Natural rights

I wonder how our great grandchildren will come to name this era we have been in. Perhaps it will be known as The Great Separation, The Age of Addiction or maybe The Long Coma.

One day it may seem incredible to us that once the earth had no legal rights.

I wonder if it will be a bit like the way we now look back at the days when slavery was natural, when it was considered legal and legitimate for some human beings to be bought and sold as property; an uncomfortable time belonging far away from us. Or that it was once acceptable to consider women as property, or legal to force children up chimneys? 

It may seem extraordinary that because of our commitment and addiction to economic 'growth' we turned our backs as entire forests were razed to the ground for instant profit. That under our watch, clean rivers turned black and blazed with oil. That we continued to plunder the oceans of fish without mercy. That we only considered land in terms of property and ownership. That we did all this, even though we were strangling our own lifeline, and all while two hundred natural species were quietly disappearing from the earth every single day.

If we kept a minute silence in memoriam for each one of those unique and intricate species of plants, insects, birds and mammals, we would need to be silent for three and a half hours every day.

Perhaps there will be a time, how I hope that such a time comes soon, when we will respect the right to clean water for all humans, no matter the colour of their skin, and think not only of animals' and plants' right to clean water, but of the legal right of the water itself to remain pure, the way it was created. 

Following Trump's executive order to expedite the Dakota pipeline, this week the army corps swept to one side the environmental impact study, a lengthy process initiated by the Obama administration in December, a study which was to have examined in depth the impact the pipeline would have upon the land, the water, the wildlife and the people in the region. Suddenly there is 'no cause for any additional environmental analysis,' as a senior army corps official said. Drilling under lake Oahe now proceeds and it is projected that oil will be flowing through the pipe within 90 days. 

This is such a blow to the heart of those protecting the water at Standing Rock, and to everyone around the world who cares. The grief is profound and yet there is no time to be paralysed by it. The tribe prepare to legally challenge the easement and the suspension of the environmental impact study. Actions are being prepared all over the United States. Veterans willing to shield the water protectors from military force are on their way out to Standing Rock and are being welcomed by LaDonna Brave Bull Allard. Their presence will be particularly valuable as the army corps have declared that they will be evacuating the camps on February 22nd. Meanwhile bills across the country are being introduced to further criminalise peaceful protesting, including one making it legal to run over and kill protestors with vehicles on highways in North Dakota, so long as it be 'accidental'. 

When people concerned about President Trump were asked which words they associated with him, these were the most common: dangerous, reckless, bigoted, narcissistic and unstable. While continuing to recognise him as my relation (see my last post!) I would agree with all these descriptions. However, if I move the focus from him as an individual and consider what he might represent, I think it gets more interesting. If one were to roll up this recent era of industrialism, colonialism, patriarchy and capitalism and turn it into a symbol, one might very well come up with a cartoon of a white, wealthy, misogynistic and racist businessman who lives in a golden tower, a selfish bully who puts immediate profits before the needs of future generations.

How have we, the colonising people of this world behaved; those people who were themselves colonised, who became separate from nature? How do we continue to behave? How would the first contact of white settlers have appeared to the Native Americans or to indigenous people all over the world? How might orangutans, tigers and elephants describe human beings if they spoke our language? What might a clean river have to say about our actions? How about dangerous, reckless, bigoted, narcissistic and unstable? 

Thankfully, people are waking up individually and nationally. Both Ecuador and Bolivia now legally recognise the rights of Nature in their constitutions. Other countries are also working towards this. Xiuhtezcatl Martinez, a teenager from Colorado, who has been an activist since he was six years old, is one of a group of young people suing the US Government over their lack of action on climate change, arguing that it is so catastrophic to their future that it threatens their fundamental constitutional right to life and liberty. It is significant that in November 2106, a federal court rejected the government's request to reject the case. These are signs that in the midst of these last violent throes of the dying fossil fuel industry, in addition to a creative swell in green, clean technology, a new way of relating to Nature is beginning to emerge.

It may be that these days will be known as the Age of Awakening or the Era of Remembering. 

The Missouri River

For those wanting to support Standing Rock, my recommendation is to contribute to the Lakota People's Law Project, which supports the 700 + water protectors facing trial and will provide board and lodging to the out of state lawyers working pro bono.

https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=lakota%20people%27s%20law%20project

For all my relations

When I was at Standing Rock, the phrase I heard most frequently, even more often than mni wiconi (water is life) was aho mitakuye oyasin, which could be translated as 'we are all related' or ' for all my relations'. It was repeated throughout prayers and meetings, a signal not only that someone had started to speak and must not be interrupted, it also marked when they had finished speaking. It was repeated back to them to affirm that what they said had been heard. The words also bookended whatever was said with this acknowledgement of the inter-relatedness of all beings. Aho mitakuye oyasin affirms that we have truly heard that person and their unique point of view, even though it may be quite different to ours, that we acknowledge not only that we are related to them, but to everything and everybody else. 

We are all related.

It means that we are related not just to other human beings, but to worms and slugs as well as eagles, to amoebas as well as to deer, to jelly fish as well as daisies and roses, to brambles and toadstools and nettles as well as to great redwoods and rainbows. It means that we are related to the oceans and the stars and the moon, to volcanos, to the earth and to the sun, to the air, the fire and the water.

It means we are related not only to our biological family and our friends, to those we love and to our compatriots, but also to the most annoying, dangerous and stupid people, to our enemies, to those people we would rather separate from ourselves with an ocean. To Hitler as well as to Nelson Mandela, to Stalin as well as Jesus and Rosa Parks, to Donald Trump as much as to the sweetest, most lovable child.

We are all related. It is not almost all of us are related.

When I came home from Standing Rock, almost the first thing I did was to get the flu. Being out there in such cold and tough conditions was very physically demanding on most people there. Everybody had coughs and colds and were it not for the powerful mission and purpose in being there, I think more people would have physically given in. When I first arrived, it was colder there than it was on Mars! 

As well as my body surrendering to exhaustion once I was home, it was quite an adjustment to leave a place where there was such a vibrant network of support and care. Yes, the dynamics are complicated and conflicted at times, there are politics and power plays. There are challenges and serious concerns. Nonetheless, most people help each other out and take care of each other really well. Every day. And all this away from any money. Nobody is trying to sell or buy anything, which changes things a lot. Being surrounded by all the donations of food and firewood, clothes and accommodation is humbling and levelling. Our place in the scheme of things, the truth of aho mitakuye oyasin and mni wiconi are affirmed aloud every single day.

As I rested and recovered at home, I listened to the radio, watched the news and read about President Trump's first week in office. He had wasted no time signing executive orders, waging war on Obamacare, on women's rights, the environment, on Mexico, the arts and on refugees. When I saw a photograph of him backed by a lineup of entirely male aides as he signed an order which banned funding in any way associated with abortions, it made my blood boil and I knew that it wasn't just the flu. When a day later, he signed another executive order paving the way for fast tracking the Keystone pipeline and the Dakota Pipeline, even the way he emphasised and repeated the word 'pipeline' as if to taunt, the way he signed with such a smug flourish made me want to spit with rage. The easy way he held his pen, how casual. How offensive every minute expression on his face. How maddening that he has such power. I felt such violent rage, so impotent, so depressed and helpless. So afraid. To think of the wanton damage he and his administration are capable of so glibly causing our planet and all the life upon it. And then he spoke up for torture. Another kick in the gut. Of course he believes in torture. 

And where does all this take me? It's as if I'm in some awful relationship which has entirely broken down, where if I put my attention on looking for the next dreadful thing he has done, I will always come up with something to confirm my worst thoughts. He never disappoints in this regard. I feel like he knows what is going to get to me. How can it all feel so personal? And then of course, just like when you find you are screaming at someone to listen, or shouting at them for shouting at you, this whole approach leaves me feeling backed into a corner. This isn't really who I want to be. It certainly isn't how I want to feel.

