Standing Rock Rising: Inside the movement to stop DAPL
by Rebecca Bengal Vogue Magazine, Nov 22, 2016
Photographed by Alessandra Sanguinetti
But pipeline construction began in mid-May, and the campers, about 30 people by then, stayed on. “It was more personal,” Charger, who is 20, told me recently of these early days. The Camp of the Sacred Stone was named after the spherical sandstone formations the Cannonball River produced until the 1950s, when the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers built the Oahe Dam, wiping out acres of Standing Rock Sioux land and changing the river’s flow. That past was on everyone’s minds when, in July, the CoE issued a fast-track permit for the pipeline’s construction. (The tribe maintains it was not properly consulted about potential environmental risks—in the event of a pipeline leak, say—or about the cultural and historical significance of the land through which the pipeline would cross.) Charger and a group of other younger campers ran a relay of nearly 2,000 miles on foot from Standing Rock to the White House to deliver 160,000 signatures in opposition. When they got back, they found the camp a lot more crowded: A call had gone out to indigenous peoples all over the country—and had been answered resoundingly.
Most of the world did not become aware of Standing Rock until just after Labor Day weekend, when videos of private security personnel attacking Native Americans with dogs and pepper spray went viral. The day after the Standing Rock Sioux tribe filed papers in federal court identifying sacred burial grounds and cultural sites along the pipeline’s path, Dakota Access sent bulldozers to some of those locations, and water protectors met them there, Democracy Now! reported. Journalist Amy Goodman narrated as the show’s camera zoomed in on stinging eyes and lunging dogs, one dog’s mouth red with blood. A warrant was issued for Goodman’s arrest. In an op-ed for the Los Angeles Times, environmentalist Bill McKibben called the pipeline a “Flint in the making.” The Standing Rock movement, with distinct echoes of the civil rights demonstrations of the ’60s, entered the national consciousness.
When I returned the next morning, a man stepped out of a ramshackle wooden booth in an oilskin coat. He held a walkie-talkie in one hand and, in the other, a burning stick of sage, which he smudged over the hood of my car. Camp was in full swing. Horses patrolled the perimeter. Volunteers carried flats of donated canned goods. Children on recess from school took the discarded cardboard pieces and turned them into sleds, for sliding down a slick grassy hill. People gathered by a central fire, near card tables of tea and water and a dry-erase board filled with notices of ride shares, lost items, an AA meeting. A man bundled in a camouflage jacket and shrouded in sunglasses sat in a chair and held court, making droll announcements into a microphone: “Relatives, there is a call for help to raise a new army tent for the kitchen. We could use some strong hands, so if anybody is sitting around missing their treadmill or their StairMaster back home, in about an hour you can get your workout.” Someone tapped me on the shoulder, a 20-something guy in work boots. “You look new,” he said. “Do you want to go to the front lines?”
Even on casino mornings, I was rarely alone. Often someone smelling vaguely of campfire smoke lingered by the parking lot, looking for a ride back. Phones were largely useless; they didn’t work, or people didn’t own them. The brisk energy of a new village in the making—firewood being split, root cellars dug into the ground, new tepees going up, donations organized—would be interrupted by a call to come to the front lines or to gather at a central sacred fire. Ceremonies dominated the days and nights. Horseback riders were blessed and smudged with tobacco as they headed for Honor the Earth’s five-day spirit ride along part of the pipeline’s path. The Pascua Yaqui tribe arrived from Tucson and performed a traditional deer dance. A contingent of Mardi Gras Indians cooked gumbo for hundreds and hosted a music jam in their tepee that lasted until dawn.
It was not unusual for people at Standing Rock to speak in spiritual terms. I spent long hours with teenagers, mothers, and grandfathers who repeatedly invoked their ancestors, who intimately, openly described the difference between inherited and fresh trauma, and how they were turning to traditional ways to heal. This was the second week of October, a month before Donald Trump would win the presidency and a broad swath of the American public would take a renewed interest in the ideas of community and resistance.
On a bright Sunday morning, I sat with LaDonna Brave Bull Allard, the Standing Rock Sioux historian who had allowed the first tepees to stand on her land, under cottonwoods at Sacred Stone. Allard grew up here; now she watched over teams of campers who were peeling tepee poles and framing longhouses for winter. “We are expendable people,” Allard told me. “We always have been. But we have the answers on how to save the world. We have the answers on how to live with this earth. We have to stand up and share that knowledge.”
Here is what police call a riot and what water protectors call a ceremony. Late on the eve of October 10, word spread swiftly through camp: A U.S. district court had denied the Standing Rock Sioux’s request for an injunction to stop work on the pipeline. Meet tomorrow at dawn.
