what’s always been in our hearts and minds.”--Jamie Hale covers travel and the outdoors and co-hosts the Peak Northwest podcast. Reach him at 503-294-4077, jhale@oregonian.com or @HaleJamesB.Our journalism needs your support. Subscribe today to OregonLive.com.

The forced removal of Indigenous people from the Rogue River Valley still resonates in Oregon.

Forged by an explosive volcanic eruption in southwest Oregon, Table Rocks took their shape over millions of years, carved by the steady waters of the Rogue River, which now flows more than 800 feet below the rim.

Every autumn, as temperatures drop and rainclouds return, acorns fall from oak trees that surround the pair of flat-topped mesas. The return of the acorns precedes the return of Native peoples, who gather the bitter nuts, grind them up and turn them into a nutritious mush – a practice that goes back millennia.

In recent years, the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde and the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians have created opportunities for members to reforge connections to the lands their ancestors knew intimately. Their removal from this place in 1856, an event some historians call the Rogue River Trail of Tears, has become a road map that many tribal members are retracing into the future.

In the fall, the two tribes come together to gather acorns at an event called Acorn Camp in southwest Oregon. This June, they will host their first joint Camas Camp, where they will harvest camas lilies and other spring plants. And, just after Memorial Day Weekend, the Siletz tribe will host its annual Run to the Rogue marathon, a 216-mile relay down the coastline and up the Rogue River.

Greg Archuleta, cultural policy analyst with the Grand Ronde tribe, said the current focus is on refamiliarizing tribal members with the places of their ancestors, as well as passing down practices that have survived for generations.

“Our primary focus right now is really to get tribal members out on the landscape,” Archuleta said. “It’s all about presence.”

That presence has also created a new sense of home for many Indigenous families who have spent generations living elsewhere – on reservations far away, in bigger cities or out of the region altogether.

“It’s kind of like meeting a relative that you’ve heard about for a long time but never had a chance to meet,” Robert Kentta, tribal council member for the Siletz tribe, said of returning to southwest Oregon. “That connection is still there.”

Upper Table Rock

A popular hiking trail leads up to and around Upper Table Rock, a volcanic plateau near Medford in southern Oregon.Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Rogue River Trail of Tears

Robert Kentta, tribal council member for the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, stands on former reservation land that once belonged to his great-grandfather, who was removed from southwest Oregon in 1856. Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

TRAUMA AT TABLE ROCKS

For tribal members, revisiting Table Rocks isn’t always easy. There is trauma there, buried in the ground, filling the recesses of the hard, volcanic rock.

At the start of the 19th century, the region was home to the Takelma, Shastan and Athabaskan peoples who had lived in the area for untold generations. But it was also becoming home to a growing number of non-Indigenous settlers. The first to arrive, French fur trappers called the Indigenous people in the region “rogues,” a derogatory nickname that was often used as a justification for violence, according to historian Gray Whaley in “Oregon and the Collapse of Illahee.”

When gold miners showed up in 1849, they treated the “rogues” as a threat, and waged an open campaign of extermination, according to historical documents. That first year, a militia killed 60 Indigenous people after allegedly finding an Indigenous man “secreted” in a white woman’s home, according to Whaley. Tribal historians say their ancestors suffered violence both casual and organized, by both local militias and the U.S. Army.

“Pretty much the whole philosophy was to exterminate the Indians,” Archuleta said. “It was something that was pretty extreme during that time.”

In 1853, many of the Rogue River peoples gathered at Table Rocks to sign a treaty with the U.S. government in which they agreed to cede the lands in exchange for a permanent reservation, where they might be safe. Violence from militias continued during the treaty negotiations, an attempt to derail the process, tribal historians said. After signing the treaty, the people were removed to a temporary reservation at Table Rocks, where hardships continued.

Being forced to remain in one location kept the Rogue River peoples from their traditionally mobile practices of gathering, hunting and creating seasonal homes, resulting in starvation in addition to disease and continued attacks, according to historians. Those who left the reservation were often hunted down and killed by local militias.

The situation came to a head in 1855, when the deaths of two packers were blamed on Indigenous men. A white militia seeking to avenge the deaths left under the cover of darkness to the Table Rock Reservation, where they killed about 25 people sleeping by the banks of the river, according to historical accounts. As they left, the militiamen killed another 50 to 80 Indigenous people in the area, most of whom were women and children.

The violence was particularly brutal. One witness recalled seeing two elderly women who were bashed to death with clubs and a child who was “taken by the heels and its brains dashed out against a tree.” According to Whaley, one attacker later said that while the extermination made him feel bad, “the understanding was that [the Indians] were all to be killed. So we did that work.”

In response to the attacks, a group of Indigenous leaders retaliated with raids on homesteads and settlements. In less than a year, roughly 250 Indigenous people were killed, along with some 50 non-Indigenous soldiers and 44 civilians, according to historical records.

Upper Table Rock

Table Rocks are a pair of volcanic mesas above the Rogue River in southwest Oregon.Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Rogue River Trail of Tears

Travis Stewart, director of the Chachalu Museum and Cultural Center in Grand Ronde, stands outside a plankhouse named achaf-hammi.Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Rogue River Trail of Tears

A winter landscape at Fern Ridge Lake, a reservoir on the Long Tom River outside Eugene that is on the historic pathway of the Rogue River Trail of Tears.Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Tribal members have been holding those horrific memories for generations.

“We have these historical legal traumas as well as physical and emotional and spiritual traumas,” which metastasized into issues like substance abuse and domestic violence, Kentta said. “We often hear about elders who don’t want to be hugged.”

Kentta’s great-grandfather was 7 or 8 years old when his people were removed from their homelands. After the boy’s father was killed, his mother left him with his paternal grandparents while she left to find her family. She never returned. The boy left southwest Oregon as an orphan.

In February 1856, amid the fighting, U.S. soldiers led by Bureau of Indian Affairs agent George Ambrose moved 325 people by foot from the Table Rocks Reservation to a place that would become the Grand Ronde Reservation, 263 miles away. The 33-day journey went over mountains and along rivers, north through the Willamette Valley, roughly following the future Interstate 5 corridor, and up into the Coast Range.

Aside from the rugged environment, winter weather and generally poor conditions, the captive travelers also faced the constant threat of violence from militiamen stalking the group. Ambrose, who apprehended one man, eventually dissuaded militias from murdering members of the group, though casualties still mounted. According to Ambrose’s journal, the journey saw eight deaths among the captives – as well as eight births.

