[News] Indigenous Resistance Is Post-Apocalyptic, with Nick Estes
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Fri Aug 2 12:59:33 EDT 2019
https://www.dissentmagazine.org/online_articles/booked-indigenous-resistance-is-post-apocalyptic-with-nick-estes?fbclid=IwAR0vIuDppSXyuiH6v08oJ5yltxjN9T-le0aht-j0RPulSWEyjpNZh_GZqCQ
Indigenous Resistance Is Post-Apocalyptic, with Nick Estes
Nick Serpe - July 31, 2019
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Nick Estes discusses the deep historical roots of the convergence at
Standing Rock, why Indigenous peoples have taken a leading role in the
climate justice movement, and why decolonization must be part of any
left-wing agenda.
/Booked <https://www.dissentmagazine.org/tag/booked> is a series of
interviews about new books//. For this edition, senior editor Nick Serpe
spoke with Nick Estes, author of /Our History Is the Future: Standing
Rock Versus the Dakota Access Pipeline, and the Long Tradition of
Indigenous Resistance
<https://www.versobooks.com/books/2953-our-history-is-the-future>/,
published in May by Verso Books. Estes is also the co-editor, with
Jaskiran Dhillon, of /Standing with Standing Rock: Voices from the
#NoDAPL Movement
<https://www.upress.umn.edu/book-division/books/standing-with-standing-rock>/,
out this August from the University of Minnesota Press./
In /Our History Is the Future/, Nick Estes, a citizen of the Lower Brule
Sioux Tribe, uses the occasion of the 2016–2017 grassroots movement
against the Dakota Access Pipeline—the largest Indigenous-led protest
movement in North America in the twenty-first century—to look at the
longer history of resistance to settler colonialism by the Oceti Sakowin
(or “Seven Council Fires,” often referred to by the settler-originated
name “Great Sioux Nation”). While the movement against that pipeline now
also lies in the past, Estes explains how it continues to feed movements
in motion today. In this interview, he also outlines what climate
justice activists can learn from Indigenous political struggle, and why
decolonization must be an essential part of any serious left-wing
agenda, in the United States and beyond.
*Nick Serpe*: In /Our History is the Future/ you cover a number of
episodes in the history of the Oceti Sakowin that connect a long
tradition of resistance to settler colonialism to the fight against the
Dakota Access Pipeline in 2016. Why is it important to think
historically about Indigenous resistance today, and what was so
significant about #NoDAPL, the convergence at Standing Rock, even if the
pipeline was eventually authorized and completed?
*Nick Estes*: U.S. history typically dates anything about Indigenous
people as happening in the nineteenth century or before. There is not a
sense of a continuity from the nineteenth to twentieth century. But in
my research, for example, I found a key link that carried
nineteenth-century resistance into the twentieth-century movements. The
Indian Wars are seen as beginning and ending in one century but not
continuing on with the implementation of the reservation system and then
onward to the construction of the dams in the middle of the twentieth
century. A decade after the Wounded Knee Massacre [in 1890], Indigenous
resistance efforts attempted to bring forward their treaty claims to a
world forum at the League of Nations—that’s huge. Often times we say
that Indigenous resistance faded after the massacre, alongside Fredrick
Jackson Turner’s frontier. That’s more of a trope of U.S. history than
reality. When I was told those oral histories it was like this through
line that tells a different story than tragic defeat. James Mooney’s
book, /The Ghost**Dance Religion/, for example, misinterpreted the Ghost
Dance as a millenarian revivalist movement, as more akin to
Christianity. In his account and in popular understanding, our
resistance died at Wounded Knee. But it didn’t die.
This history makes Standing Rock simultaneously exceptional and not
exceptional. As an organizer and an intellectual, I think there is
purchase to that kind of thinking: not just thinking about your movement
as doing something new but as a continuation. Standing Rock was a
reiteration our traditions of resistance: the unification of grassroots
movements with tribal councils, the treaty councils, the reunification
of our Seven Nations, the Oceti Sakowin. Alongside all of these, you saw
the best of our diplomatic tradition—“Lakota” means friend and
ally—that’s one of our primary tools of resistance. It was a convergence
of all of those elements—that’s why Standing Rock was a certain kind of
historical turning point, not just for us as Oceti Sakowin but for the
Indigenous movement in America.