The thing is, once you take on something as profound as mitakuye oyasin, you cannot forget it. It's so radical. You cannot make it only partially true when convenient. What made my experience at Standing Rock so powerful was that the people I really respected, included in their prayers those who oppose them, those who hurt them, pepper sprayed them, hosed them down with water in freezing conditions, those who fired rubber bullets at them, those who put them in cages, treated them like criminals, who lied about them; they genuinely included those people in their prayers. Their prayers are for the water and for the earth. It isn't a war with a good side and a bad side, with an enemy to beat down. We all need water. We are all in this together. What is good for my descendants is good for yours, what is good for the earth is good for Donald Trump's descendants. We are no different in our needs.

Rather in the way that when the 'good news' was announced back in December, that some thought the case at Standing Rock had been 'won' and it did not seem that straightforward to me, neither do I think it has been 'lost' yet. I feel concerned at what might happen out there, for I know that those people standing for the water will not back down and that they will protect that water with their lives. I worry about how 'the law' will be enforced now that Trump is in power. But there are legal processes to go through regardless of who is in power. It isn't over yet.

It is so clear that Donald Trump is insecure. Only extremely insecure people need to assert themselves and endlessly prove their strength, need to bully and dominate so obviously. Only people who were acutely hurt when they were very young, who feel so profoundly unlovable are that narcissistic. So really, he needs prayers more than anyone. It is easy to pray for those I love, to want good things for them. It is harder to truly pray for someone who makes me so angry and afraid. I just want to make clear that when I talk about praying, I'm not talking about speaking a religious language. I don't belong to a church other than that of Nature. None of this negates the need to stand up, to be inspired to take action, to march, to say yes, to say no, to assert and defend rights. But there is only one way out of feeling so small and impotent and livid, where I don't like Donald Trump or myself, or what has happened to us.

Deep breath.

It is to accept Donald Trump as my brother. To accept him as a relation of mine. To accept that we are all related. It so goes against the grain and feels so radical. But this is what I summon myself to do, it is what makes me feel better, it is what feels makes me feel like there is room for change. I can't be half baked about this or do this with my fingers crossed behind my back; I have to do this fully, I must include all the bits of him I most resist, to welcome the bits he most resists.

I pray that Donald Trump may have clean water to drink and plenty of good food to eat. I pray that he feels safe and protected under clean skies. That he may feel so loved and happy that he can breathe a big sigh of relief. I pray that he awakens to how much he loves others and by how much he is loved, that he may dance for joy with how connected he feels to nature and animals and people. May he be surrounded with goodness. May tears of joy roll down his face at the beauty of life, of music and of nature, may he be blown away by the beauty of colours all around him and at the intelligence in the breeze playing upon his beloved cheek. I pray that he can trust that he has his place here, that he knows that we are all related. I pray that he may feel at peace.

I pray for all those things for him and for you, for me and for everyone. 

Aho mitakuye oyasin.

Sounds from Standing Rock

I recorded this one evening in the Rosebud Community Hall, shortly after the blizzard. This was where we ate and gathered at Rosebud. Donald Little Thunder was singing Sun Dance songs with his wife and Mike Goodshield and some others. They sat in a circle around the fire, and four of them beat on the same drum. Sorry about the rustling on the recording, but you can still feel the energy with which everyone sings and drums these sacred songs. At the end of the recording, I stepped outside and talked to some children sitting on the roof. 

These prayer songs take me straight back to Standing Rock. Quite often I could hear them being sung in the distance, especially in the evenings.

A drop in the ocean

Another blizzard was on its way. Down by the riverside at Rosebud, seven men and Angela were swinging axes, splitting large slabs of tree into logs. They spurred each other on as they worked. They had a mountain of wood to get through and the camp was going to need it over the next few days. The morning had started off sunny and blue, but now the skies were white as the clouds ran together and I started to wonder if I should leave the camp today instead of early next morning. Blizzards have their own timing, no matter what the forecast says. My flight was leaving from Bismarck at lunchtime the next day. It would be good to have a shower before I arrived in Minneapolis, where I would be staying with friends and family. I decided I would book into a hotel and leave as soon as I had packed.

I went to gather my things from Danielle's tarpee, where I had been staying. A 'tarpee' is a variation on a tipi, invented especially for the harsh winters of Standing Rock by Paul Cheyok'ten Wagner. It has a flat, closed top which fits around a stove pipe. Polytarp replaces canvas and hide, and beams are used rather than poles. It is much cheaper to build than a traditional tipi. Danielle had decorated her tarpee with colourful banners and lined the inside with blankets and hanging clothes to help provide insulation. In front of the barrel stove there was a simple altar, with sage and cedar and jars of water collected from different rivers around the continent. I had slept well here. I'd become used to hearing the wind howl outside at night and to loading another log on the fire whenever I woke; it had quickly felt like home.

As I was packing, Danielle took a call from a woman who had been hit in the face at a gas station in Bismarck. Somebody had recognised that she came from Standing Rock. This was not the first time I had heard about hostilities from locals towards the water protectors away from the front lines, but it was a sobering reminder, especially as I was heading out that way. I had heard of people being followed and arrested simply for being at Standing Rock.

I said goodbye to Danielle, to Anis and James and to Curly. There were so many I would not see, but it was getting late and I needed to make a move. I took some bars of chocolate over to the wood choppers. 'Let's not say goodbye,' said Angela. 'Let's say bama pi, or 'until later.' 'Bama pi,' I agreed, and we gave each other a bear hug.

I looked over at the River Canonball. This river, this water, now frozen, was the reason I had come out to North Dakota. I'd come to stand for clean water all over the world. I'd come for the people protecting and praying for it, I'd come to stand with the Native Americans, the caretakers of their continent and of this earth, people who'd been willing to give their lives if necessary. As I drove the endless straight roads to Bismarck, I thought about how welcoming and kind the Lakota people had been to me, about how many remarkable, brave, resilient and good hearted people I had met at Standing Rock, too many to say goodbye to. I thought of the coming year and of the uncertainties and challenges which lie ahead. I didn't know if I would ever see the river or those people again, but I knew that they would all be in my thoughts and my prayers. I had been one of many, as the constellation of people at Standing Rock is ever changing. What I had done felt small in many ways; five people had been arrested while I was there and there were many who were staying indefinitely. I hadn't stood on the front lines, but I had taken my body there, cooked and raised funds, listened, written and prayed. I had been a tiny drop in an ocean, but then after all, that is what an ocean is made up of: droplets.

The receptionist at the hotel welcomed me. 'What brings you to Bismarck on New Year's Eve?' 'Well, I came out to visit Standing Rock,' I answered, after the briefest of hesitations. The friendly expression fell from her face. 'You were with the protestors?' 'Yes, I travelled from England to help protect the water.' She looked away, towards the computer screen. 'I actually have family who work on the security teams out there.' The subject was most definitely closed. Hoping she wouldn't call anyone out to arrest me, and feeling how exhausted I was, I made my way to my room, where I showered and washed the dirt and smoke from my body and my hair, feeling thankful for every drop of warm water that fell upon me. 

The frozen Cannonball River

My battered notebooks

Tarpees in the snow

Taking care of Grandma

The other morning, I got up early. The stars were out as I drove over to Oceti. Angela was still on her night shift at Rosebud Gate, keeping watch. I went over to the sacred fire. The fire keeper was asleep and wrapped in a blanket, huddled over against the cold, wearing goggles for the smoke, his boots warming by the embers. He stirred and told me he had been there all night.

Soon it was time for the water ceremony. Swooping Eagle and Mini Eagle were amongst the grandmas. Someone had brought a shopping bag full of sage, cedar and sweet grass. A cloth was laid out upon the snowy ground. Four copper cups and jugs were placed on top and filled with river water brought from afar. Swooping Eagle asked me if I wanted to help, so I lit the sweet grass and smudged the water, as others lit sage and cedar and did the same. Then four of us, all women, held the cups of water up to the East, as Swooping Eagle sang a water song behind us. We poured water for everyone to drink and then we processed down towards the river, stopping sometimes to change water bearers, so that every woman had a chance to carry the vessels. Swooping Eagle made her way slowly and carefully across the snow, supported by another woman. She wore a skirt with brown felt buffalo dancing along the hem and she carried a staff, tied with coloured ribbons and some shells. When we reached the bank, we took turns to pray with tobacco and we left it in a hole in the ice. After the women prayed, the men prayed. Swooping Eagle spoke about how the rosy dawn was the Grandma's gift to the sky before the sun came. Everyone faced East and Mini Eagle sang a Sun Dance song to the rising sun as Swooping Eagle shook her staff in rhythm, making the shells tinkle. One woman was wrapped in a buffalo skin, hooves still attached. She looked monumental. On our way back, all the men lined up and offered their hands to help the women back up the hill, something which touched me.