The Rogue River people who chose to stay and fight against removal held out until that summer, eventually surrendering after brutal losses. The surviving holdouts were taken to both the Grand Ronde and Siletz/Coast reservations, according to tribal historians.

Despite generations of oppression and the attempted genocide of a people, leaders in the Grand Ronde and Siletz tribes said they prefer a frame of resilience.

“There’s pride in the resilience of our ancestors,” Kentta said. “And some of it’s probably a stroke of luck that they didn’t get swept away.”

Rogue River Trail of Tears

A view of Spirit Mountain from Fort Yamhill State Heritage Area in Grand Ronde. Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Rogue River Trail of Tears

Chris Mercier, vice chair of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde tribal council, stands in the Uyxat Powwow Grounds at the Grand Ronde Community. Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

HOMECOMING

In the Grand Ronde Community, just a mile down the road from the tribe’s Spirit Mountain Casino, is a quiet place: the Uyxat Powwow Grounds, home to an outdoor arena lined with turf and a large ceremonial plankhouse named achaf-hammi.

Outside the plankhouse is a tall gray pole carved from a single western redcedar tree, marking this place as the end of the Rogue River Trail of Tears.

Travis Stewart, director of the tribe’s Chachalu Museum and Cultural Center, created the pole with a carving group for the plankhouse’s dedication in 2010. Standing at the base of the roughly 26-foot pole, he pointed out the headman at the top and coyote running down either side. The length of the pole is decorated with five tiers of faces representing five treaties signed by the tribe, he said, each face crying a stream of tears.

Those tears are not just from grief, Stewart explained, “they’re bringing their generational knowledge to this place and it’s coming out into the ground here.”

Traditional practices like carving and basket weaving, as well as harvesting plants for food and medicine, are now representations of the resiliency of Indigenous people throughout generations of hardship, Stewart said. The pole, the plankhouse, and events like Acorn Camp and Camas Camp are proof that this generational knowledge still exists.

“There was a lot of effort and sacrifice on behalf of those old people that made tough decisions ultimately in order to preserve that (knowledge),” Stewart said. “It’s a responsibility of ours to continue that.”

After the removal from southwest Oregon, the Grand Ronde and Siletz reservations became home to more Indigenous survivors, people from neighboring lands who spoke different languages, ate different food and practiced their own customs. At first, most people kept to their own (going so far as to organize themselves geographically), according to tribal historians, but as the U.S. Government shrank the reservations – Siletz from 1.1 million acres to nearly 17,000 today, Grand Ronde from 61,000 acres to 11,500 today – the people came together, creating new tribal communities.

“We’ve made our footprint here,” said Chris Mercier, vice chair of the Grand Ronde tribal council. “It wasn’t under the best circumstances that the tribal people were ushered up here, but I like the fact that we’ve established this community, one that’s been existing for over 150 years now.”

Of the 5,700 enrolled members of the Grand Ronde tribe, only about 1,200 today live in or around Grand Ronde, Mercier said. But those who do enjoy a tight-knit community, where the past, present and future of the tribe seem to collide at every turn.

Valley of the Rogue

The Rogue River runs through Valley of the Rogue State Park near Grants Pass in southern Oregon. Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Rogue River Trail of Tears

Buddy Lane, cultural resources manager for the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, stands on the banks of the Siletz River down the road from the tribe’s headquarters.Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Rogue River Trail of Tears

The Siletz River flows through the Coast Range near the Siletz Reservation. Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

For several generations after removal, people didn’t want to directly confront the traumas of the past, tribal leaders said. That was in large part due to ongoing struggles, including being forced to send their children to boarding schools, which were rampant with abuse, and the 1954 termination of western Oregon tribes, during which the government severed all federal support.

Only in the past few decades have the tribes directly faced the past, they said, seeking healing through conversation, support and returning to places of tragedy.

In the mid 1990s, the Siletz tribe started Run to the Rogue, in which tribal members run and walk their way down the coastline, then up the Rogue River to a place called Oak Flat, about 50 miles from Table Rocks, where in 1856 several bands of the tribe’s ancestors surrendered to the U.S. Army.

Buddy Lane, cultural resources manager for the tribe, has been organizing the event since 2012. He said runners of all abilities participate to different degrees. The tribe’s youngest members take the first mile in Siletz, and the elders take the final mile to Oak Flat. The strongest runners take the hardest miles along U.S. 101 at Cape Perpetua, a stretch Lane has done before.

“The trek is a lot easier than it was for our ancestors,” Lane said.

Many tribal members follow runners along the route, supporting their effort and finding ways to reconnect with their roots, he said. Some pay visits to the lands where their families once lived, or gather in parks, staying up late into the night as runners come and go.

“It’s an emotionally charged event,” Lane said. “We’re not celebrating something, but we’re remembering things and making sure those folks with stories are not forgotten.”

The relay, along with the Acorn Camp and Camas Camp, represents a new generation of tribal members who are actively connecting with their past through new experiences in the present, they said. The fact that these homecoming events all include a return trip back home – to Siletz, Grand Ronde and other places – underlines a complex question: What is “home” to a displaced people?

For Kentta, who has lived his whole life in Siletz and whose ancestors are from the Applegate Valley as well as Finland, southwest Oregon is like a home away from home.

“Whenever I’m in the Rogue Valley it’s kind of an emotional feeling of like a connection, even though I didn’t grow up there,” he said. “It’s an ancestral home rather than my current home.”

Archuleta grew up primarily in east Portland and traces his ancestry to the Willamette Tumwater, Clackamas Chinook, Cascades Chinook, Santiam Kalapooia, Shasta and Rogue River peoples. He has family ties to the Warm Springs, Yakama, Siletz and Klamath tribes. “Pretty much all of western Oregon” is home, he said.

“It’s really each person, each family’s perspective of how they see it,” he said.

While many other places may be home, for these sister tribes, there’s still something special about the land in southwest Oregon. Table Rocks has always been an important place, a site of harvest and ritual, as well as the setting of creation stories, tribal historians said. Today, for non-Indigenous people, Lower Table Rock and Upper Table Rock are primarily places for recreation and conservation, managed by the Bureau of Land Management and environmental nonprofit The Nature Conservancy.

The area is home to more than 340 species of plants and 70 animals, including the tiny dwarf-wooly meadowfoam wildflower, which grows nowhere else in the world, as well as a threatened species of fairy shrimp, which hatches in vernal pools that form in the rocky soil every winter.