*Serpe*: For many, #NoDAPL was their first encounter with the term
“water protector.” Many were using an old concept, Mni Wiconi, “water is
life,” as a rallying cry. Beyond the obvious fact that water is
essential to life, why did water figure so centrally in the fight
against the pipeline? How does that relate to the historic relationship
between the people who have lived on that land and colonial settlement
around the Missouri River?
*Estes*: The invaders came by water, on ships or upstream on the
Missouri River, the Mni Sose. Our first encounter with the colonizer was
mediated by the use of water as a highway, as a means of travel. Our
first relationship with the United States government was mediated by the
control over a water source. It wasn’t just about drinking water, which
is important, or watering animals or plants. Water is life in the sense
that mobility is life. It gave the ability to move and to travel, to
hunt and fish. That first relationship with the United States was also
inherently a military encounter, so we called them Mílahaŋska, which
means “long knives,” because of the sabers they carried. Later on came
fur traders in militarized units, the vanguards of capitalism, then the
Army Corps of Engineers, who eventually determined the path that the
Dakota Access Pipeline would take.
In that sense, “water protector” is related to the first encounter with
Lewis and Clark in 1804. We are still defending our rights to this
water, which were codified in our treaties and agreements with the
United States, made under our authority of the pipe, or the Canupa as we
call it, and which the United States continually refuses to uphold. But
those covenants go back further to our original agreements with the
nonhuman world, with the White Buffalo Calf Woman who brought us into
correct relations with the water, the land, and the animals. We call her
Pte Skan Win, the primary prophet of Lakota people who brought us our
spiritual teachings and values. Mni Wiconi precedes all of that.
At the same time, when we say something like “water is life” or “water
protectors,” why should we as Indigenous people have to perform a kind
of spiritual connection with water? It should be enough to say that
every group of people on this planet has a basic human right to water.
And access to water is an issue of class: in Johannesburg, Delhi, Flint,
Michigan, and Standing Rock.. If we look at the major water consumers in
the Northern Plains, they’re fracking rigs, which access to millions of
gallons of fresh water every day for free, while simultaneously
polluting millions of gallons of fresh water, and irrigation for
large-scale industrial agriculture production. They aren’t drawing water
from the river itself but from the Ogallala Aquifer, one of the largest
underground aquifers in the world. It is currently being depleted though
overuse and misuse.
Some of the poorest people in North America are taking on some of the
most powerful interests over the question of access to clean drinking
water. That is going to continue to define struggles over resources for
generations as climate change intensifies. Even the Department of
Defense has identified water as a key strategic interest and called
climate change a “threat multiplier” that will increase or intensify the
conflict over resources, domestically and at the international level.
The threat for them is climate refugees: millions of people fleeing
their homelands because of human-induced—or rather
capitalist-induced—climate change.
So “water protector” has a meaning that goes beyond what is
categorically seen as Indigenous. Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez, for example,
or anybody who crossed the security barrier at the Oceti Sakowin camp or
at Sacred Stone became a water protector in that moment. “Water
protector,” the slogan “water is life,” were popularized by Standing
Rock, and they’ve become icons of this generation’s climate justice
movement.
That’s a lesson we should be taking in discussions of the Green New
Deal—that the most spectacular, popular climate justice movement in
recent memory, which I would say spring-boarded the Green New Deal, was
Indigenous-led. It continues to be Indigenous-led. So why isn’t
decolonization part of the agenda? I think there is a miscalculation
that everyday Americans can’t hold the complexity of this nation, the
fact that it is a settler-colonial nation, in their mind while at the
same time understanding that decolonization can be implemented in almost
any progressive struggle.
*Serpe:* In the book, you consistently take prophecy, tradition, and
different epistemologies seriously, but the book is still rooted in a
materialist analysis of history and the current moment. Why is it
important to bring these analyses together? How you do this without
being dismissive or condescending on the one hand, and without
mystifying or romanticizing something that has to do with people’s
everyday lives on the other?
*Estes*: Indigenous studies has proposed and resolved certain questions
in the four decades of its existence, including the idea that Indigenous
perspectives are valid and in some ways superior to colonizers’
perspectives on our history—and that Indigenous peoples have the right
to tell their own stories according to their own traditions. I think
that’s really important. What I’ve learned from my own study, especially
books like Engels’s /The Origin of Family, Private Property, and the
State/—there are problems with the book, but it also shows how
Indigenous history can teach us that capitalism is neither inevitable
nor natural. It shows that there were non-capitalist societies,
non-capitalist nations, non-capitalist civilizations, that had advanced,
and that were knocked off of their developmental trajectory by colonialism.
