My Second Day at Oceti Sakowin, Standing Rock, November 21, 2016

The water cannons hours earlier may have frozen our limbs, but not our hearts.

The morning after

My eyes were still not open as I lay frozen in my car, I am awoken to the feeling and sound of choppy thunder. However, not thunder, just a mysterious helicopter or airplane flying dangerously low over camp. For a second I literally thought it was going to crash into my car, or that it was surrounding me specifically. Then I remembered where I was…

Backwater Bridge 11/21/16. Photo by Cullen Lobe

I forget what my first thought of the morning was, but I remember it being close to, “did that really just happen?” “did anyone die?” and “where did all the ambulances go?”

The ringing in my ears reminds me that last night really did happen and that wasn’t just my worst nightmare. I slowly unfreeze myself by moving my limbs and sit outside the trunk of my car, where I have placed a small floor-mat and chair. Everything I had worn the night before, besides my pants, were frozen, from both a medic panicking and pouring water over my face in below freezing temps to minimize tear gas affects as I lost consciousness, and from water cannons that hit me as I was replacing my wet gloves.

As I sit there, before I even take a drag of a cigarette, I bury my palms into my face. My first morning at Oceti Sakowin. My first impression- I have landed myself in the direct center of a literal war zone. I start to let my thoughts and feelings, which were physical, painful feelings, entangle me. Before I get too deep and lost in my moment of painful realization, twisted confusion and despair, I hear giggles and chatter come closer to me. The first people I have seen since I woke up in an unfamiliar place, a lady and two young children.

“Good morning! Are you cold?”

“Huh?” is all I can mutter as I look at the dead grass on the ground.

“Here you go! We knitted it ourselves.” One of the kids enthusiastically proclaims as he hands me a beanie and scarf.

I have never in my life been greeted by such a life changing attitude. The darkness suddenly escaped me as fast as the percussion grenades exploded around me hours earlier. I felt the light in not only their gesture, but their souls. I was suddenly awake.

This is war.

What now? My first instinct was that people were still on the bridge getting shot. I had absolutely no idea what to expect or do, but I was suddenly thrown into a survival mood- a militant-minded reality- like my entire family was just killed by a drone strike on our home. I was thirsty for answers. Thirsty for justice. Thirsty for blood.

“Holy shit, this is what indigenous people of these lands have experienced for over 500 years.” I kept replaying this thought in my mind. Of course, I cannot relate, but in that moment, on that frigid night just hours earlier, I saw what the United States does to its own people. I saw the blood spilt, the psychopathic war tactics used to kill and destroy everything and anything human-like. Used discriminately and presently for profit, against people trying to protect not only their sovereignty and sacred lands, but the water for 18+ million people.

Must move on

The Sunday night of November 20th happened. The day of November 21st had not. It was a below freezing morning, no let up from the brutal cold the previous night, and I made myself to the sacred fire to warm up. The next thing I remember, at about 7:00 in the morning, I am walking back to the bridge where it all went down. As I snake myself through camp, I get to the top of the road where a small walk leads to Backwater Bridge. I get closer and memories that I could still smell began flooding in.

A small group is gathering, everyone is just as shaken up and confused on what to do as the next person. I walk with a man from Wisconsin, he was toting a long beard and a large walking stick, even though he seemed just a couple years older than me. He told me that just a few weeks earlier, he went back to a university in his hometown and told them about what was happening here in the plains of North Dakota, at Standing Rock. He said he didn’t know how he would tell people what happened the night before, but that he had to.

As I am standing just at the edge of the bridge, which was a battleground when the moon hung high, a camera crew approached our small group. My initial feeling of uncomfortableness and wariness of a camera crew soaring in like vultures trying to get their pick slowly faded as the pair told us how they were shot at deliberately last night as their bright light from their camera recording showed off their location.

“Dee Snider from Twisted Sister sent us out here to film shots for a music video of his, mind standing right here and holding your fists up for a second?” I think to myself no but agree with everyone else to join in on a few seconds of awkwardness among the dust.

The Dome AKA the gathering spot

Someone tells me that updates on the day are held every morning at the Dome, conveniently located a couple dozen yards from my camping spot. As we all fill in, I look around at faces. Some crying, some visibly angry, some distraught, and some stone faced. I was sitting on the floor next to a bunch of young people, as elders began to come inside. When one elder arrived, one or two youth would stand to offer their spot.

Finally, someone begins speaking to everyone. I was still in such a daze at this time, but somehow, I wandered to the dome because at the very least, I wanted some answers and updates- if any. What continued was a bit of a disorganized recap of what had occurred the night before. The few elders present, smudging ropes of sage, were angry with the way everything went down. They didn’t want to see that happen again, or anyone dying under their guidance. Then a white lady who I believe was from the medic tent stood up with updates. Slowly and somberly describing the brutal injuries, some near fatal, including cardiac arrest and Sophia’s arm being nearly blown off by a deliberate police action involving some type of percussion grenade.

I was getting restless. I knew what had happened. I was there. We all were. Sitting there quietly was getting to be almost more uncomfortable than the night before. Then, two men who I later learn to be from Standing Rock burst into the dome exclaiming that work needs to be done all around camp. Before they can get more words out another lady sort of ushers them to the door, and I stand up. I shot up fast and made my way to this group.

“Do you guys need a hand with anything?”

They both look at me. “Yes, we need builders.”

Names escape me unfortunately of these men, but they told me to head to a partially finished structure on flag row and to say I was sent by them. I grab my gloves and go.

Labor on Flag Row

A crew of about ten is working on a structure a bit larger than a ‘tiny home,’ right along flag row. Flag Row is the path that runs right down the middle of camp, beginning at the security checkpoint at the entrance of camp off highway 1806. It is lined with flags from different tribes and communities from across the world. A beautiful reminder of the actual level of solidarity, unification, and community, almost unheard of before this, occurring right here at Standing Rock.