For the descendants of the Takelma, Shastan and Athabaskan people, it is also once again becoming a place to build community, while communing with a landscape that holds a rich and complicated history.

“Some of these activities that we’re doing is to bring back healing, bring back families together, and to connect to the landscape, and to continue that stewardship and responsibility to the land,” Archuleta said. “Just being able to fish in a place where your ancestor fished or gathered … it’s restoring what’s always been there, and what’s always been in our hearts and minds.”

--Jamie Hale covers travel and the outdoors and co-hosts the Peak Northwest podcast. Reach him at 503-294-4077, jhale@oregonian.com or @HaleJamesB.

Our journalism needs your support. Subscribe today to OregonLive.com.

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Loud, angry, and Indigenous: Heavy metal takes on colonialism and climate change

Indigenous bands have always been part of metal, creating a place for musicians and fans to channel anger and find community.

The crowd sways like starlings in murmuration as we wait for the show to start. The relaxed vibe belies the pandamonium about to be unleashed. Metal concerts are like that. To an outsider, they appear violent, and they can be, but to fans like me they are a place of solace.  I’ve been attending concerts since I was a teenager; the first was in a dusty parking lot and I never looked back. At the time, I gave no thought to what amplifiers cranked to 10 might do to my hearing, and it didn’t help that I liked being close to the action. Tonight, in Denver, I’ve got earplugs, sensible sneakers, and, because it has been acting up, a brace on my knee.  The lights dim and my pupils dilate. The band starts and my adrenaline spikes. The music is loud, but I don’t care. I push toward the stage, the sound becoming a roar, thrumming in my ears. A circle opens in front of me. I’ve reached the pit, where dozens of bodies swirl in a vortex, pushing and colliding with each other in a communal dance called moshing that is both an individual act of catharsis and a collective expression of emotion.   A baby metal concert I attended in 2023. Excitement pounds in my chest. It’s been another rough day, in a series of rough days. I’m Arapaho and Shoshone. And like all Indigenous peoples, our land is exploited, our sovereignty denied, our future imperiled. But it’s the accumulation of everyday microaggressions that make me angry. I not only live with this, I write about it, and I can’t help but get mad. I jump in. The ongoing brutality committed against Indigenous peoples — land grabs, genocide, continuing disregard for self-determination and sovereignty — bolster a culture of over-consumption and play an undeniable role in the climate crisis. Given that anger is a hallmark of heavy metal, it isn’t surprising that an Indigenous audience would find it appealing.   Although often associated with Satan, swords, and sorcery (and illegible logos), metal has always reflected on the environment and the state of the world. Indigenous bands have been part of the scene almost from its start more than five decades ago, but the past few years have seen a growing number of Native musicians writing about a wide range of subjects, from rurality to discrimination to the universal experience of having a good time despite all of that. Metal is famously opaque, with around 70 subgenres, but it is almost universally accepted that everything started with Black Sabbath in 1968. Even as that British quartet was laying the foundation, XIT, pronounced “exit,” was singing about the Indigenous experience on its 1972 album Plight of the Redman. XIT, once deemed the “first commercially successful all-Indian rock band,” sang frankly and expressively about colonization, poverty, and the loss of Indigenous traditions. Its politics and performances at American Indian Movement rallies prompted FBI attempts to suppress its music, but that didn’t keep XIT from touring Europe three times and appearing with bands like ZZ Top. Although their best music is delightfully of the ‘70s, it remains radical stuff. Winterhawk, led by Cree vocalist and guitarist Nik Alexander, explored similar themes in 1979 on Electric Warriors, an anti-colonial, pro-environmental message that could have been written today. “Man has his machines in mother earth, murdering the balance weaved destruction in our doom,” Alexander sang on “Selfish Man.” The song interrogates whether nuclear energy is worth destroying the land: “They say nuclear power is alright, like light to make the night bright. But it doesn’t mean you can have my birthright, does it, selfish man?” (Then, as now, Indigenous peoples were at the forefront of opposition to nuclear power.) The band was popular enough to perform with the likes of Van Halen and Motley Crue and earned a slot at the US Festival in 1983, but broke up a year later. As the 1970s gave way to the 80s, metal began splintering as bands like Metallica and Brazil’s Sepultura took it beyond the blues-based sound hard rock and metal were based upon. Testament, founded in 1983 and led by Chuck Billy, a member of the Hopland Band of Pomo Indians, sang about climate change on the 1989 album Practice What You Preach. In the song “Greenhouse Effect,” he refers to rainforests burning and “the world we know is dying slow” before singing “seal the planet’s fate, crimes they perpetrate, wasting precious land. It’s time to take a stand” in the rollicking chorus. Still, Billy doesn’t think many took the message to heart. “Twenty-five years later, everybody in the world realizes that, ‘Hey! Our climate has changed,’” he told Radio Metal. While Testament spoke to the issue broadly, Resistant Culture, an inter-tribal band that started in the late 1980s (when it was called Resistant Militia), speaks to its specific impacts on Indigenous people. Its music combines punk and metal with traditional Indigenous singing and the band, which is unapologetically political (one verse in “It’s Not Too Late,” released in 2005, includes the line “your heroes are my enemies, your philosophy wants us dead”), discourages overconsumption while promoting equitable sustainability, self-sufficiency, and self-determination. “The more independent of the system we can be, the less power it will have over our lives and communities and the more resilient we’ll be as we approach an uncertain future,” the band, which speaks as a collective in interviews, told the music blog Blow the Scene.  Read Next Hip hop has been a climate voice for 50 years. Why haven’t more people noticed? Zack O’Malley Greenburg Nirvana’s 1991 album Nevermind pushed grunge into the cultural mainstream. But metal did not die, it evolved. The two decades that followed saw it atomize into dozens of subgenres with different vocal styles, tempos, sonic textures, and lyrical themes. Indigenous bands were in lockstep with this global explosion, with bands like Mi’Gauss exploring their heritage on Algonquin War Metal, and Brazil’s Corubo addressing anti-colonialism and environmentalism in songs often sung in the Guarani language. Although Sepultura is not an Indigenous band, it worked with the Xavante Indigenous community on the album Roots, an exploration of Brazil’s history with colonization. Biipiigwan explicitly critiques the impact of Canada’s governmental policies on tribal communities. Metal has, in recent years, grown more explicitly concerned with climate and the environment, with pagan- and folk-infused bands bringing an element of spirituality and pre-colonial romanticization. Pre-colonial Scandinavian bands like Warundra explore traditional Pagan worship that was the norm before Christianity. This connection with nature is more than vague gestures to a pan-Pagan past, according to Kathryn Rountree, an anthropologist at Massey University who wrote a paper on the topic. For Indigenous peoples, it is “connected to this-worldly social and political concerns.” I’m in the pit when I fall and bang my head on the floor. Strangers