Afterwards, I went to the women's prayer circle. More men have been coming along each day and as the circle gets bigger, we squeeze up in the yurt and make room for each other. Afterwards, a film crew from Santa Fe filmed Grandma Patricia, Blue Lightning and a male elder, a wonderful story teller. They each talked into the camera about why they were at Standing Rock, speaking passionately about prophesies, about our waters and the earth, and how if we didn't stand up for them, we would not survive. As their voices cracked with emotion, the film crew and all were in tears. I have so much respect for these elders. Some are frail and some quite poorly, and at a time of life when they might just want to be comfortable and cared for, they persist in camping in these harshest of weather conditions. Grandma Patricia had a bad cough, so I offered to drive her and her assistant, Tara, to the Rosebud yurt for acupuncture. 

First of all, Grandma Patricia needed something to eat, so we went to the Rosebud community hall, and there she was given a seat by the stove to warm up. She looked regal in her black hat, and a pink scarf wrapped around her throat. Somehow she always manages to look fresh and elegant, despite the fact that she has been camping here for months and intends to stay until she has seen the whole thing through. There was a meeting in progress, and one of the elders was talking. I had been finding it a challenge to hear this man speak in recent days. His praying didn't make me feel good. It sounded too angry and berating to be called prayer. His prayers for the food went on so long, sometimes as much as fifty minutes, that they felt like a punishment more than a blessing, as all the while the food we cooked grew colder. He pointed his finger at people as he yelled and we were warned about being relegated to a cold, dark place unless we became more grateful. These sermons seemed to be getting longer, louder and more belligerent by the day. Whereas in the beginning I could catch some good sentiments in what he was saying and managed to sift them out, now I was feeling allergic.

It was the end of the meeting and the food was ready on the table. It needed to be blessed. I thought about inviting Grandma Patricia to bless the food, when I saw her stand up, and make to leave. Sam, a lovely young man standing beside her, tapped her on the shoulder and said, 'I think you have something to say Grandma, don't you?' She looked surprised and then smiled. The angry elder strode out of the room. Grandma Patricia addressed the circle. 'When angry words are spoken in this way, they hurt Mother Earth. They hurt the water we are here to protect. They are not good for the food.' She spoke slowly and deliberately, looking round at the faces intent upon her words. 'I urge you not to take these words personally.'

A young man raised his hand. 'I haven't wanted to go to his inipis, because I'm not sure that I would be welcomed as family.' Others murmured their agreement.

 'That is precisely why you must go,' said Grandma Patricia. Go to the inipi with him and speak your truth. Share how it makes you feel when harsh words are spoken. Share your concerns about the effect this has on the community. This is what we do in the inipi.' 

The relief in the room was palpable, some of the tension dispersed. Now it was time for me to accompany Grandma Patricia to the yurt to see Craig and Chris for her acupuncture session. It was my mission to heat up some hot mushroom soup for her to eat with crackers and to find some masks to protect her lungs from the smoky fires.

One thing I do know: if we take care of our grandmas, they will take care of us. We cannot do without them.

With Kostanzia, a Sami grandma of the Reindeer people

Something good in the wind

Yesterday morning, as Anis and I were making breakfast, Daryl Shoots In Sight from the Rosebud Reservation came and talked with us. A large man with a quiet presence, he stood by the stove and told us how he had been married for twenty nine years, how when he had had to go away to find work, his wife had found a new man. He said this without rancour or self pity, but I felt the sadness this had caused him. He asked if he might tell us a story as we worked, and we, of course, said yes. He told us the story of how the flute came into existence, a story of horses and travel, of a loving husband and a wife, of loss and of mourning. I won't attempt to tell it to you, as these stories need to be told in full, but know that he told it so well and with just the right amount of detail as to make me picture the people and the land, the bright stars shining down upon them in the black night, to see how the horses pricked up their ears as they lifted their heads from drinking at the Great Muddy River. Anis and I worked as quietly as possible, cracking eggs and slicing onions. We did not want to miss a word. 

Daryl plans to write a book of traditional stories, and I plan to read it when it comes out.

When I told him I thought it might be hard to leave this place, that I had met so many good people here, he smiled and said, 'it's like we're all a bunch of unicorns; pretty strange, but magical and good to hang out with.' We all laughed. Then he told me, 'as a woman, you've come here so that you can let people back home know that there is something else, that there's something good in the wind: a good ending.'

The evening before, I met a member of the Youth Council, a twenty two year old man, who preferred I didn't use his name. He came to the yurt for acupuncture and as Teresa placed needles in his back, she noticed some scars. He sat in a chair, with his long braid hanging down behind him, and talked about being a Sun Dancer. Sun Dancing is a traditional sacred ceremony belonging to some Native American tribes handed to the people by the White Buffalo Calf Woman. It involves praying, the use of the ceremonial pipe, fasting, singing, drumming and dancing to the sun for days. Some, although not all Sun Dancers pierce their bodies with hooks, attached to ropes fastened to a tree. This leaves scars on the body, and those scars are the marks of a spiritual warrior. The young man told me that at the end of the ceremony, 'the elders were tearing up. They had been present when it was illegal to sun dance, to have sweat lodges or to visit certain sacred sites. Some of them had been amongst those who walked to Washington in 1978 to petition and change the law to protect our traditions. They had thought maybe our ways were dying out. There used to be perhaps seven Sun Dancers and now they were looking at about seventy of them.' 

The traditional ways and ceremonies were very close to disappearing, but were kept alive underground and are now coming back with renewed vigour. I have heard other Lakota people talking about how the previous generations had been traumatised when they were ripped away from their families as young children and sent to boarding schools, where they were forbidden to speak Lakota, forced to cut off their long hair, and were punished for even referring to any of their ceremonial practices. Many of them never saw their parents or families again. No wonder there have been widespread problems with drugs and alcohol, when the whole Native American Nation was dealing not only with the trauma of losing their land, of being decimated to a fraction of their previous population, but had to endure the colonial, systemic and brutal beating down of their cultural heritage, and the pain of being kidnapped away from the heart of their families. No wonder the elders felt emotional to see those young warriors complete their ceremony. They represent hope and vision for the next seven generations.

I don't wish to romanticise how things are here. Egos bump up against each other every day, just like they do everywhere: not all the water protectors make actions completely peaceful, although most do; we have not yet figured out how to recycle the way we want to (although imaginative solutions are being dreamed up - North Dakota seems to actively discourage recycling, as far as I can make out); there have been serious issues with safety and sexual harassment for both women and men; there are are frustrations and delays concerning matching up resources and practical help with those who most need it, and I'm sure the list could go on. Last night, my throat was sore and my spirits a little dampened. The chaos can seem overwhelming at times, the nature of the obstacles we face in the camps, let alone in the world, momentous. It was time to rest and be gentle. Craig, the acupuncturist kindly gave me some Chinese herbs to give me a boost and later on in the evening, sweet Angela made me a tea for my throat. I drank it by the stove in the community hall, and llistened to some intelligent talk amongst the young ones; talk about practical solutions for modern problems, talk underpinned by open hearted compassion and understanding.

I felt my spirits gradually rise as the fire warmed me up. Despite the apparent chaos, despite the exhaustion and the set backs, I see a resilient, grateful and loving community, one that is willing to learn, to sacrifice and to work. People felt called here to protect the water, the earth and each other. 

Daryl is right. There is a something good in the wind, and it's something about a good ending.

