by Jen Minkman
Ho’oneno is pale and unmoving, as if frozen in time. Her hand is limp in mine. She looks up at me, smiling weakly at me when she recognizes my face.
“Shash,” she whispers.
“Shan díín,” I softly sob.
“Take care of Bidziil and Doli,” she manages to choke out. Her children.
I want to ask her if her husband is dead. I want to ask her if Bidziil is my son. I want to ask her if she still loves me. God, I want to ask her so many things, but it is too late. The sunlight seeps out of her eyes, taking her beautiful soul with her.
“I will,” I promise in a quivering voice.
And then, she looks up at a point past my head, the corners of her mouth turning up into a final smile. “That light... so bright,” she sighs.
The woman I have loved more than life itself dies with her hand in mine that afternoon.
1868
The years have passed and have brought more death and misfortune. When I close my eyes at night, I see destruction. Houses burned down. Trees chopped down. Horses and sheep shot dead. Scorched earth. Death and despair.
That is what happened in our peaceful valley a few years ago. Large numbers of clans and families were relentlessly hunted down and robbed of everything they needed to stay alive. The only way to survive was to comply with the orders given by the Americans and move to their reservation in the east. Leave our lands behind for good. A part of me did not want to surrender, but I reasoned I would save more people if I did surrender. And so we went.
We have been here for three years. Those years have not been kind to us.
This land has not brought us peace. It is hostile toward us. When we left Dinétah, we left our gods as well. The spirits of the land we had always been connected to could not help us here to secure a living. Here, far away from home, spirits of unknown origin wander the earth. Here, I can no longer be a hataalii communicating with the forces of nature, for I do not speak the language of this land. Death and disease have followed us like a curse. No matter how hard we work, our labor is to no avail. All harvests have failed.
I sigh and turn around. Now that I desolately stare out over the sad results of our longstanding efforts, I do not know what to say. For it is certain I will have to say something. General Sherman is coming to the reservation, and he insisted on talking with the most authoritative headman among the Diné. Everybody agrees that I perfectly fit that description, but I am afraid of saying or doing the wrong things. The entire fate of our people hangs in the balance, and what I will tell the general will tip that balance one way or the other. The general has heard news that we are having a hard time on the reservation, and he is willing to listen to our side of the story in order to decide whether he will allow us to return home or not.
But how can I tell him our side of the story without reverting to accusations? The Americans have caused us so much pain.
My heart beats in my throat when my brother approaches me to call me inside.
“He has just arrived in the main building.” The grooves and wrinkles in Tsosi’s face betray the hardship of the past few years. More and more he is starting to resemble our father, who passed away a long time ago already.
“What did he look like?” My mouth turns dry as my slow steps take me to the building where Sherman is waiting for me.
“Like a general.” Tsosi shrugs. “They all look the same.”
When I enter the main hall, I give the general a scrutinizing look. To my surprise, I see a certain benevolence in the man’s eyes. A spark of hope kindles in my heart.
Behind me, throngs of Diné people push through the door opening into the room where he and I will talk.
“Esteemed Mister Barboncito,” the general starts, “we have invited you and your brother today to tell us about the situation on the reservation. Messages of an alarming nature have reached me about the health and well-being of your people. Please tell me – why have the Navajos not been able to manage to turn into good farmers and feed themselves with the fruits of their labor in this area designated to you?”
Next to him, an interpreter starts to translate his English question into Spanish, whereupon a second interpreter translates it into Diné Bizaad. For me this is not necessary – I understand both languages well enough – but for the other Diné present it is important that everything is explained and translated to them. I nod appreciatively to both interpreters.
When the elaborate process of translation is over, the room falls silent. The General and the other Americans in attendance look at me expectantly.
To my left, I hear Tsosi cough softly, and to my right, I see the other headmen who have supported me over the past years. They expect me to work a miracle, and the whole situation suddenly lunges at my throat. How can I, the orator, speak about these things after all that has been taken away from me in this life? And all the lives before this one?
When I close my eyes, I recall the endless line of people on their way to Fort Sumner. The Long Walk. A road through hell. I can hear the shots fired at old people and pregnant women, because they did not walk fast enough and were falling behind. I can see the body of Yas, the headman who put his trust in me and was rewarded with a bullet to the head because he fell sick with influenza during the harsh journey east.
I remember us sleeping in ditches dug into the ground at night, tarps covering us so we would not escape in the darkness. Attacking groups of Comanches or Mexicans who stole away our children, whom we never saw again. The desperate look in the eyes of Bidziil, my adoptive son, when he was snatched away by a passing group of Mexican slave traders. The morning I discovered that Doli, my daughter, had disappeared without leaving a trace. The deplorable living conditions in the reservation and the despondent look on the faces of my family and friends when it turned out our first harvest had failed. And the one after that. And the one after those two. The humiliating daily trip to the fort to beg the white men for food with our food stamps.