immediately help me back to my feet, but someone with a strong shoulder and a rogue elbow sends me down once again. Ouch. I throw myself deeper into the fray, shoving my shoulder into someone twice my size. They shove back, but I hold my footing. To civilians, the pit looks chaotic. But it has a current, ebbing and flowing with the music and the emotions of the audience. I move against the crowd because it’s more fun that way. My cheek is sore from yet another fall earlier in the night. Few thoughts go through my head. I just want to move; feel something. The pit is one of the few places where being aggressive doesn’t make me seem like an angry Indian. I am angry, but metal concerts are about more than aggression. They’re about being able to express yourself, release frustration, and feel something akin to power. As an Arapaho and Shoshone from the Wind River Reservation, it’s nice to feel like I have some of that. Courtesy of Taylar Stagner There’s an argument to be made that metal is the most expansive and inclusive genre of music, with bands from scores of nations and backgrounds. Alien Weaponry infuses its music with Te Reo Māori, the Indigenous language of Aotearoa New Zealand, and explores Māori culture, history, and socio-political themes. The Hu incorporates traditional Mongolian instruments and throat singing in a style of music they call Hunnu rock inspired by ancient tribes.  Women are an increasing presence in Indigenous metal. Blitz is a one-woman band started by a musician who goes by the name Evil Eye. In addition to incorporating tribal music, she draws influence from bluegrass and classical. Singer-songwriter Sage Bond combines acoustic guitar with metal in compositions that often draw from Navajo creation stories and her own experiences to comment on justice, resilience, and unity in the face of systemic racism. Takiaya Reed and Sylvie Nehill of the Australian band Divide and Dissolve write slow, almost trudging, highly experimental and occasionally dissonant instrumental music. Their music has been called “an organic release of anger” and “an excavation of buried horrors.” Indigenous bands come from all parts of the United States, but Navajo Nation has a particularly vibrant community, with bands like Signal 99, Mutilated Tyrant, and Morbithory — the unholy trinity of Diné metal. Filmmaker and professor Ashkan Soltani Stone spent five years there, an experience he recounts in the book Rez Metal: Inside the Navajo Nation Heavy Metal Scene. He found a tight-knit community of musicians who focus on environmental issues and the experience of living in Indian Country, but also refuse to be pigeonholed. “Everybody expects them to be political and deal with very serious topics,” he said. “But in my opinion, they are just badass musicians.” Not a lot happens in rural communities, and for many Indigenous youth, metal provides an antidote to boredom. Much of the live music is country, and getting to a concert often requires a long drive. Stone said many bands simply want to create a lively local scene, have some fun, and travel. “They are just like everyone else,” he said. “They are stuck on a reservation where there are not many opportunities. But the music is there.” Landyn and Ayden Liston are the first to say they started Dogs Throw Spears simply to be part of Navajo Nation’s metal scene and get into shows for free. Though Landyn said “we are the last to say what genre we are,” they jokingly call themselves “Native raw dog metal” and play a style of music called death metal — a subgenre characterized by heavily distorted guitars, growled vocals, and complex rhythms. In the short time they’ve been performing, they’ve seen the number of people attending concerts, and starting bands, balloon. “These past two years bands have been coming out of nowhere,” Landyn said.  Although the band’s raw, aggressive songs explore Indigenous identity and their community grapples with weighty issues — Landyn specifically mentioned the high rate of suicide — Dogs Throw Spears has a lot to say beyond the bad in lyrics that sometimes veer toward cryptic. The song “Veggie Tales,” for example, tells listeners, “Fresh air, safe sex, rest well, beware. Breath in, breath out, fatigue, aware.” “Don’t just read off the surface,” Landyn said of the band’s songs. Thriving scenes and engaging bands can be found almost everywhere. Pan-Amerikan Native Front from Chicago highlights Native battles against colonizing forces and, in its own words, “the fierce resistance indigenous peoples of the ‘Americas’ have endured throughout centuries of colonial and post-colonial occupation.” The Salt Lake City band Yaotl Mictlan blends black metal — a style marked by shrieked vocals, fast guitars, and low-fidelity sonics — with Mesoamerican instruments and languages in a style it calls “pre-Hispanic metal.” Its early work focused on the Zapatista movement in Mexico. Tzompantli, (which means “skull rack” in the Indigenous language Nahuatl) is from Pomona, California, and celebrated Aztec, Mexica, and Chichimeca history on its crushing anti-colonial album Beating the Drums of Ancestral Force. Blackbraid, the one-man black metal band led by an artist who identifies himself as “south Native,” often reflects on his relationship to the natural world and ongoing resistance to genocide and oppression. Many of these bands are singing about all the same things XIT and Winterhawk sang about in the 1970s, including Indigenous persecution, environmental degradation, and the historical and present state of colonialism. Little has changed in 50 years, and in some cases things have grown worse. Ultimately, that may be what unites Indigenous metal bands and fans the world over. Despite coming from many tribes, communities, and countries, the destructive force of colonialism, and the degradation of the environment, is something we all share.  Documentaries, books, and articles are incredibly taken with Indigenous peoples and metal, and on some level those beyond Indigenous communities can understand how difficult it is to be Indigenous right now. Native people around the world are fighting a seemingly never-ending battle with colonialism. That battle is physical; land and water defenders protecting their communities from energy projects are regularly abused, beaten, and killed. It is verbal; at the world’s highest offices, Indigenous self-determination remains a footnote rather than a driving force to address climate change. And it is emotional; historic and ongoing trauma leaves Indigenous communities grappling with continuing colonial oppression, and that leaves Indigenous people grappling with things like a lack of infrastructure, underfunded healthcare, and a gap in education resources. Instead of giving into despair, metal provides a productive way to engage with the state of the world. The themes that these musicians explore are universal to the Indigenous experience. That is an awful truth, but also beautiful in its solidarity. Grist By the end of the night, I’m coming down off the excitement and a little sore. The pit will do that. As I get older, I know I can’t keep doing this. The exhilaration that comes with attending a concert, of being part of the crowd, takes a toll. I’ve got bruises alongside the alien tattooed on my arm, giving him a black eye. He looks worse than I do.  A sea of metal fans files out of the venue into the winter night air. I bump into someone and we start talking. I’ve always found it hard to make small talk, but we chat about the show, what bands we like, and how cold it is.  “You Native?” they ask. Taken aback, I say yes, face flushing. “Hell yeah.” They fist bump me, and disappear into the snow. I never know how to respond to something like that, but it leaves me smiling. That small connection makes the night seem a little brighter, friendlier.   The air is dry and cold but refreshing as I start the long trip home. This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Loud, angry, and Indigenous: Heavy metal takes on colonialism and climate change on Dec 23, 2024.

