Six Days at Standing Rock

I spent six days at Standing Rock over the Thanksgiving holiday. On my first night there, militarized police turned violent against freezing, peaceful demonstrators. The Morton County PR machine later announced that water protectors were “rioting” and “setting cars on fire.” Closer to the truth: law enforcement shot water protectors with rubber bullets and water cannons in 23 degree weather and threw canisters of tear gas into their midst.

One woman was hit with a concussion grenade and subsequently was airlifted to Minneapolis; her arm was hurt so badly that amputation is a treatment option. An elderly Lakota man who was praying with his hands up withstood multiple rubber bullets as well as water cannon rounds. I saw no water protectors acting in a violent manner. They were trying to protect the man praying. They faced policemen outfitted like a SWAT team, and they may have thrown water bottles at them. They were also trying to keep fires alive to warm 400 water protectors who been blasted with tear gas and water cannons, and faced hypothermia in the freezing cold night. The cops kept dousing the warming fires with their water cannons while their tear gas canisters started brush fires that the water protectors put out. There were sirens sounding and helicopters whirring all night.

In a large, dusty tent at Oceti Sakowin camp, as we learned how to link arms and see the strangers to our left and right as “relatives,” as family, Standing Rock facilitators of various ages, ethnic backgrounds, and gender identities entreated us to mind that we were guests of the Sioux. The repeated over and over that the ask coming down from the Council of Elders was clear: Do not go to the front lines without a clear heart. This was no anarchist black bloc; this was a prayerful ceremony of resistance. “If you don’t have your spiritual self together,” they said, “if you cannot be prayerful on the front lines, then go home.”