The attempt of Indigenous studies is, very much in the line with the
thinking of African Marxist revolutionary Amílcar Cabral, to “return to
the source.” He’s not saying return to a mystical Indigenous past. What
he’s saying is to return to that path of social development that we were
once on, to take our experience as colonized people as well as this
non-capitalist, anti-colonial, anti-capitalist core of Indigenous
history, combine them and use those tools to view our history. We live
in a capitalist society and we can’t extricate ourselves from that, but
at the same time we have remnants of a non-capitalist way of viewing the
world. And it is grounded in our relationships.
This is a huge word in Indigenous studies right now—relationality—that I
think has become mystified. We’re not the Na’vi of /Avatar/ running
around plugging our brains into trees trying to download data. I go back
to the buffalo, because buffalo relations really represent the form of
relationality that we had with animals. It wasn’t just this mystical
kind of thing where we were communing with them outside of history. They
represented a source of life for us in the sense that without the
buffalo, we wouldn’t be the Lakota people, by mere fact that we wouldn’t
have a food source.
Our relationship with the buffalo wasn’t just one-way; they weren’t just
providing for us. We managed those herds; we cleared out the land for
pasture. We would burn it, to clear the landscape to ensure the survival
of the buffalo nations. That is a very material relationship. There is
reverence in our stories and our songs [for the buffalo], but I think
those cultural protocols were created to prevent us from
over-exploitation and from throwing out of balance that relationship.
The same could be said with water. We didn’t use water for
hydroelectricity. We had our own technologies, but it wasn’t the same in
the sense of thinking of nature as a dead object that could be
commodified. I don’t want to romanticize us as Indigenous people, but we
did have a certain kind of relationship that wasn’t perfect but was an
attempt to seek correct relations with the non-human world. I don’t
think it’s the solution, but it’s a kernel of a larger solution to the
current catastrophe that we’re facing with climate change. Indigenous
people have a lot to say and an important role to play in how we address
these issues.
*Serpe*: I was really struck by one particular essay in /Standing with
Standing Rock/ by Elizabeth Ellis, where she sounds an optimistic note
about the fire lit by the fight against Dakota Access Pipeline. She
writes: “This fight forced non-Indigenous Americans to acknowledge not
just the existence of real, modern, Native Americans but also that
unresolved treaty claims and U.S. colonization of Indigenous peoples and
lands are very current problems. Furthermore, the conversations about
water rights, self-determination, police violence, and racism that the
#NoDAPL movement fostered have also forged a new intersectional platform
that applies Indigenous perspectives of settler-colonial nationalism to
critique oppression across the United States.” I wanted to ask you, as
an organizer, about developments in Indigenous movement politics in the
years since Standing Rock. But I also want to hear what you think about
how seriously this budding North American left takes the issue of
decolonization. Are there encouraging signs of coalition building,
solidarity? What work remains to be done?
*Estes*: Everyone can point to Standing Rock, but they can’t really
point to what’s happened after Standing Rock. When Indigenous politics
enter the mainstream discussion, it’s often facilitated by white
racism—whether it’s Elizabeth Warren’s DNA claims or the
MAGA-hat-wearing Catholic school boys taunting an Indigenous elder on
the National Mall. People have those images in their minds, but they
can’t tell you the backstory behind it. They can’t tell you that the
incident on the National Mall was part of a very large Indigenous-led
march to remember missing and murdered Indigenous women (MMIW). Or the
fact that, as explained on Rebecca Nagle’s /This Land /podcast, there’s
a longstanding tradition of white Oklahomans who are white supremacists
claiming to be Indigenous or part of the Cherokee nation to take Native
land. The media want these juicy topics, but they remove the historical
context.
That Elizabeth Ellis quote is spot on. I think it reflects across all
the contributors to /Standing with Standing Rock/. Many of them are
still on the front lines or have been on the front lines, battling
extractive industries, battling for LGBTQ and Two Spirit rights in
Indigenous communities and the mainstream, fighting for MMIW, fighting
police violence to this day. Some of them are back home creating
community gardens for people to use. It didn’t stop at Standing Rock, it
continues. Just because you don’t see what’s going on doesn’t mean it
isn’t going on.