Indigenous
Climate
Crisis

Amazon Indigenous Community Wins Latest Stage of Court Battle for Lost Territory

An Indigenous community in Peru has won the latest stage of a legal battle to reclaim lost rainforests

The Puerto Franco community of the Kichwa tribe say their territory was stolen to form the Cordillera Azul National Park in 2001. Companies such as Shell and TotalEnergies spent tens of millions of dollars on carbon credits in the park to counter emissions from their fossil fuel operations. The Kichwas got next to nothing and were left in hunger, despite a 2022 Associated Press investigation finding that it was almost certainly their ancestral territory, by the terms of a convention Peru signed decades ago.The community celebrated a dramatic legal victory last year, when provincial Judge Simona del Socorro Torres Sánchez ruled that creating the park without their consent had violated their rights. Authorities were ordered to grant them legal ownership and proceeds from the carbon credit sales.But that was quickly overturned by an appeals court in a move that some legal experts called questionable.Judge Sánchez has now ruled once again in the Kichwas’ favor, however, making a new order that the Kichwas should get their land back and benefit from the carbon credit sales. She found the Kichwas were Indigenous, and their territorial rights counted for more than the amount of time that’s passed.The Peruvian government and a nonprofit which runs the park, CIMA, have argued that too much time has passed for the Kichwas to make a claim, and that they are not truly Indigenous people. Peruvian authorities have also argued in legal filings that the community didn’t object to the park’s creation in 2001.Kichwa leader Inocente Sangama said he was “outraged” at the claim they were not Indigenous people. “Who said an Indigenous person cannot wear clothes?”“The justice system has proved us right,” he said. “We feel pride and happiness.”The AP emailed the Peruvian government but did not immediately receive a reply. Jorge Aliaga Arauco, a director at CIMA, said by email that they would appeal the decision and were on solid evidential ground. The nonprofit says proceeds from the carbon credit project help protect the ancient rainforest, one of Peru’s most pristine and biodiverse environments.The case may be moving towards a conclusion.Juan Carlos Díaz, a constitutional lawyer at Pontifical Catholic University of Peru, told the AP that the ruling could be appealed before a superior court. If the Kichwas win there, the decision would be final, he said. Should the Kichwas lose, they would have one last right of appeal, to a Constitutional Court in Lima, but the government doesn't have that last recourse.The Associated Press’ climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from multiple private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP’s standards for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and funded coverage areas at AP.org.Copyright 2024 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See - Sept. 2024

Indigenous
Forests
Government

This Indigenous attorney is fighting for climate justice in the world’s highest court

Growing up on Guam, Julian Aguon saw the law used against Indigenous peoples. Now he's fighting back.