Rosebud flag at Rosebud camp

Christmas blizzard

I woke early on Christmas morning. The first thing I did was to make myself a cup of tea and wash my face. Stripping everything back makes me realise which of my pleasures and luxuries I value the most. Washing my face with a flannel and hot water and Dr Hauschka cream is definitely a good one, as is a cup of tea! It took me a while to dress and put all the layers on. A blizzard was expected later on that day. The camp had been preparing for it all of Christmas Eve, bringing in wood and making sure we had essentials such as food and water to hand. I went over to the kitchen to light the two fires in the stoves, placed a large pan of snow to melt for washing dishes, and put on the big pot of water for coffee. The lights had been left on all night, so the solar charge was drained and I worked with a head torch. (Americans laugh when I say 'torch' instead of 'lamp'. I think it sounds medieval to them!)

Mike Goodshield, an elder from the Rosebud Reservation came in to the kitchen with a friend named Bo-Ling. We wished each other Merry Christmas and waited by the stove for the water to boil. I asked Mike how Natives kept warm before hi tech thermal underwear, hand warmers and super insulated boots. 

'The sacred fire kept us warm. The buffalo kept us warm. We used buffalo skins for our tipis and for our clothes. The buffalo is very sacred to us because it gave its life, it kept us warm, gave us meat, and allowed us to live. We took care of each other. That's how we kept warm. Everything is sacred. This too.' Mike tapped the stove. 'This metal came out of the earth, it came from the rock. We give thanks for everything. All these things are here to help us live. There is enough for all of us. So long as we don't try and line our pockets, there's enough for everyone.' Mike spoke about the importance of resting over the period of the winter solstice. 'It's not all about work.' After a cup of coffee, and sharing more stories with me and Bo-Ling, he returned to his tipi for a nap.

Anis came in and we prepared the food together. We eat some hearty breakfasts here at Standing Rock. This morning I cracked 144 eggs for scrambling and we also served chopped steak and sausages, rice pudding and, particularly exciting to me, slices of apples and oranges! Other mornings we make pancakes and eat them with syrup and bacon. Since I have been here, I have eaten all kinds of food I wouldn't usually, including baloney sandwiches on white sliced bread, eaten at Donald Little Thunder's tent after the inipi sweat lodge. The fact that everything we eat here is a gift from someone, whether an individual or a business, that it sustains us in these harsh conditions, that it is prayed over, overrides any ideas I may have had about what kind of food I eat. 

I helped cook Christmas dinner. Just in case any of you are feeling sorry for us, please don't! D.J heroically grilled steak for everyone out in the snow. Tony mashed up potatoes with butter, Lisa made potato salad, Anis made stuffing, gravy and (a real treat) abundant, fresh kale. I made Italian creamy garlic mushrooms in an enormous frying pan, which went down well with the steak. The cooking timings came together effortlessly.

Before we ate, as always, a small dish with some of each of the food was prepared for the spirits. Mike held the dish and prayed that the spirits all around us be nourished so that they can keep us strong. He acknowledged that today, Christmas Day was a special day. 'But to us Lakota people, every day is a special day, a day to be grateful, a good day to be alive.' He made prayers for the water, for the earth, for the next seven generations. 'We are the prayers of our ancestors. They prayed that we might come together in this way to protect the earth.' He spoke of how it was no coincidence that we had all come here, that we had heard a call and acted upon it. 'Everyone here once lived on this land and knew the old ways. This is a process of remembering together.' Many, many thanks were given.The spirit plate was taken out and placed by the fire outside. 

To stand at the table, heavy with good things to eat, to feel such good will and friendship all around me, my heart felt warm. All agreed, the food was delicious. The tiny Christmas tree stood on one of the tables, surrounded by candy and cookies, soft animal toys and colouring books for the children, and some odd presents salvaged from the 'mall,' the hut full of donated clothes. 
Someone had tidied up the room, had cleared the tables and laid down a rug by the stove. The new second stove burned, warming the room both ends now. I realised that I have one more week here and that I will miss this place, miss these friends, and more than anything, miss this atmosphere. It may be difficult for people to live here, but in some ways it's harder for people to leave.

And then, as we were clearing up dishes and sitting around the stove, blue lightning flared up the dark tent, followed immediately by cracking thunder. Snow thunder and lightning! I never saw that before. I made my way towards the compost toilets. The snow was coming down fast. Now I needed my goggles. It was hard to recognise anything and I could see how easily one might get lost. Angela, always so gallant, called out, 'is that you, Miss Sophie?' I waved back yes, and we laughed as we trudged through drifts of snow up to our knees. We went together to the loos and she accompanied me back on my way home. Yet another act of kindness. 

A new acupuncture team are on their way from California. First to arrive was Teresa, who is in her first trimester of pregnancy and has taken time away from her boyfriend and family to be here. I will need to move out when the others arrive, but for now we two are sharing the yurt. In the night she called my name. One of the top window flaps around the chimney was flying open. The wind was whistling all around us and we were fast losing precious heat. I eventually managed to free the piece of wood, which had trapped the flap open, with the broom handle. Then it was a matter of standing on a chair and reaching up as high as I could upon my toes and tying it down. It flew open again. The wind was winning. I went through the process again, while Teresa rummaged around and found some plastic ties. I just managed to loop the tie around the piece of wood and the yurt frame and fix it tight. This time it held fast. We slept on and off, both of us loading wood upon the fire, each time we woke. The wind howled all around and shook the yurt so forcefully, that I wondered if it might take off with us. I could feel the odd powdering of snow upon my face. It must have got in through a crack in the yurt. 

In the morning I woke to hear snow being shovelled from the our door. There was a knock and one of the night team was there to check we were OK. Many had stayed up all night, digging people out of their tents and tipis in the morning. Just now, two good men delivered us logs for the fire. More love. It was reported in a local newspaper today that, 'a strong blizzard may have helped put an end to the camp of protestors at Standing Rock.' Not so. It sounds like wishful thinking to me. These people are stronger than that.

This morning Teresa and I trudged across the snowy, frozen river to join the women's prayer circle. Several feet of snow had fallen in the night. Every muscle in my body strained to make my way through the snow drifts, some as high as my thighs. The circle of women, including one honorary man, was small today, but the prayers were strong and the songs were good. As we walked back, the sun was out, lighting up the powdery snow flying across the ice.

Teresa in the yurt

Give and take

This morning, before sunrise, I went down to the frozen river for the water blessing. A group of us stood on the banks as we prayed to the four directions, and somebody sang and drummed to the icy river, his voice carrying over to the other bank. Then everybody walked onto the ice to pray with tobacco and left it on the surface as an offering.

Later, I heard from James that the truck driver delivering the straw bales had called. The bales were ordered from Minnesota because it is so hard to find someone local who is willing to deliver to the camps at Standing Rock. While locals on the reservation are mainly supportive, there has been much hostility in surrounding areas, particularly Bismarck, with store owners refusing to serve or deliver goods, and worse, there has been threatening and unpleasant behaviour from others. Bear in mind that to this day it is legal in North Dakota to shoot an Indian on horseback so long as you are in a covered wagon. 

The truck driver was half way there when he called and announced that the price had doubled. James looked crestfallen. We all were. That someone would not only be willing to lose money on the fuel was shocking. That he could so dishonour his own word was disheartening. There was no attempt at negotiating. 'That's highway robbery,' said Donna in the kitchen. 'Send him back on the highway!'

It was a bitter moment and particularly so because James had intended to make the driver really welcome, to offer him a meal and a room up at the hotel. 'I want him to see what's going on here, and for him to take back word about what people are actually like.'

We will be looking for another delivery, of course. What strikes me about this is that it is impossible to do something like this without hurting oneself. We all live in the same waters. 

The day before, I saw a delivery of some wonderful things: warm fleece balaclavas, energy bars, safe camping heaters, and I saw what an effect those donations had upon people, lifting their spirits. The camps are all thriving thanks to others generosity. There is plenty of food everywhere, which means that anyone on the camp can walk into any kitchen and be offered food. I'm not sure that I have got across how very hard most people work, whether they are in the kitchens, on the healing and medic teams, in construction or on security. There are endless logs to chop, there is always more snow to melt to wash endless dishes and more snow to shovel. The fact that the camps have been so generously supported, makes all this energy possible. 