Before the ceremony could start, more news arrived: Two water protectors had locked themselves underneath construction vehicles at a pipeline work site. It would take all day to dig them out, someone said. Two Alaskan huskies lay at the feet of the man who began to lead prayer. Cold, tired faces turned to the rising sun, scarves and shawls and jackets filling with smoke, as carriers of the sacred pipe, or canupa, went from person to person, smudging off each one with tobacco. Among them were one of the canupa carriers and Theresa Black Owl, a 63-year-old grandmother of 20 from Pierre, South Dakota. In Lakota music, multiple singers and drummers gather around a single drum and play what is called a thunder beat, or a heartbeat, a simultaneous, shared pulse. Those who knew the Lakota prayers by heart sang with the drummers—for the water, for the earth, for protection in what they were all about to undertake.
Enormous pieces of pipe lay in waiting on the bulldozed ground of an empty work site near the town of St. Anthony. The pipeline path stretched into the horizon, bisecting cropland and fields. A dozen people in hoodies and flannel shirts ran down a rocky hill with tepee poles and quickly raised a frame. “Today we stand in solidarity with our relatives who have made a sacrifice on behalf of the land and water,” Vic Camp said into a bullhorn, as water protectors stood with banners and flags. “We’re here to protect our treaty land.” They prayed again. This was a ceremony, he said, for the meeting of the Eagle and the Condor, tribes representing the North and South. Two people in enormous Eagle and Condor masks stood at the circle’s edge. Aztec dancers in ponchos and skirts danced, bells jingling at their ankles, stirring up clouds of dust and dirt. One in a bright spiky headdress took the bullhorn to pray to Mother Earth “for forgiveness for what the two-legged have done to this land.”
Andreanne Catt, 17, her face painted with streaks of lipstick, picked up the bullhorn and spontaneously led the crowd in a call and response. “We stand!” Catt shouted. “We stand!” “For our brothers!” “For our brothers!” “And our sisters!” “And our sisters!” “Mni wiconi!” she called out. “Water is life!”
Inside the tepee, Theresa Black Owl again took out her canupa and passed it around. “I was trying to relax because one of the girls in the tepee was really scared. Her hands were just shaking,” she told me later. Most Native American ceremonies were illegal in the United States until 1978, when the American Indian Religious Freedom Act was passed. Practicing them was its own form of resistance. “When I grew up, it wasn’t safe to be an Indian.”
When it was time to go, my rental four-wheel drive filled with so many riders that we pulled down an extra seat. A sniper kept aim as everyone retreated, pulling up wild sage along the roadside—“front-line sage!” a Cherokee woman said. It was early afternoon. There was one thermos of water between eight people for the hour-long ride back to camp, and no one had eaten all day.
That night, gathered around a fire at Rosebud Camp, we awaited word of those who were jailed. Actress Shailene Woodley, who filmed her arrest in a video that went viral, had been among the 27 taken. Most were apprehended on charges of criminal trespassing and, a new one, “engaging in a riot.”
By the fire, everyone recalled the music that had echoed through the work site as the police walked in. They remembered a dancer from the North who was dressed all in black except for a red bandana at her throat, how she bent low to the ground, her arms making deep, scooping movements, how she sang in a haunting, grief-struck wail, how her drummer broke the silence that followed. “That is our trail song,” he said. “For we all had a trail to get here.”
The election of Donald Trump, investor in the Energy Transfer Partners and a denier of climate change, would seem to spell doom for the pipeline resistance. As a January 1 deadline to complete construction draws near, Dakota Access drills are now poised at the river. A phalanx of construction lights shines over camp all night—“the airport,” people call it, or “the football stadium”—brighter than the Northern Lights. On Sunday night, police used water as a weapon against the water protectors, blasting them with cannons in 25-degree weather.
But there are signs that the resistance will have repercussions that will long outlast the North Dakota winter. Last week, Energy Transfer Partners said that the protests have caused nearly $100 million in construction delays, Democracy Now! reported. DNB, the largest bank in Norway, pulled out its investments in the pipeline, worth $3 million. And on the eve of November 15—a nationwide NoDAPL day of action with 300 events across the country—the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers issued a statement acknowledging “additional discussion and analysis is warranted in light of the history of the Great Sioux Nation’s dispossessions of lands.”
Earlier this month, camp united again, with a ceremony that had not taken place since the days of Abraham Lincoln. “It was a warm day, the helicopters seemed quieter, it was the first day in a long time that we didn’t feel under attack,” Eryn Wise of the Youth Council told me by phone. Completing a relay run from Arizona to Standing Rock, the youth runners ran down the road of flags to a finish line. A band of horse riders led by Sioux spiritual leader Chief Nac’a Arvol Looking Horse, in a feathered headdress and fringed jacket, rode into camp. By a row of seven tepees raised for this purpose, the Seven Council fires were relighted.
Later that evening, after speeches and prayers, the ceremony gave way to music—a singer, drummers. “They were feeding one song into another,” said Wise. She joined the circle dance. “I kept my eyes closed for what felt like forever. It had been daylight when I started and when I opened them again, it was dark out. I asked my friend Joseph, ‘How long have we been dancing?’ ”