There is a critical approach that we can to take to this movement. I’ve
been asking myself this question for the last three years: why didn’t
Standing Rock arise into a broader national or international movement
with clear political demands? Instead, we’ve seen the outcome of
Standing Rock as getting several Native congresswomen elected. Which is
good: it shows that people aren’t all buying the Trump moment, that in
this moment of white backlash you can get two Indigenous women elected
to Congress who are liberals—I wouldn’t say they’re leftists!—with a
host of other congresswomen who are somewhat leftist. That’s a huge
deal, but that was not the desired outcome of Standing Rock.
There’s oil flowing through that pipeline, and there’s talk of actually
expanding its capacity. But it’s not just about pipelines. People think
that’s all that Indigenous people do is just try to stop pipelines.
That’s a tactic among a host of strategies, long-term strategies, for
restoring the Missouri River basin watershed, asserting our sovereignty
in connection to those lands as well, to the point where corporations
and the United States government won’t be able to just willy-nilly
trespass through our land anymore. While there hasn’t been a coalescence
of a long-term, larger movement, there has been a lot of long-term
thinking and planning. It’s still very diverse and scattered right now.
The second question that you have was about the left. To be honest, the
left has failed to take seriously settler colonialism, and not just
Indigenous decolonization but decolonization in general as a platform.
I’ve had a lot of discussions with leftists, socialists, progressive
trade unions. People are genuinely interested; they’re not hostile to it
automatically. I think it’s just that how we define class in this
country, by traditional or historical elements of the left, essentially
erases Indigenous people because it prioritizes the needs of settler
society over Indigenous nationhood. They’re often framed as competing
systems. We’ve seen a lot of socialists and leftists asking about
Indigenous reparations, which is funny because there’s never been an
overarching demand by Indigenous people /for /reparations. [The demand
is for] land return. Anishinaabe scholar and intellectual Leanne Simpson
said it best (I’m going to paraphrase her): settler society always asks
us for solutions to these problems, but they don’t like our answers,
because they’re really hard. It gets to the root of this society. It
would be like going back to the nineteenth century and advocating for
class struggle without talking about the abolition of slavery. It would
be absurd!
The last two centuries have been defined by unrestrained,
settler-colonial land grabs. Just in the last couple years, the Trump
administration has opened up millions and millions of acres of “public”
lands—even that name itself erases indigeneity—for exploitation, the
extraction of oil and gas, mining, and so on. Everyone thinks that the
major land grabs happened in the nineteenth century—but, in fact, the
land grabs are still going on today. These extractive industries are
linked from the Bakken region to the tar sands in Alberta, Canada, and
Indigenous peoples have been making that connection for years. Because
of Indigenous movements, now people are finally paying attention.
Naomi Klein says the Green New Deal is a kind of a laundry list of
progressive movements, linking housing rights, rights to green jobs, and
so on, to climate justice—well, if every progressive movement can be
linked to climate justice, why can’t every progressive movement be
linked to decolonization as well? That’s my role as an organizer. I’m
trying to bring into conversation these various social forces that are
advancing things like the Green New Deal to make decolonization a
primary form of class struggle in the United States.
Most people think that decolonization would mean getting kicked off the
land, or that Indigenous people would do to them what they did to
Indigenous people in the past. It’s a failure to imagine what a just
future could look like. But it’s also a failure to critically understand
who owns the land in the United States and what the land is used for.
Upward of 96 percent of agricultural lands are owned by white people,
not Indigenous people. But these aren’t just mom-and-pop farms out in
rural South Dakota or Wyoming. These are large-scale industrial
agricultural operations with thousands and thousands of acres of land.
Ted Turner, the media mogul, owns 200,000 acres of our treaty territory
alone. He has the largest privately owned buffalo herd in the world.
Worldwide, he owns 2 million acres of land. Why is it that a single
white man can own that much land?
When we’re talking about land restoration, we’re talking about the
so-called federal public lands of the United States, but also about
these large landholding capitalists. This is a conversation that we have
to have in North America: who owns the land? What is our relationship to
it? And what should that relationship look like in a future decolonized
society? We understand as Indigenous people that we have to work with
non-Indigenous people out of mere survival. Decolonization isn’t an
Indian problem. It’s everybody’s problem.