I've been thinking too about what the grandmas have been saying. Grandma energy is rising. The earth is our mama, our grandma. I think of how I treated my own grandmothers: with much love and respect. It would have been unthinkable to snatch or steal from either of them. They were endlessly generous with their love and made an art of cherishing me. I always loved how they used to say, 'yes, of course you shall, my darling,' when I asked for something. (It was usually something to eat!) And that is how we need to treat our Earth, with the same respect, love and deference. She needs to be honoured. She feeds us, provides us with all we have. It is time to stop carving her up, ripping out her 'resources' and fouling her clean waters. It's time to give something back to her: to feed her soils, to honour her with ceremony and thanks, to know when we have had enough., to stop taking so much. We need to treat her like the generous grandma she is. 

I came up to the hotel to post this, and I met James and Anis, who were staying here and they offered me a shower in their bathroom. I cannot express how good the hot water felt! Giving thanks for clean water.  

If I don't manage to post again before Christmas, let me wish you all a very happy and abundant Christmas. I will be thinking of my family and friends and missing them, and celebrating here with new friends. Sending love to you all.  

Drying corn

Standing together

I'm writing this on the shortest day of the year. Happy Solstice!

Yesterday there was celebration in the air. I went up Facebook Hill, so named because that is where phone reception is most likely. Friends sledged down the hill together on broken sleds. A friend and I were given a push and fell about laughing as we hurtled down the slope and rolled over onto the snow. I saw many rosy faces. 

Afterwards, I went to a meeting in the Dome, where elders and tribe headsmen were joined by people from the different camps. Everybody stood around the altar and prayers were said. Some stood on chairs to see and hear better. Prayer songs were sung. Chase Iron Eyes spoke about the need to stick together, how there had been infiltrators seeding fear and confusion. 'That's what is supposed to happen.' He said that it was necessary to form some sort of spokes council and to open up lines of communication in the traditional way. 'This is not a hierarchy.' He spoke about how people all around the world were under the impression that the issue with the pipeline had been resolved. 'It has not. Please let them know, we are still here. We are here to stop the pipeline and to assert our treaties.'

The headsman, Soldier Boy, spoke about how he and other elders would be talking with Spirit about which direction they should be taking. He talked about how Native people receive their ceremonies from the land and from the sky. The elder, Blue Lightening, spoke about how women are the backbone of this camp and how they should all be taken care of. 'When elder women say something, you should listen.' There was much agreement in the room. Several addressed the issue of stealing in the camp. The message was clear. 'No one starves or freezes in this camp. Don't take and don't steal. Everyone can get what they need, although not necessarily what they want. If you are greedy, then leave,' said one elder. 'We are strong. Remember where you came from. One tribe. One heart. One mind. One drumbeat.'  Another elder reminded people that, 'humanity is key to indigenous people. It doesn't matter if you are European. You are indigenous too. They just got to you first!' The gathering erupted into laughter. 

LaDonna Brave Bull Allard from Sacred Stone Camp spoke about the need to remain focused in prayer. 'Walk with respect wherever you go.' When somebody said they couldn't hear her, she shouted 'pray harder!' More laughter. She told how, earlier on in the year, she had gone down to the river to pray for the water and that when she got there, a woman came down in a canoe, singing and praying. When LaDonna looked up, she saw that the river was lined with people praying for the water. 

After the closing prayer, I said hello to LaDonna. She has a noble profile and a graceful way about her. Her hair is turning silver. Her son is buried up on the sacred burial site where the DAPL workers have been digging and disturbing remains. She was among the first women to start the camps of the water protectors. She shook my hand and told me, 'I grew up here, I rode horses along the river all my life.' She smiled and turned to go; someone needed her. 

The atmosphere after the meeting was warm and enthusiastic. I had the sense it had brought people together. 

This morning, I joined the women's prayer circle, held by Blue Lightening and Grandma Patricia. It felt so good to be with them and the other women. We sat on the earth to pray. Both grandmas wore shawls around their shoulders. Grandma Patricia spoke about how women's prayers are much needed in the camp to help with the issues present. She said that women's prayers are very needed everywhere at this time, that grandma energy is rising and the patriarchal waning. Blue Lightening instructed us that when one person prays, the rest of the circle can hold that prayer, focus on it, and amp it up, making it stronger for all. Grandma Patricia was beautiful in black, her dark hair streaked with white, her medicine bag about her neck. 'It's good to sit on Mother Earth. She hears us. She hears our prayers. Many, many spirits hear us.' Blue Lightening reminded us, 'the feminine is a circle. Mother Earth is round. We have circles for eyes, our veins are circular, when we hug our sweetheart, or our children, we make a circle with our arms. We are sacred.'

Last night, during the longest night of the year, I lay in bed in the yurt and the wind picked up again. I heard howling in the distance. It was the coyotes calling and answering each other, reminding me how vast the open spaces are here. I snuggled under the covers as the logs crackled in the stove. 

I reflected upon what is happening at Standing Rock. A diverse community of many tribes and nations has gathered to protect the water, to remember the old ways of thinking about the whole, of finding ways of working together, living and praying together; honouring our place in the natural system. We have tried the way of only looking out for ourselves for long enough to see that it isn't working. It hasn't made us healthy or happy or strong. It's no good if the waters are sick, if the air becomes fouled or the soil spoiled. We cannot eat money. How could we ever separate ourselves from the earth or the sun, from the moon and the stars, from the animals, or from our enemies? It is time to stand together. 

With friends on Facebook Hill

A strong centre

My first night in the yurt, the temperature outside reached-50C. The yurt is a circular, well insulated Mongolian style tent with a stove in the middle. In the day, it is used by acupuncturists and massage therapists to give treatments. Misha and I used the massage couches as beds. Thankfully, I was warm, actually very cosy.  Every time one of us woke, we would stoke the fire. When I opened the door in the morning, the sky was rosy with the dawn. Wood smoke rose from tipis in every direction. It was good to be here.

The insulation panels arrived and the kitchen is now half lined, making it feel much warmer and more solid too. I will be buying some rubber flooring mats out of the donated funds, which will make the floor less slippery and help to insulate from the cold. Also on the shopping list are carbon monoxide alarms, as there are so many stoves and heaters on site.

Yesterday, I heard that a woman was arrested on Turtle Island, the sacred burial site, close to where DAPL are constructing. The pipeline lights are constantly turned upon the camp. Helicopters continue to circle, day and night. I also heard that camp drones got footage of two or three DAPL drill bits breaking in the frozen ground over the last week or so. This represents a significant financial cost to DAPL, for as well as the cost of replacing them, considerable penalties will be due to shareholders for every day their project goes over the January 1st deadline.

As the sun was low on the horizon, I went to the sweat lodge, the inipi, led by Donald Little Thunder, from the Sacred Hoop Camp on the Rosebud Reservation. Sitting on the earth, in the dark, the steam rising from the red-hot stones, with the beating of the drum and the singing of prayer songs, seeing glimpses of faces lit up by the fire outside, there was nothing to indicate whether this was 2016 or 1016. Prayers were said for the water and for the earth, for future generations, for families at home. Heartfelt prayers of apology were made for the colonisation of the Native American Nation, and the pain and suffering caused, and there were prayers too, asking for help with forgiving those people who caused it. Sacred chanupa pipes were passed around. For all the political discussions, for all the talk of ecological activism on the camp, this inipi and these prayers feel like the still centre at the heart of what is happening here at Standing Rock. There were many prayers for the DAPL workers and for their families. People prayed that there would be be a day when they would join us in the sweat lodge. Aho mitakuye oyasin. We are all related. There is no us and them.

It was so hot in the inipi, that I imagined rolling in the snow, but the minute I stepped outside, my feet actually burned with the cold and I realised that wasn't going to happen! Then we dressed and warmed ourselves by the roaring fire outside, watching the sparks dancing up into the night. Venus was radiant in the west, and clouds like whale ribs hung in the darkening sky.

I crossed the frozen Cannonball river one evening, to visit the Navajo Hoghan for dinner. Blue Lightening, a Shoshone elder from the Wind River reservation, spoke to the group gathered there. 'I tell people who visit us on the reservations, don't ask so many questions. Why don't you just observe what we do and learn that way, instead of letting your energy go all over the place with all those questions.' She spoke calmly and intently. 'Keep yourself together. Keep your focus. That's what Spirit wants from us.' She paused. 'We were given the gift of taking care of the environment. No one would listen to us. We won't have anything left: we get everything from Mother Earth. What are you going to leave behind?' She looked around the room. Behind her, three young women were patting out tortillas in their hands. 'Seven generations ahead, they will say we cared about them. We came here to protect the water.'