What the hell am I supposed to tell this man? General Sherman has no idea of how utterly unfair our lives have been. If I really told him my view on things, I would not help my people at all. I would erupt in anger, pummel the infertile soil beneath me with my fists in powerless rage, blurt out how much I have lost. How much we all have lost.
Maybe there will come a time when I can express my emotions, but this is not the time. All the Diné standing in this room are counting on me and my oratory skills. Ho’oneno, who has given me peace, is counting on me, and I will not let her down.
When I start to speak, I speak in our own language. I know General Sherman will get a mangled, translated version of what I tell him, but I want to speak in my own language so my own people will perfectly understand the things I have to say.
“General Sherman, I hope you understand that your leaders have brought us here with force. Bringing us here has made many of us die.” My voice catches, and I try to take the quiver out of it when I continue. “Our grandfathers have always taught us to live on the land that was intended for us, our sacred land. I do not think it is right for us to do what we were taught not to do.”
I look at the general, wondering if he can ever understand how strong the bond is that we have with the land. He does not know our stories, but he might be willing to listen to them. “When the Diné were first made, First Woman – one of our goddesses – pointed out four mountains and four rivers bordering the area that was to be our land. Our grandfathers told us to never move outside those boundaries. Now we have moved, and I think that this is the reason so many of us have died here. This land was never meant for us. It does not nurture us, and it never will. This soil does not sustain our crops. Every time we plant, nothing grows. Our harvests fail. We worked as hard as we could, but for nothing.”
Tears come to my eyes. I think of the poverty that has affected us. The cries of hungry children in the night. When I rub my tears away and fall silent, I suddenly feel Tsosi’s hand on my shoulder, and I know I have his support. My brother
is backing me up.
“When we lived in our own way, we had plenty of stock,” I continue my story after the interpreters have done their work. “We were a proud and happy people. How can we keep our pride when we have to go to the fort store for our food, and be dependent on someone to hand it out to us? I am ashamed to live like this.”
The general gives me a disconcerted glance and actually looks shocked when he hears his interpreter’s translation. I stare at the soil underneath my feet, and a wild hope stirs within me. Is it possible he is really going to help us?
“You are doing a wonderful job,” I hear Tsosi mumble at that exact moment. “They have not nicknamed you the orator for nothing, bislahalani. I am proud of you, no matter what that general’s decision will be.”
There is now much ado among the white leaders, and then the general asks me a question in such an unexpectedly mild tone of voice that it slightly confuses me.
“What can we do to help your people?” he asks earnestly.
I blink my eyes. Before the two interpreters even have a chance to translate his question, I burst out without disguising my bottled-up emotions. “General Sherman, this land does not like us. We cannot be happy here. We have lost so incredibly much. I... I cannot take it anymore.”
I can feel the tension thick in the air, and unwittingly my hand closes around Ho’oneno’s pendant beneath my shirt. I have not taken it off in all these years. “I simply want to see the place where I was born before I get sick or older and I die.” The place where my wife has died. My voice cracks. “That is all. I realize I am standing before you and pleading like a helpless woman, but that is only because with all my heart I want to be taken back to my land. We will live off our land – we do not need your support. And I hope you will do everything, everything in your power to help us, for I have spoken nothing but the truth about our situation here. My hope goes in at my feet and out of my mouth. And I hope to your God and my God that you will not ask us to go anywhere except our own country, Dinétah. We do not want to go right or left, but straight back to our own land, where we belong.”
On the first day of the American month of June, a treaty is signed by General Sherman, President Johnson and all the headmen of my people, to acknowledge the fact that the Diné are an independent people.
We are free. Our time in Fort Sumner is over for good. I am allowed to return to the place that connects me with Ho’oneno at last.
1870
No longer is my life ahead of me – it lies behind me. I am not yet old, but my soul feels empty. I have fought the good fight.
Before I accede to my journey to the hereafter, I want to do one last thing.
I walk the familiar road, taking the path to the rock plateau. Climbing up there makes me gasp for breath. When I finally get to the top, I dizzily lean into the tree that has always stood here looking out over the canyon.
“Wait for me,” I whisper, when I bury Ho’oneno’s pendant deep under the roots of the tree, protecting the jewel by uttering a simple prayer.
In a way, I hope this will be my last life. I do not know if I want to come back here, carrying all the memories I have now, but if I do come back at least I will have a token of my wife’s love for me in that life. I will find this place again and wear her pendant like I used to. No one will be able to take that away from me.
When I look up, the sun breaks through the clouds. “Hello, my ray of light,” I say with a smile. “Have you returned to me?” A lonely tear rolls down my face.
The light caresses my skin, penetrating the layers of my hardened heart. The sunbeams dance across the landscape populated by Diné once more.
Have I brought lasting peace?
Maybe it has been enough.
1925
“You just want to make me angry, don’t you?” my father yells at my mother in an unsteady voice as I walk into the hoghan. He is sitting at the table with a half empty bottle of whisky in front of him and my mother is standing next to him with a pale and expressionless face.