*Serpe*: In /Our History Is the Future/, you write: “Each struggle had
adopted essential features of previous traditions of Indigenous
resistance, while creating new tactics and visions to address the
present reality, and, consequently, projected Indigenous liberation into
the future. Trauma played a major role. But if we oversimplify
Indigenous peoples as perpetually wounded, we cannot possibly understand
how they formed kinship bonds and constantly recreated and kept intact
families, communities, and governance structures while surviving as
fugitives and prisoners of a settler state and as conspirators against
empire; how they loved, cried, laughed, imagined, dreamed, and defended
themselves; or how they remain, to this day, the first sovereigns of
this land and the oldest political authority.” These days there’s a lot
of discussion about “climate despair,” or “eco-anxiety,”—a sort of
traumatic encounter with the serious challenges right now to life on
this planet, so I wanted to ask you about the long-term resilience of
front-line communities facing violence and overwhelming political odds.
How do you maintain a capacity to fight for a better life even in times
of relative apparent quiescence, or when the balance of forces seems to
be way out of favor? With so many people feeling overwhelmed by the
scale of climate change, what can we learn from movements that coalesce
around place, community, threats to everyday life?
*Estes*: Indigenous people are post-apocalyptic. In some cases, we have
undergone several apocalypses. For my community alone, it was the
destruction of the buffalo herds, the destruction of our animal
relatives on the land, the destruction of our animal nations in the
nineteenth century, of our river homelands in the twentieth century. I
don’t want to universalize that experience; it was very unique to us as
nations. But if there is something you can learn from Indigenous people,
it’s what it’s like to live in a post-apocalyptic society.
One of the positive meanings of the title of the book, /Our History Is
the Future/, is that in times of great turmoil and destruction, people
didn’t just stop being humans. They didn’t just give up. And while we
think of resistance in many ways as a kind of act of defiance that’s
spectacular and militant, it also happens in everyday realities, in how
we keep alive these stories. People still had children in times of
destruction. People still raised families. They did their best to keep
alive the nation through genocide.
The passage you read is a critique of a trend in Indigenous studies and
Indigenous organizing circles to focus on trauma and healing at the
individual level. It’s not that people shouldn’t focus on trauma and
healing, but that it’s been mobilized in this neoliberal moment to say
that, once the individual heals, they’ll be able to go out and be a
productive person in society. That becomes the horizon of struggle:
healing at the site of the individual. The horizon of struggle is no
longer liberation. I think it’s telling in this particular moment that
healing and trauma discourse becomes almost an obstacle we have to
overcome. It’s a tool of governance in many ways.
Just look at what’s happening in Canada with the reconciliation process.
How messed up is it that the very perpetrators of that violence are now
the ones who are going to remediate that violence, provide the care for
those victims of violence? Hey, I’m sorry we kidnapped all of your
children, sent them to residential schools, killed a lot of them, raped
a lot of them, abused a lot of them. Now we’re going to say sorry, but
instead of actually giving back land or giving back the resources for
you to build yourselves as nations, we’re just going to provide the
social services for you to get the help that you need from us. It’s this
mentality of crying on the shoulder of the man who stole your land.
That’s reflected in the climate justice movement. We see the future in
very bleak and pessimistic terms—that there is no future. That’s the
perfect articulation of capitalism. Frederick Jameson, wrote that “It’s
easier to imagine the end of the world than it is to imagine the end of
capitalism.” That’s very much our moment right now.
I don’t want to minimize those feelings, but at the same time I believe
fundamentally in revolutionary optimism, which carried these traditions
from absolute genocide and horror and the Wounded Knee Massacre to
Standing Rock, which was also absolute horror in many ways. There were
people who kept that fire alive. That’s the job of revolutionaries in
history; we’re cheerleaders of the movement, and we have a backward- and
forward-facing perspective. We’re trying to study our movements to see
how these ideas stayed alive, for example, when COINTELPRO infiltrated
the Red Power movement and destroyed it. They went international—took
these ideas into the international realm. It was a survival mechanism
that sustained us to the next movement.
The climate justice movement is very diverse, and it’s all over the
place. If there’s one thing I can offer, it’s to say: we know what it’s
like to undergo apocalypse. Our worlds have been destroyed in many ways,
and we’re trying to rebuild them, reclaim them, and reestablish correct
relations. The severity of the situation shouldn’t undermine the
willingness to act. Not to act, to succumb to a kind of paralysis, of
inaction, is itself an action. Not doing anything is doing something.
Howard Zinn said it best: you can’t be neutral on a moving train.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Nick Estes *is an assistant professor of American Studies at the
University of New Mexico.
*Nick Serpe *is a senior editor at /Dissent/.
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