Julian Aguon wore a dark blue suit and garland made of white coconut fronds, brown hibiscus tree bark, and brown cowry shells. Under the arched ceilings and chandeliers of the Peace Palace in The Hague, he stepped to the podium to make his case to the International Court of Justice.  “The right to self-determination is a cornerstone of the international legal order,” Aguon told the 15 judges who make up the court. “Yet climate change, and the conduct responsible for it, has already infringed the right to self-determination for the many peoples of Melanesia.”  The International Court of Justice, or ICJ, normally hears disputes over lands and waters between countries, but sometimes it takes on cases of broader global resonance. This was one of them: Aguon was arguing on behalf of Pacific island nations thousands of miles away that hope to hold accountable the countries most responsible for climate change. The 42-year-old attorney from Guam spent five years working toward this moment, along with his co-counsel, Margaretha Wewerinke-Singh. Now, he sought to underscore what was at stake.  “The peoples of Melanesia live exceptionally close to the Earth, and thus feel the vandalism visited upon it acutely,” he said. “Moreover, theirs represents living, breathing alternative imaginations — imaginations other than the one that has brought this planet to the brink of ecological collapse. Thus, ensuring they are able to live and thrive in their ancestral spaces is of the utmost importance, and not only for themselves, but for all of humanity.” A group of climate activists waves flags from Pacific island nations in front of the International Court of Justice on December 2 as as lawyer Julian Aguon argues a major climate case. Lina Selg / ANP / AFP) / Netherlands OUT via Getty Images Aguon grew up on Guam, the son of a plumber and a social worker. His childhood consisted of playing in jungles with his cousins, where elders warned them to avoid anything metal in case it was leftover ordnance from World War II; family gatherings to pray the rosary in the Chamorro language; and absorbing a cultural devotion to serving one’s community. His dad worked short stints for various employers, including at a naval ship repair facility, and died of pancreatic cancer when Aguon was 9. Aguon has wondered if his death was related to U.S. military pollution. At the time, his father’s death led his family to disintegrate, and Aguon buried himself in books like The House on Mango Street, the story of a Chicana girl growing up in Chicago — a coping mechanism that deepened his empathy and drive for justice. A quote from James Baldwin resonates with Aguon today: “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.” “Grief so often has an isolating effect that it need not have,” Aguon told Grist. “I feel like my grief has been a bridge that I’ve walked across to get to other people.” Julian Aguon as a small child in the 1980s, with his sister and grandma outside of their Tamuning house on Guam. In the 1990s, when Aguon was a kid, a massive typhoon hit Guam. The windows and sliding glass door in his home shattered, and Aguon, his brother, sister, and mother propped a mattress up in their living room and hid behind it. Aguon remembers tracing the mattress’ embroidered flowers with his finger as the family waited for the winds to pass. Years later, he would read a report from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change that predicted the coming of even stronger cyclones. “At that moment I was like, ‘Wow, we’ve already been through so much,’” he said. How much more extreme would the storms get? How much more would his community have to endure? “I had a really shocking sense of the scale.” The case before the ICJ, led by Aguon’s law firm, Blue Ocean Law, hopes to establish legal consequences for nations that have driven climate change, and illuminate what obligations those countries owe to people harmed.  The court is being asked to provide an advisory opinion to clarify the legal obligations of countries under existing international law. Aguon describes it as a request for an objective yardstick by which to measure those countries’ actions, which could open the door to a new era of climate reparations. Ten-year-old Julian Aguon speaks on the one-year anniversary of his father’s death. After Aguon and Wewerinke-Singh exited the courtroom last week, they joined a press conference before the palaceʻs marble staircase near its front entrance. Ralph Regenvanu, Vanuatu’s top climate official, told reporters that the island nation deliberately chose Blue Ocean Law to represent them at the ICJ because the Indigenous-led firm would not only represent them legally, but culturally.  “This is a case about our identity as Pacific Islanders, our human rights as citizens of this planet, and the responsibilities that states have to ensure our human rights and our cultural identity and our essence and our future is protected,” Regenvanu said.  If the ICJ delivers the advisory opinion Vanuatu is seeking, Aguon hopes Indigenous peoples will be able to leverage that opinion in climate-related lawsuits against their governments and file human rights complaints against both countries and corporations. Given the climate impactsIndigenous peoples are already experiencing, the stakes couldn’t be higher. In the summer of 2010, then-28-year-old Aguon was just a year out of law school and was looking for a job after finishing up a clerkship with Guam’s Supreme Court. He wanted to work in international and human rights law, but no firms specialized in that on Guam, the largest island in the Pacific region of Micronesia that’s home to about 160,000 people. Well-established lawyers on the island discouraged him from trying to start a new firm from scratch: Why not work for a few years, get some more experience, they suggested.  “They were right, in some ways,” Aguon said. “I did lack experience, but I didn’t necessarily need the experience that they had, because I wanted to do something different.”  What he envisioned was a law firm that could advocate on behalf of Indigenous peoples in the Pacific: communities like the Marshallese, which are still fighting for justice after decades of U.S. nuclear testing; like the people of Tuvalu, where rising seas are threatening to eliminate entire islands; and the Chamorros, like Aguon, where an ever-expanding American military presence increasingly stresses the island’s lands and waters. Read Next Inside the Marshall Islands’ life-or-death plan to survive climate change Jake Bittle To accomplish that, Aguon would need to be licensed to practice law in multiple countries. He spent months studying for and passing bar exams not only on Guam, but also in the Marshall Islands and Palau. He opened a solo law practice in 2010 in a tiny office in the village of Hagåtña, Guam’s capital. At first he worked locally, providing legal counsel to Guam’s Legislature and defending the island government’s plans for an Indigenous-only vote on the island’s political status. As his workload grew and his clientele expanded, he opened up Blue Ocean Law in 2014, and began to hire staff attorneys who saw the law the way he did: as a tool for social change that is both severely limited and potentially emancipatory.  “We are a small team of activist lawyers, social change lawyers,” Aguon said. His colleagues include his ICJ co-lead Wewerinke-Singh, who has worked on climate litigation across multiple regions and U.N. courts; Alofipo So’o alo Fleur Ramsay, a Samoan attorney whose environmental justice work in Australia and in the Pacific has earned her chiefly orator titles from two villages in Samoa; and Watna Mori, a Melanesian lawyer from Papua New Guinea whose expertise in human rights and environmental law extends to advocacy for legal systems that value Indigenous knowledge systems. Blue Ocean Law now includes seven attorneys, whose work spans Melanesia, Micronesia, and Polynesia, the three major regions of the Pacific.  Over the next decade, Aguon argued for Guam’s right to self-determination before a U.S. federal appeals court in Honolulu, defending the island’s effort to limit a vote on Guam’s political status to Indigenous Chamorros. (Chamorro is also spelled CHamoru, but Aguon prefers the former). He lost, and Guam has yet to schedule a vote. Julian Aguon and his colleagues walk outside of the Peace Palace in The Hague after arguing the world’s biggest climate case. Michel Porro / Getty Images But Aguon is still proud of one aspect of the judges’ decision, which recognizes a legal distinction between racial and ancestry classifications. “From now on, for all Indigenous peoples living under U.S. rule, there is now a case that formally and comprehensively disentangles those two concepts, which means that Native peoples throughout the country can cite it to argue that some ancestral classifications are not the same as racial classifications,” he said. After losing in federal court, Aguon and his team took their advocacy on behalf of the people of Guam to the United Nations. The island is still formally recognized by the U.N. as a colony, and first became an American military outpost at the turn of the 20th century. For decades, the U.S. refused to grant Chamorros U.S. citizenship, and instead forced them to live under a carousel of capricious naval governors who banned everything from the Chamorro language to interracial marriage to whistling.  “Law is the vocabulary of the powerful in so many instances,” Aguon said. “The U.S. military was probably my greatest teacher in that regard.” Read Next The Air Force wants to blow up toxic military waste on a beach in Guam Julia Kane His firm has advised the Marshall Islands’ government on its legal options as it continues to contend with the legacy of U.S. nuclear tests. Aguon and his colleagues have also worked with organizations and legislatures in Pacific countries like Fiji to consult on the risks of deep-sea mining. Aguon’s team has filed complaints about human rights violations by the U.S. military against the Chamorro people with the United Nations, prompting three U.N. rapporteurs to issue a joint letter in 2021 criticizing the U.S. for denying the Chamorro people their right to self-determination.  Just last month, Blue Ocean Law filed a complaint with the U.N. Rapporteur on Indigenous Peoples on behalf of youth from Palau who say U.S. militarization in their islands is violating their rights, including their right to freely consent to what happens on their land.  “We’re consistently taking on the U.S. empire in all of these cases,” Aguon said. In 2006, the same year that Aguon went to law school, the U.S. military proposed a massive expansion of its presence on Guam, deciding to move its Marine Corps base to Guam from Okinawa after local opposition to the soldiers’ presence became impossible to ignore. (At the heart of the anti-military protests were concerns about American soldiers’ sexual violence against Okinawan women and girls, including the 1995 rape of a 12-year-old by two Marines and a Navy sailor.) Between the 8,000 service members, their 9,000 dependents, and the tens of thousands of construction workers and other staff needed to create more facilities for the new base, the military estimated there would be an influx of 80,000 people on Guam, increasing its population at the time by more than half. “It’s good for the strategic interests of America,” retired Marine Corps Major General David Bice told the Guam Chamber of Commerce in 2007. “It’s good for our friends in the Pacific, and it’s also good for Guam.”  The community balked. Aguon felt that the military used language to obfuscate rather than illuminate the reality of their impact on Guam. For example, “live-fire training” was a euphemism that could refer to anything from machine gun firing to large-scale bombing practice. “Environmental impact” encompassed the destruction of cultural sites dating back more than 1,000 years. “Readiness” referred to the military’s ability to respond to threats, but it wasn’t always clear whether the Indigenous people were among those the U.S. cared about protecting. “The law is about hyper-vigilance, hyper-attentiveness to how language is being used and deployed,” Aguon said. “Often it is being weaponized against people most in need of this protection.”  Julian Aguon argues before a panel of 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals judges in Honolulu on October 10, 2018. The question before the judges in Davis v. Guam: Should non-Native residents of Guam have a say in the territory’s future political relationship with the U.S.? Jennifer Sinco Kelleher / AP Photo Litigation and community protests forced the Department of Defense to shrink its military relocation to 5,000 troops, and change the location of its planned firing range. The new Marine Corps base opened last year, and a machine-gun practice range is being built adjacent to a federal wildlife refuge. Aguon sees the law as a single tool among many to push back against this entrenched militarism that he sees echoed around the world, from Honolulu to Gaza. To him, what will ultimately effect change is solidarity.  “We’re up against such huge, gigantic, colossal forces,” Aguon said. “I’m casting my net of hope in that direction, that the peoples of the world — from the ground up — can really find more effective ways to confront these forces that we’re up against.” In 2017, Aguon sat in Straub Hospital in Honolulu and held the hand of a longtime mentor, Marshallese leader Tony de Brum, who is known internationally for his global leadership in fighting climate change. De Brum had served as a father figure after Aguon’s dad passed and helped inspire his passion for climate justice. “Give them hell,” de Brum said, before he too died. Four years later, Aguon was named a Pulitzer finalist for a screed on climate change in the Pacific: “To Hell With Drowning.” When Vanuatu asked for his law firm’s help with its climate change case five years ago, Aguon hadn’t ever argued before the ICJ and wasn’t intimately familiar with the particularities of its proceedings.  The ICJ only accepts cases brought by U.N. member states, and because the U.S. never relinquished Guam, the island territory doesn’t have the right to file cases there. The same is true for countless Indigenous nations throughout the world whose borders are missing from most maps: The highest court in the United Nations doesn’t have a seat for them, and so their voices are rarely heard. That echoes other venues of the U.N., where Indigenous peoples are often left out of key negotiating rooms because their nations don’t have U.N. member state status and they lack representation within their colonial governments. A group of climate activists demonstrate in front of the International Court of Justice in The Hague, Netherlands, on December 2. Lina Selg / ANP / AFP / Netherlands OUT via Getty Images “The ICJ proceedings are more state- and international-organizations-focused, less people centered, where engagement by civil society is quite restricted, and Indigenous peoples do not have a direct pathway for engagement in the court,” said Joie Chowdhury, a senior attorney at the Center for International Environmental Law who has also assisted on the climate case. That’s in contrast to other U.N. legal venues like the Inter-American Court of Human Rights and the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea, she said. “So there is no easy pathway for Indigenous peoples’ engagement, and especially in this case, that would be important given their tremendous knowledge and expertise in climate change and biodiversity.”  Sometimes, nongovernmental organizations may intercede, as in this ICJ case where a dozen were approved to participate. In addition to representing Vanuatu, Aguonʻs team is also representing the Melanesian Spearhead Group, a nongovernmental organization that consists of Melanesian Pacific island states. The organization also includes the Kanak Socialist National Liberation Front, which represents the Indigenous Kanak people of New Caledonia who are fighting for independence from France. Bringing a case before the ICJ requires specific knowledge and meaningful funding, and often parties are represented by a cottage industry of attorneys who specialize in the ICJ and are familiar with its proceedings. This is only the second time that a Pacific state has sought an advisory opinion from the ICJ. The last time was in 1996, when the Marshall Islands asked the judges to weigh in on whether detonating or threatening to use nuclear weapons violated international law. The judges said that it may be legal in extreme cases of self-defense.  “Many of these countries that have never argued before the ICJ before are actually not just coming to argue their case, but leading from the front,’” said Chowdury from the Center for International Environmental Law. “It is showing and demonstrating to the world that this is an avenue of justice.” Representatives from Pacific island nations gather outside the International Court of Justice on December 2. More than 100 nations and organizations are seeking an advisory opinion from the top U.N. court on what countries are legally obligated to do to fight climate change and help affected nations mitigate its impact. Michel Porro / Getty Images Just getting on the court docket is a challenge and, in this case, required getting a resolution approved by the U.N. General Assembly. The case was originally launched in 2019 by law students at the University of the South Pacific, who took a ground-up approach to persuading U.N. General Assembly members in the Pacific and beyond to formally request an ICJ advisory opinion. As their campaign grew, Aguon found himself and his staff providing input at all hours of the day every time a word or comma changed in the draft that circulated among U.N. delegates. The case morphed into the largest-ever in ICJ’s history. Overall, 97 countries and 12 nongovernmental organizations are urging the court to weigh in on what major polluting countries owe to the peoples and nations who have been harmed by their relentless carbon emissions. Aguon spoke on the first day, but oral arguments were scheduled for the first full two weeks of December. It’s not clear when an opinion will be rendered. In the meantime, Aguon hopes that not only the court but the world will pay attention to the stories that the case is revealing about the cost of climate change to Pacific peoples. During the press conference near the entrance of the Peace Palace, he told the story of one of the villages he visited when collecting witness testimony for the case. “There is a village at the mouth of a river in the Gulf province of Papua New Guinea, that is on the move again. The people of Vairibari, whose ancestors have lived along the banks of the Kikori River Delta since time immemorial, have already moved four times due to sea level rise. This will be their fifth and final relocation. Final, because there is simply no more inland to go,” Aguon said.  “A planning committee has been formed to handle the logistics. Among other things, the villagers are debating about how best to relocate the remains of their deceased relatives, because storm surges have already begun washing away the dead. The people of Vairibari want nothing more than to stay. But climate change is making that option all but impossible.” This story was originally published by Grist with the headline This Indigenous attorney is fighting for climate justice in the world’s highest court on Dec 16, 2024.