Blue Lightening made a prayer for the food, and spoke about how, when prepared with love, it is a medicine, that the potency of that medicine is increased when food is made by women, because of their connection to the earth. Dinner was served, a warming, spicy, lamb stew with mashed potato and the fresh corn tortillas. Elders and women and children were invited up first. Liz, the Navajo cook in the Hoghan, agreed to my coming to cook with them, once the straw bale project is completed.

Last night, temperatures rose and a west wind blew straight down the angled chimney, filling the yurt, and our lungs with smoke. Eventually, Meesha went for help, and Curly, the camp leader of the Sicangu Oyate tribe (Burnt Thigh Nation) arrived, accompanied by two young men. Within twenty minutes one had scaled the roof and taken off the top section of the chimney, all the while directed by Curly. The smoke flew straight up the chimney.

Heroes, most definitely! And all part of helping each other out, part of Standing Rock camp life.

The insulated yurt

Anis cooking in the half insulated kitchen  

Chopping wood

I've been invited to stay at Rosebud Camp, and a corner in the cosy Healing yurt, where people can go for acupuncture and massage, has been set aside for me. I'm feeling so grateful that I will have a spot in a yurt warmed by a central stove! I've been taking a couple of days off from visiting camp, making the most of the hotel, resting and attempting to shake off the headcold I have caught, before I move over tomorrow. I've been drinking elderberry syrup and 'fire cider,' a potent brew of cider vinegar, garlic, chilli peppers and turmeric, given to me by the heavenly healing crew, who have a station here at the hotel to take care of people who are sick, traumatised, who came out of jail or needed recuperation and rest after being tear gassed or shot at with rubber bullets. Every time I take a shower, I've been appreciating what a luxury that clean hot running water is. Lots of people have colds and some, quite harsh coughs. There have been cases of pneumonia. Many could be due to the cold conditions, but there are those who put the coughs down to chemical spraying from DAPL. The presence of DAPL continues to be felt as their helicopters circle the camps and their lights glare up on the hill.

The straw bales have been ordered, bought with some of the money I fundraised - a huge thank you to all - and should arrive in a few days. These will be used to insulate the kitchen and the pantry at Rosebud. The day before yesterday, I spent some time helping to re-organise the kitchen. The sub zero temperatures mean that everything is a freezer. Sheets of ice coat the ceiling. Tins and eggs are frozen solid. It also means that there is no problem about where to store meat. The atmosphere in the kitchen was cheerful and industrious. We laughed at some of the items which we found in the donations. I can't imagine that a jam making jelly strainer will be needed any time soon. And yet as James, the carpenter, said, 'each of those tins of food and those items is a prayer of support.'  

Later, I went out with Meesha to learn how to chop wood. Chainsaws whined and the ringing of axes echoed in every direction as people split logs. Stores of wood are needed in case another blizzard strikes. James advised me, 'keep some food in your quarters in case one comes. The best thing is to stay put. It's so easy to get lost.' I had a skilled teacher in Meesha and she showed me how to use the weight of the handle. I found I could split pieces into fairly small kindling, but was still getting my axe stuck in the bigger logs. In any case it warmed me up. 

Everywhere I go, I see people helping each other out, being generous, and asking after each other. I was given a ride back to Oceti from a descendant of Sitting Bull, a large, welcoming man from South Dakota. He handed out boxes of hand warmers to the guards at the gate and plied me with buffalo jerky, made with meat he had hunted himself. 'Thanks for being here,' he told me. 'We appreciate it.' Then I was back in the hoghan to warm up. Somebody immediately insisted I take his seat. Once I'd warmed up, it was my turn to offer my seat to a woman who looked chilled through.

DAPL have been blocking phone signal at the camps, so I will be coming up to the hotel in order to update these posts. This is the first time I have stayed in a hotel where the elevators smell of sage, where nearly everybody smiles hello and where every now and again somebody bursts out singing a traditional Lakota prayer song, which I hear travelling through the walls of my bedroom, along the corridors and down in the dining room. 

Meesha powering through the log pile

The freezer kitchen  

A lesson in making fry bread

A new fire

The morning of my departure from London, I saw that the chairman of Standing Rock, David Archambault II, had requested for people not to travel out to the camps. At the same time, some of the elders were asking people to remain, saying people were needed. All were united in supporting those who were prepared to stay through the harsh winter conditions. What was clear was that the camps had been substantially stretched by 10,000 people coming through, including 2000 veterans. My flight was due to leave in a few hours. What to do? My stomach tightened. I breathed, reflected, and asked for guidance. As I was booked into the casino hotel and was going to be self sufficient, I decided to continue with my journey. It felt like a yes. 

In the weeks before I left for Standing Rock, I had an image of a maelström moving fast around a still centre. Arriving here, I did see chaos. It was disheartening to see the heaps of clothes in the snow, most of them not nearly warm enough, to see the abandoned tents, half buried in snowdrifts. I heard stories of theft. A couple had a fight in the hotel room next to mine. It was clear that this is a time of major transition. The sacred fire, where prayers were said, was put out on my first day. Many were sad about that. Someone lit it again the next day. The elders asked for trust in their ways, even if they are not understood. They put the fire out again. People huddled in the hotel, rumours spreading like Chinese whispers. Plans were made for moving on to protect water in other places.

'Oh you should have been here when the veterans got here to support the water protectors. You should have been here for the celebrations, it's all different now,' I was told. Had I got my timing wrong?

I saw people reorganising, cleaning and clearing up, I saw people helping each other out. There were meetings, there was talk. There were prayers. I continued to wash up in the Navajo hoghan and to talk to people. Many asked me where I had come from and thanked me for travelling such a long way to be here to protect the water. 

Yesterday, I met with James Wop, from Hawaii, to talk about funding some straw bales and panels for insulating the kitchen and pantry at Rosebud camp. We talked in his cosy, insulated cabin. Rosebud camp is on the other side of the Cannonball river from Oceti Sakowin. It's on Reservation land, unlike Oceti, which is on land taken over by the Army Corps. If Oceti is a big town, then Rosebud is a village. 

James has been here for the last three months. 'I was clean shaven when I got here!' he said, touching his beard. He is a carpenter and has been supporting those on the frontline by winterising structures. He is much in demand all over the camp, building compost toilets and sorting out stoves, roofing and insulation. His eyes are clear hazel, his presence is calm. 

'I find myself in the mid generation. I'm old enough to be experienced and yet young enough to be physically strong.' When I asked him why he is here now, why he continues to stay at Standing Rock, he told me, 'sometimes I have felt like leaving. I mean, I could get on a plane and be in Hawaii!' He smiles. 'But you know, on the very same day we heard the news about the court decision not to allow drilling, as everyone was celebrating and whooping, I could see through my binoculars that works were continuing. The lights were up. ETP were putting in fence posts and barbed wire. They were drilling. They were digging and moving the earth. You know, that's sacred burial ground.' James said he's found that there is often one moment that turns people into a spiritual warrior. For him it was seeing the image of the man in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square. 'I recognised the truth of that. I wanted a piece of that non-violence and that honour.'

Regarding Archambault's request for people to leave, James said, 'He has a responsibility and is thinking of people's safety. Some people were so unprepared for the cold weather, going around in jeans and tennis shoes, as if they were at a festival. That's how someone could die in this weather. They had to go. Archambault would be the first person to have a finger pointed at him if that happened. You know, the blizzard really filtered people out. There were 10,000 of us. Now we are more like 3000. The core crew here are some of the most resilient people I have ever met. We are prepared in every way to be here, not just to endure it, but to enjoy it. We are staying.' He rolled a cigarette. 'You know, the seven council fires are burning over at Oceti. They represent the tribes of the Great Sioux Nation. And a new sacred fire has been lit by the group from the Youth Council of Standing Rock.' They are the ones who ran all the way from North Dakota to Washington DC to present a petition against the pipeline to the Army Corps. 'They are the seventh generation,' said James. 