“I have already told you that we have no more money this month,” she answers, trying to control her voice. “You will have to wait. That smuggler of yours really is not going to sell you more liquor on the slate.”
“Thanks to you we already are deeply in debt,” I say in a sharp voice.
My father turns toward me. “Who do you think you are?” He gets up from the table. His face comes close to mine and I can smell alcohol on his breath. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Leave Samuel alone!” My mother takes a step forward.
All of a sudden my father raises his hand and smacks her in the face. “You shut up. Stay out of this.” He rushes out of the hoghan and I can hear him ranting outside.
Wide-eyed, my mother stares at the door, a hand pressed against her cheek.
“Shima.” I put an arm around her. She begins to cry without making a sound.
“Why don’t you leave him?” I say to her at last.
She looks at me, a weak smile on her lips. “Because he is my husband, Sam.”
“Surely you have more self-esteem than this.”
“I have,” she says, “but he hasn’t.”
Of course I understand that my father is a victim, just as my mother is. Even before I woke up when I was fourteen and realized who I really was, I had come to understand that my father’s work for the railway company had brought him into contact with alcohol, an easy way to forget that things were not going well for his family. In the beginning it seemed like a good idea, spending the evening together with friends from the neighboring villages and drinking a glass of whisky. Before long, however, the drink changed him. It made him unreasonable, almost like a white man. He belched, he yelled and he bossed us around. I was afraid of him when he drank and that happened more and more often. When Prohibition came, nothing changed – he started to buy alcohol illegally and his addiction became even more expensive.
Things went from bad to worse when, five years ago, Nantai, my elder brother, was picked up by the silao, the reservation police, and taken to Chinle, where he was forced to go to a white school.
“It is a boarding school and your son will be properly cared for,” the policeman had assured my parents. “He will learn to speak English there and come back a real American.”
My mother had hidden me in the sweat lodge, under a pile of blankets, and had prayed to Mary that the silao men would not find me and take me away as well. After my brother’s kidnappers had left, my mother took me from my hiding place with tears in her eyes, and gave me a new Biblical name that day – Samuel, meaning ‘God has listened’. We have not seen Nantai since, and my father started to drink even more after the incident.
My mother believes in Jesus, Mary and God, and she goes to church. Fortunately, many people find comfort in the Christian faith, now that our old ways are branded as ridiculous and primitive and there is so much poverty and alcohol addiction. They believe that our own gods have deserted us and that there can only be salvation in an afterlife. And I can see their point.
1928
One cool spring day Nantai unexpectedly returns.
My mother is folding a few blankets which she recently weaved, when in the distance she can see a horse and wagon coming. It is driven by a tall young man dressed in biligaana clothes.
“Samuel,” she cries excitedly. “Come here!”
When I step outside, Nantai, with hesitant steps, is climbing up the path toward our house. He stares at us and a smile appears on his face.
“Mother.” He puts his arms around her. His hand reaches out for mine. “Little brother,” he continues and looks at me with joy.
“What is he saying?” my mother asks in confusion. She cannot stop hugging Nantai.
“He is greeting us in English, shima.”
My mother starts talking to Nantai in our own tongue and I see a pained expression in his eyes.
“I have come back for good.” He stammers and has a strange accent. It is
clear that he has not spoken our language for years.
“Where’s shizhé’é?” he asks when the three of us are sitting outside on the ground eating a simple meal.
“He is working,” my mother answers briefly.
“He’s gambling,” I say, correcting her, “and any winnings will have been spent by tonight.”
I can feel how she gives me a wounded look, and I immediately regret my harsh words. “I am sorry,” I mutter.
“How have you been all these years?” my mother asks full of interest. “You look nice. You are wearing good clothes.” She rubs the material of his jacket.
Nantai remains silent for a long time. “Thank you, Mother. I have mixed feelings about it.” He pauses for a while. “On my way home I met people who accused me of being a traitor because of these clothes. Some people accuse me of being one of the biligaana now.”
“Around here we call them bilisáana,” I say softly.
“Apple?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Red on the outside, white on the inside.”
Nantai stares at me, a bit hurt. “Is that what you think, too?” he asks in an uncertain voice.
I smile at him. “Of course not,” I say, but I am not entirely sure that I mean it.
We eat our meal in silence, my mother, Nantai and I. Together we wash the dishes and make coffee. Then my brother starts to talk. In faltering Diné Bizaad he tells us how five years ago he arrived in Chinle with hundreds of other young boys and was taken to a large and uninviting building. The strict men and women who worked at the boarding school cut the hair of all the boys regardless of whether or not they wanted to keep their tsiyeels. “It is not civilized for a man to have long hair. And the girls were treated likewise. No exceptions were made.”
That night, all the children in the boarding school were chained to their beds in big dorms. At five o’clock they had to wake up and were given bread and beans for breakfast. They would not have their next meal before the evening arrived.