But more than reflection at this time, work had to be done. This specific structure was being built as a warm gathering and living space for elders at camp, as the frigid and deadly North Dakota winter was rapidly approaching. There were one or two people who took the lead on this project, but really it was just a random group of people from Oceti Sakowin coming together to either put their construction skills to use, or learn them. A task I took up was creating a layer on the already built wall portion by drilling more planks of wood, then lining it with a tarp and filling the middle layer with bundles of hay for insulation. This was, like most things at camp, a team effort.

A cut to the top of a hand from a nail had me bleeding everywhere, so I sat down to patch myself up. As I look around at camp, it was something I had not seen before. So many different things happening, so many people working in this bitter cold. You hear conversations and laughs, the chopping of wood, the whistling wind hitting against all the tipis, yurts, and various wood structures and makeshift camps. It seemed as if people had already forgot what had happened just hours before. The reality was, everyone was fully aware of the impeding dangers and the realities of what had been occurring. Whether it be a militarized force watching over us ready to attack at any moment, knowing winter was just days away, or that a pipeline still had to be stopped, when the sun was up it was time to get work done or suffer the life or death consequences. We weren’t on vacation, not even a camping trip. This was much more real.

Direct Action training directly below the action

When we had pulled up to camp the day prior a mere hour before the first tear gas canisters flew over our head, people had advised us to attend the direct-action training that was held daily in main camp. After being flung into action where I had not only witnessed heroics that would put glorified Hollywood war films to shame, I also thought I was going to die along with many others. I thought no better time to attend some training and learn a little bit more about what the actual fuck was happening out here.

Once I got to the location of the training, which was the part of camp that was closest to Backwater bridge, there were at least 100 people already gathering. The training was led by two people, one individual was a Native combat vet who served overseas, the other was a highly trained and experienced medic. They spoke about the importance of strategy, safety, and efficiency, including the reality of the current situation. They began talking about the night before. About half of those present at the training were there and were presently traumatized, with the other half just arriving that day after hearing and seeing the atrocities committed not even 24 hours prior, most witnessing thru live streams.

That felt surreal, but not surprising- an action committed by our own government so horrific that it inspired people to come out and support immediately. What could be sicker and more twisted than the original people of these lands being brutally repressed and attacked for their resources, once again? America.

This time, however, people weren’t about to turn a blind eye. People across the world in 2016 were ready to stand up and fight against the United States government, led by Native women and youth. Started by a woman from Standing Rock, backed behind indigenous youth willing to spread her message of what was happening where her son was buried. The entities that be figured they could run DAPL wherever they pleased to get their cut of the profit, but this time around, they would have to face a force unseen before.

Oceti Sakowin was a community with no singular leaders, so the training turned into an open discussion. One young woman who was there the night before suggested that woman take the outsides of groups to maybe encourage officers to not attack. Dozens of folks audibly expressed their confusion with that statement because they saw officers deliberately aim at women, specifically native women, and shoot them point blank with rubber bullets. Some officers laughed manically, as they fired upon women who were asking the officers to pray with them.

Discussion was over, it was time to practice what we were just taught. As a large group, we formed multiple tight lines, locked arm in arm with others, and marched forward. We were taught to stay as tight and close together as possible as to avoid the person next to you from getting snatched by law enforcement. We were also taught how to de-arrest an individual, by continuing to lock arms and having the line behind you pull you back. Stay tight, or you will be separated. Stick together, from person to person, if you want to avoid a flank. This is all stuff that right up the hill, I had experienced literally, but now was the time to work together again as a community to prevent further horrific attacks not from happening, but to minimize the inevitable damage.

Training was finished, and everyone went back to their unfinished tasks, or flowed like water down the many neighborhoods that formed throughout camp, wondering where the current would take them.

As the sun goes down

It is hard to remember every moment of every hour during my second day at Oceti Sakowin. I know it was filled with many interactions, some brief, some personal, all holding a special purpose in my path. More importantly, the path for humanity. The path to decolonization, to awakening, to coming together. When people refer to the term ‘Water Protector,’ I do not think of someone who is passionate about protecting our water. I think of someone who has devoted their every step-in life to breaking through the seams of dehumanization that is occurring on this stolen land, and restoring that power back to whom it was stripped from. Ones who have seen too much of the truth, and cannot sit back idly as indigenous rights, diverse ecosystems, and millions of waterways are desecrated for profit and power.

My experience at Standing Rock was unique to my own, but most likely vastly similar to everyone devoted enough to step foot on those sacred ground. It was one that goes way beyond the violence we endured, but the love we gained. The life we lived. We flourished in the mud, we created hope for generations to come. All walks of life. We saw what this world can be like if we simply come together for the greater good against an evil indescribable.

I ended my night on November 21, 2016 around the sacred fire. I must have sat around that fire for hours, because parts of my boots had melted. There are simply no words, paragraphs, or novels that can describe the experiences lived around that fire that never went out. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t on a boatload of psychedelics, rather, this was real life. I never spoke, of course, as it wasn’t my place, but I listened more than I ever have in my life.

The stories shared. The songs sang. The prayers prayed. They tried to put out our sacred fire, but the fire now burns on all horizons. This was only my second day at Oceti Sakowin, nestled along the Missouri River and through the plains. But this day resembled an awakening in me as to where I was, something that I still can’t necessarily put into words. But here I try, to unpack my thoughts and memories, in hopes that someone else will too, look back on those days where the true JOY of the struggle was felt and shared. Because these days will be the ones that keep us marching even as the rain comes down.

Bury my heart at Oceti Sakowin

Cullen Lobe

12/24/19