The prophecy of the seventh generation, attributed to Black Elk, tells among other things, that seven generations after contact with Europeans, after seeing birds falling from the sky and fish dying in the water, the tribal youth would rise up and provide leadership to all those who previously failed.

We hugged goodbye. 'So glad you listened to your call and came out,' he told me. 

James by the orange pulled tension cable which has been stretched across the frozen Cannonball river, so that people could get across in a blizzard.

Back at the hotel, I met Bohemia, a beautiful young woman from California, part Cherokee, part English. She is staying at the camp for the winter, and needed to take a shower, so I let her and a friend use my bathroom. As she was drying her hair, she told me how she had seen the youth laying the foundation for the new sacred fire while the women were singing and drumming. 'The guys were so respectful in how they were digging, putting the soil carefully to one side, checking they weren't disturbing anything. I could feel a lot of spirits around. It was an emotional moment. There are fires which burn for generations.'

Speaking about the seventh generation, she said, 'you know, the elders needed rest and refuge. It's too much to ask them to mediate every little thing. It's time for the young people to step up and carry the weight. As the seventh generation, we need to mediate ourselves. We still love the elders, but they have their own things to look after. We say that we are all leaders. When all those people left the camp, it made a hole. The energy has to come back together. It's through nurturing each other that we get that community running again, by practising the seven Lakota values of prayer, respect, compassion, honesty, generosity, humility and wisdom. If things seem messy sometimes, it's because camp will bring up your stuff. If you have prejudice or snobbishness, it will come out. The water will make us heal ourselves. There's a parallel there with our turning towards clean energy and getting away from fossil fuels. We are turning towards a new spiritual energy too. It's all so new. It's like a baby deer has been born and is blinking in the sunlight.'

In the evening, at Oceti, the moon rose huge, orange and perfectly full in the sky. A cry went up from one end of the camp into the freezing air, 'Mni Wiconi!' Venus shone brightly in the West. Mni Wiconi!' came the answer, again and again from all over the camp. Mni Wiconi. Water is Life.

I know that I am here at the right time.

Living together

Many people are leaving the camp, while others will remain through the winter. 'The storms filtered people out. We now have a really strong group of people here.' I sat with with Carla Castaway by an oil drum stove in her family tent. With us were a fifteen year old girl from Wounded Knee melting ice on the stove, her younger sister, and Carla's sons. Carla is half Lakota and half Irish. 'My Dad and my Mum occupied Wounded Knee in 1973, and that is where I was made. I guess it makes sense that I'm here. This is what I was born to do: to protect. I brought the children with me so that they can see what we need to survive: the fire, the land, the air, the water. I want them to understand what we need to protect. We protect the wrong things, we protect our computers and our TVs. Since we've been here, my son has been learning to ride bareback. They've been learning things from these two.' Carla nodded towards the sisters. 'I've only recently come back to Lakota ways. These girls grew up with it.'

Alissa, fifteen was mending some clothes. 'My grandma taught me that the Lakota men didn't own the land. The women owned everything. It's the woman who is strong.  She is the backbone. She is sacred. It's the woman who sewed the tipi, who made the poles. If she put the man's things outside the tipi, then he was out. That's how it was.'

I headed over to the new kitchen to help with the endless washing up. We used boiled snow and vinegar in the rinse water as there is a Noro virus going around. As we washed and dried, Ben from Somerset told me that some of the women have not felt safe here, that some of them .have made this kitchen their own space to sleep. The building is circular, built around the stove in the centre. 'Sitting in the round makes it home,' said Chantel, a young woman from the Navajo reservation at Kayenta. 'It's like our hoghans, although this one is octagonal and not round. Ours are made with red sand and thatch. We always move clockwise in a hoghan, whatever we are doing. A hoghan is like Mother Earth. It's like a pregnant belly, somewhere warm and safe, somewhere you can feel comfortable, somewhere you can learn.' Then Carla echoed the girl from Wounded Knee. 'Women are the strongest. It's the woman who cooks. She's the one in charge, she will give orders for what the family needs, for wood, for water. The men follow her lead. 'When she came to Standing Rock, Chantel found herself doing some things for the first time. 'I made the dough for fry bread and I butchered a sheep. I had only watched these things before. My grandparents are very traditional, my grandpa is a medicine man and his great great grandpa was a chief in Monument Valley. I go to ceremonies every weekend. My grandma has taught me how to weave traditional rugs. We are grateful to have the land we have. We haul our water on our land, we have no taps.' Another woman was snacking on pine nuts by the fire and we talked about how they grow. Chantel told me how she learnt to use pine sap to treat cuts and burns. 'It's especially good if you add a couple of drops of vitamin E.' 

People are sharing skills, learning to live together despite their differences. And of course there are many differences. Being here, I cannot but be aware that I am a white woman from Britain. 'The country of our oppressors,' said one woman, an Oglala Sioux, quite matter of factly. Jessie Lamberto, from Virginia told me she was finding it uncomfortable. 'I'm so aware of my white privilege, aware of how much suffering there has been, of my own ancestry and of their part in that.' Tears filled her eyes. 'It's humbling.' 

Later, I met Trey Davenport and Heather Head as we watched the horses feeding on hay. 'I love how the hay is in the corral and the horses are free,' said Trey. We agreed that the horses seemed very good at living together. They were exceptionally calm animals, glowing in the rosy light of the setting sun. The moon brightened the sky opposite. Heather and Trey are both from Georgia and have Celtic ancestry. They will be staying for the winter. 'Its important to me to be here in the winter. I'm from the North, I have light skin. We were also oppressed, although we don't think of it that way, it just happened much longer ago.' They invited me back to the longhouse they built out of pallets and cardboard insulation and we chatted around the stove. 'The steep roof and the sharp angles work real well with the snow,' said Trey. Heather laughed, 'I've experienced more real life here in six weeks than I did in six years. Before I came here I only had to camp once in my whole life.'

Wherever I walked, people said hello to me and asked me if I'm keeping warm. On that note, you might like to know that I filled the car with bundles of wood bought from the funds raised and I have been sharing them around. 

A Warm Arrival

 It is cold here. It is so cold. It's like walking into a freezer, only it is actually colder than that. A freezer runs at -18C. Today the temperature was -28C.

I set off this morning from Bismarck in a sturdy 4 wheel drive. I wanted to get going before the snow came. The hotel night watchman warned me not to stay outside for longer than half an hour. 'That's all it can take to get frost bite.' I left the garages and supermarkets behind and passed ranches with silos and a few rows of feathery, frosted trees. The cattle were velvet black against the white, strangely lunar landscape, their breath rising in clouds above. The empty road stretched away in a straight line. Occasionally a truck or a SUV would pass me and I saw several cars abandoned in the snow at the side of the road. 

After about an hour or more, I saw the silhouette of the Casino Hotel looming on the hill. It's on the Reservation and belongs to the Sioux tribe, but is managed by a company. Gamblers sit at flashing slot machines, smoke cigarettes in front of tired croupiers. The walls around them are painted with scenes of buffalo and tipi encampments on the plains. Water protectors gather in the lobby and the dining room, taking refuge from the cold. 

Over a buffet lunch, I talked with Kendra and Bea. They have both been here since the Autumn. 'It's probably been the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' said Kendra. 'All these people coming together, realising there is something they can do. I've been blown away by the people I've met and by the skills they have shared. I helped build a yurt with the construction team. Others were building compost toilets. A woman was running a herbalism course. Before it got cold, it was heavenly living together like that. So many people have left now. ' Kendra looked sad. 'It's time for me to go home. Now it's so cold, I can't be self sufficient any longer. My food is all frozen. I can't even open the cans.'  

Bea came from the East coast in September, bringing solar panels for the camp. She has been arrested twice here at Standing Rock and has a court case coming up soon. 'I'll come back. It's not over. DAPL are still drilling.'  Kendra peeled back her sleeve and showed me faded biro marks on her skin. 'It's the phone number for legal aid. Everyone was told to write it on their arm in case they got arrested.' 

Both of them agreed that the welcome they received here was wonderful and they have passed time with brave and inspiring people. 'Real warriors. Noble people,' said Kendra. But she worried too, about infiltrators. 'I tend to trust everyone, but there have definitely been cases of people trying to sow dissension. And a bunch of DAPL stickers were found at the camp.'  