Indigenous
Climate
Government

Beyond almond and oat: How pecan milk is shaking up the plant-based market

With PKN, America's only indigenous commercial tree nut could shake up the non-dairy industry

For decades, soy milk was the only widely available alternative for those seeking a non-dairy option. But in recent years, the plant-based milk market has transformed into a thriving sector filled with innovation, from almond and oat to pistachio and even sesame. According to McKinsey's 2022 Dairy Report, this evolution reflects shifting consumer habits: nearly a quarter of Americans now consume both dairy and plant-based alternatives, driven by factors like health, taste and sustainability. Yet, the market is not without its challenges — rising prices, environmental concerns and the need for differentiation have put pressure on producers to innovate. Enter Laura Shenkar, founder and CEO of PKN, the world’s first pecan milk brand. Shenkar has positioned pecans, America’s only indigenous commercial tree nut, as a sustainable and nutrient-packed alternative in the crowded non-dairy aisle.  Shenkar shared with Salon how PKN aims to disrupt the category, from its ecological focus to its commitment to taste and accessibility. This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity.  The market for plant-based milk alternatives is growing crowded, with almond, oat and soy dominating the shelves. What inspired you to champion pecans as the centerpiece of PKN, and how do you see pecan milk carving out its space? We’ve captured the attention of consumers because we are addressing a rare white space in consumer products — with a hero ingredient people always love to fill one of the mainstays of the American diet, milk. As we look toward the evolving water crisis in California, it’s clear that we need to start looking for a new, water-resilient source of nuts.   A 2016 stream revitalization project in San Saba Texas sparked my interest in pecans.  As the only commercial tree nut indigenous to America, they were uniquely resilient and could be independent from the demands for water, for chemicals like pesticides, as well as pollinators that define the current supply of nuts in the US. These nuts are all from California, where almonds alone use more than 10% of its water.   With more than a third of US consumers lactose intolerant, this market will need to double just to address our basic health requirements. Pecans provide the highest level of flavonoids and the highest ratio of antioxidants of any tree-nut to support brain- and heart-health. But most importantly, we believe that next-generation brands need to make food that brings joy and delights our consumers. You should feel the celebration of Thanksgiving pecan pie in every sip. Pecans are native to the U.S., and you’ve highlighted their ecological benefits. How does PKN approach sustainability, and what challenges do you face in scaling a product while staying true to your environmental ethos? We believe that next-generation consumer products need to efficiently use scarce resources, and we’ve built our company from the ground up to minimize food waste and build a robust, carbon-efficient supply chain.  We’ve worked with the most committed pecan shellers to upcycle pecan pieces and capture nut meats to preserve their nutrition. We’ve also developed a waste-free production process that uses dramatically less water and produces less waste than conventional almond milk manufacturing. Finally, we’ve invested to develop our products for shelf-stable packaging with a year-long shelf life. It’s important to note that pecans are truly the only commercial nut that is indigenous to America. Pecans do not require irrigation or chemicals to grow. They’re self-sustaining and also a more pure crop in terms of agriculture.  Every day we all seem to hear about the water scarcity in California and how it impacts the supply of almonds. As this water scarcity limits nut production in California, pecans are emerging as the only sustainable choice. Having pecan milk on shelves as a choice for consumers gives them a delicious alternative that can also be better for sustainability measures and the environment. Your messaging emphasizes health benefits, from antioxidants to omega-3 fats. How do you balance communicating the science behind these benefits with making your brand approachable to the average consumer? Consumers have a lot of options these days, so we’re committed to in-store sampling events that introduce PKN with its wonderful taste and also highlight the nutritional benefits. Flavonoids have been an unsung hero for brain-health, and people are interested to learn that integrating pecans into everyday eating can support longevity and health.  You’ve mentioned that pecans can serve as an anchor for the future of farming. Could you share more about PKN’s relationship with pecan growers and how you’re fostering partnerships that benefit local farming communities? We care about our sourcing and we are very much focused on our farmers. We highlight the hard work our farmers do to grow the pecans that become our milk. It’s important to note that our milk is made of upcycled pecan pieces. To that, we as a company are more sustainable than any other brand on the market. So many farmers were wiped out by the Hurricanes Helene and Milton, and will not recover. We are in touch with them and are doing everything in our power to help them as they move forward.  Taste is king in the food world. What steps did you take to ensure pecan milk delivers on flavor, and how have consumers responded to its distinctive taste compared to more established plant-based milks? We see taste as a primary driver, followed by all the wonderful attributes that pecans offer. With our Barista product in particular, it took us 18 months to get it right. What that means is we failed a lot in order to perfect it, to make the Barista the highest quality it can be, especially when it comes to frothing qualities for making lattes and cappuccinos.  Plant-based foods often face scrutiny over accessibility. How does PKN aim to make pecan milk a viable option for a wider audience, both in terms of price and availability? Much of our product innovation has focused on upcycling pecan pieces, which generates a new revenue stream for farmers, but also reduces the price of our products. As we ramp up production, we’ll be able to reduce costs and introduce new products for each of the grocery market segments. We closely watch the market and see where we fit in, in terms of product offerings and price point. Indeed, accessibility is important to us, and we want to make sure our pecan milk stays as reasonably priced as possible. You’re developing what you’ve called ‘next-generation plant-based foods.’ What’s on the horizon for PKN beyond pecan milk, and how do you see the brand evolving in the coming years? We’re on the hunt for new ingredients to simplify our ingredients.  We’re examining opportunities to integrate other native plants into our pecan milks for both sweetness and spiciness, for protein, and also to add bio-effective, plant-based sources of calcium and key minerals.   We are rolling out new products in 2025, so stay tuned!  We’ve captured the attention of retailer buyers and consumers because we are addressing a rare white space in consumer products — with a hero ingredient people always love to fill one of the mainstays of the American diet: milk. Read more about this topic

Indigenous
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Debunking Myths: New Research Challenges Misconceptions About How Ancient Indigenous Peoples Used the Land

SFU professor Chelsey Geralda Armstrong’s research on beaked hazelnut DNA reveals Indigenous peoples in British Columbia cultivated and traded the plant 7,000 years ago, shaping the land sustainably. The study challenges colonial misconceptions of untouched landscapes and emphasizes Indigenous environmental expertise. By decoding the DNA of the beaked hazelnut (Corylus cornuta), a native plant that [...]

SFU professor Chelsey Geralda Armstrong’s research on beaked hazelnut DNA reveals Indigenous peoples in British Columbia cultivated and traded the plant 7,000 years ago, shaping the land sustainably. The study challenges colonial misconceptions of untouched landscapes and emphasizes Indigenous environmental expertise. By decoding the DNA of the beaked hazelnut (Corylus cornuta), a native plant that [...]

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