After lunch, I drove down to the Oceti Sakowin camp, passing on a bridge over the Cannonball River, the water now frozen solid. A man at the entrance gate welcomed me, and asked me if I am coming to visit 'in a good way.' I assured him I am. I was struck by the beauty of the coloured flags in the wind, the tipi poles pointing up into the white sky. People warmed themselves at fires. Hand warmers were handed out.  Everyone is wrapped up. Some were arranging lifts to go home. I arrived at the moment that the sacred fire was being burned for the last time. Wood is short. A Native American man spoke prayers into a microphone. 'There are no real goodbyes. Take what you have learned here and bring it home. Protect the water and the land wherever you are.' Large quantities of sage and cedar, whole bags of tobacco were placed on the embers, sending their sweet smoke over a statue of a beautiful woman with braids. Someone ladled hot water onto the earth, making a lake around her feet. 'Mni Wiconi! Water is Life!' 

I stood next to Mark, a strong looking 'Native' with a kind face. We shook hands. 'I was born here at Standing Rock.' He had also just arrived. But he didn't drive. He walked through the snow for eight hours to be here.

I had brought some tobacco with me. I asked him who I might offer it to. 'To my uncle,' he said, and he led me to an elder. We waited at a distance while he finished a conversation with someone. And then the elder came to me, and I gave him the tobacco, and told him I had come from England, that many people there were praying for the water and the people at Standing Rock. We took our gloves off and shook each other's hand. 'Thank you,' he told me. 'I won't forget that.' 

Nor will I. 

A good day

I heard the good news late last night. Yesterday, the Obama administration denied Energy Transfer Partners (ETP) the easement needed to complete the last piece of their oil pipeline, that section supposed to pass under the Missouri River. 

This unusual intervention from the administration is an historic victory, a huge relief for all those who have been courageously protecting the water each day over the last months, as well as for millions supporting them all over the world. It's a cause for celebration, for singing, for hugs and for prayers of thanks. The water remains clean. For now.

Several friends of mine have asked, will you still be travelling out to Standing Rock? I have been considering this question today, along with the recent news.

As a young child, watching films with my older cousins, I was regularly laughed at for asking, 'who are the Goodies and who are the Baddies?' I needed to know who to back. There is a part of me that wants to see this latest development as that victorious moment in a film; that moment when justice prevails, when the score turns epic and stirs the emotions, the sweet moment when the Goodies have won and now the credits are rolling to joyous violins and expansive scenery.

It absolutely is a time to celebrate. It's a moment to celebrate the power of people peacefully coming together to protect the water and the earth. It's a good day for the water of the Missouri River. It's a good day for the sacred burial grounds of Standing Rock. It's a good day, long in coming, in terms of making a start in respecting the sovereignty of Native Americans on their land. It's a good day for Mama Earth.

However, it is clear that the story is not over. The army corps have said they will undertake an environmental impact statement, a lengthy process which could halt construction for years. Assistant secretary for civil works, Jo-Ellen Darcy said the order to halt the pipeline was based on "a need to explore alternative routes" for the crossing. There is no guarantee that DAPL will respect the order to stop works, after all, the prospect of paying fines has not restrained them until now. So many promises and treaties have been broken before, that Native American people have every reason to be distrustful.

Even if DAPL do respect the call to halt the works, a re-routing of the pipeline does not constitute a happy ending. It is not just land on Native American territory that is sacred. All land is sacred. The difference is that the tribes living on those reservations know that land is sacred and treat it as such. The ultimate goal must be to stop the pipeline altogether, to make good as far as possible the damage done by digging, to leave the oil in the ground and to break our addiction to fossil fuels and switch to renewable energy. Perhaps then I will hear the violins.

The time immediately following a victory can be delicate. On January 20th there will be a new president, one who has strong allegiances to fossil fuels. Not only does Trump intend to further invest in fossil fuels and their infrastructures, not only does he have a stake in ETP, having personally invested money in the company, but ETP has paid money towards electing Trump. They are bound up with one another. Very likely there will be appeals.

There are some at Standing Rock who will be returning home to be with their families, to rest and to recover. Others intend to stay and continue to protect the water and the land. On December 10th, I will be joining the water protectors, to celebrate together, to hear their stories, to write about what I see, to help out, and to touch the sacred water of the Missouri river and to pray for the purity of the water, there and everywhere.

Chiaroscuro - the light and the dark

It's easy to feel disheartened by the immensity of what we face at this time. One only has to glance at Facebook, to pick up a newspaper, or to listen to the news to feel overwhelmed by the sight of  the dying forests and coral reefs, of elephants being killed wantonly for their tusks, of wars raging, refugees suffering, indigenous tribes dealing with black oily swamps and the news that dozens, if not hundreds, of species are dying out every single day. The extent of the destruction caused by the human race is so enormous and happening so fast that it is easy to feel overwhelmed and to keep it at arm's length. 

Last Christmas I was made deeply uneasy by the uncanny warmth of the weather, by the sight of daffodils blooming in December, by the sense of wrongness in the air. In the new year, something cracked in me. I could no longer keep all this at bay. The immediate physicality of my perceptions made me finally let in the possibility that we might not be alright in the end, that we might not make it, after all. Then, I grieved. I cried every day for ten days.  I would wake up and the heaviness in my heart would remind me of the irreplaceability of what we are losing, rather in the way that when someone dies there is the realisation each morning. Oh yes, they have died.

The crying was a relief. Through my tears, I fell in love with the beauty of the winter skies. The trees moved me in their silent dependability and the birdsong became acutely exquisite. I felt more alive than ever. Living in London, I was amazed how many people returned my smile. I was almost sorry when that time passed, as it inevitably did. 

It seems to me that we are living in a time of great contrasts. As the darkness of the world becomes more obvious, so does the light become brighter. The darkness and the brightness bring each other into relief. As construction of the DAPL pipeline continues, as the people of Standing Rock come together to pray for the water and to protect their land, as I prepare for the cold, borrowing a very warm coat, buying an arctic sleeping bag and mittens, this is what I think about.

Who we are

I’ve always objected to the term, ‘the environment’. The environment is something apart; it has its own subject in school, its own section in bookshops, its own governmental department. It suggests a backdrop for humans, a stage set for our business. What it does not begin to convey is the living intelligence within trees, rocks, plants and water, within the very air we breathe, within the lions, the elephants and the stars, within the earth, the sun and the moon, within a curled up woodlouse, within us.

Reading some of the letters of support for the water protectors, I am moved by how the Apache former chairman, Wendsler Nosie Sr writes to Dave Archambault, the chairman of the Standing Rock Sioux tribe:

‘For us, Oak Flat, known to us as Chi’chil Bildagoteel has always been our connection to our Mother, our right to exist, a central part of our prayers, songs, stories and spiritual practices. It is from here that we emerged. It is who we are.’

It is this love and total connection to our Mother, the understanding that we are part of nature, which inspires me. That, along with the wise, brave commitment to remaining peaceful. It is what has called me to go out to Standing Rock.

As the police in North Dakota turn tear gas, rubber bullets and water cannons onto the activists at Standing Rock, as the injuries escalate, as the silence in the press deafens, as the lack of response from President Obama stuns, this peaceful response is, I am certain, all the more vital.

It makes me think of a time when I said no to a bully a few years ago. I was faced with threats and lies, blackmail and a court case. As someone who really dislikes conflict, this was severely testing. My way through this was to aim to be the person I wanted to be, to be brave, even if I was terrified, to sort out my affairs as best as I could so that I was beyond the reach of blackmail, and to behave as impeccably as I knew how in response to what felt like grenades being thrown in my path. It truly stretched me.

The peaceful response requires strength and patience. But most of all, it is an effective way. I think of Gandhi and the Independence of India. I think of the persistence of the suffragists, including my own great grandmother, MAM, and how they brought the vote to women in Britain, and I think of Rosa Parks who refused to stand for a white passenger on the bus. The peaceful way worked for them and it worked for me too.

I hope and pray with all my heart that it works for the water, for the land and the people of Standing Rock. I hope it works for us all.