NATION NOW

Standing Rock: People left jobs, homes and family to join anti-pipeline camp

Kevin Hardy
Des Moines Register
Charlotte Saxton, right, and her father Robert, left, both from Bemidji, MN, enjoy a sunset in the Oceti Sakowin Camp on Monday, Dec. 5, 2016 near Cannon Ball.

OCETI SAKOWIN CAMP, N.D. — Dawne of a New Day DuShane's home in this anti-pipeline encampment is not even 6 feet tall — a wind-battered hut made of cardboard, poster board and two-by-fours that barely looks livable from the outside.

But inside, it’s an elaborate hobbit hole filled with cots, a double air mattress, folding camp chairs and plenty of room for making coffee, storing clothes and playing Pictionary.

DuShane, a 39-year-old member of the Sisseton Wahpeton tribe, built the three-room structure with her husband, with blankets and quilts on the walls, layered rugs on the floor and blankets insulating the sagging ceiling. A glowing, battery-powered heater keeps the interior almost too toasty.

About a month ago, DuShane and her husband, Popz Longwalker, left Oklahoma and caught a ride to the encampment here that serves as the heart of the resistance against the Dakota Access pipeline.

This is a place filled with stories: a Utah man sold his home to be here; a woman from Colorado quit her job to come; and a father from Texas left behind his family to join the occupation.

DuShane and Longwalker put their belongings in storage and left behind DuShane's daughter and grandson.

“There’s no turning back,” she said. “It’s like the greatest expedition ever.”

'Home is where the heart is'

Popz Longwalker puts on his native jewelry in the hut he and his wife, Dawne of a new day DuShane, share in the Oceti Sakowin Camp on Monday, Dec. 5, 2016 near Cannon Ball. The couple left home in Norman, Okla., and put what they had in storage saying they just taking it a day at a time here.

The Standing Rock Sioux tribe began occupying the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers land known as the Oceti Sakowin camp in the spring, using it as a base in its protest against the 1,172-mile pipeline that was set to cross the Missouri River one-half mile from the reservation.

Tribal leaders fear that an oil leak there could threaten drinking water for Standing Rock and other people downstream.

But the camp has come to represent something larger. Hundreds of tribes have joined with the Standing Rock Sioux in what has been called the largest gathering of Native Americans in modern history.

Dawne of a New Day DuShane

Along the way, the Oceti Sakowin camp became a full-fledged community, home to an eclectic cast of characters: white-haired hippies who slept in converted yellow school buses; millennials who caught rides from the coasts; indigenous peoples from across the country and around the world.

At times, its residents have included members of the Palestinian Youth Movement, Black Lives Matter and the Nation of Islam. Faith leaders from Christianity, Judaism, Islam and Buddhism have made the pilgrimage to Standing Rock.

Some came for a weekend; others expect to be here for weeks or months. Through it all, this loosely organized communal society has managed to survive on the rolling prairie, despite the brutal winter weather.

Heartened by the Obama administration's recent decision to halt pipeline construction under the Missouri River and urged by Standing Rock tribal leaders to leave, the camp has shrunk considerably and is turning away newcomers. But some are determined to stay.

“Home is where the heart is,” DuShane said. “And home is what you make it.”

Judge to consider completion of Dakota pipeline in February

The Oceti Sakowin Camp has adopted a communal attitude. Young people deliver propane and water to the old. Groups of women cook large quantities of food over giant kettles and smokers. And volunteers teach children at a makeshift school.

Though protesters arrived with different political, spiritual or environmental motives, they often have found a common experience. For many, time here served as an escape from the stresses and obligations of work, errands and even relationships.

Campers such as DuShane survive almost entirely off donations. Early on, she bought an initial round of supplies and purchased a few nights' worth of hotel rooms at the nearby casino.

Watch: Veterans at Standing Rock ask Native Americans for forgiveness

But otherwise, she said she hasn't had a need for money. Her hut is packed with donated clothes and coats. A giant Tupperware container stores snack foods, coffee mix and organic cocoa.

Everyone shares, she said. And everyone pitches in.

“I think we have a lot to thank the Dakota Access pipeline for. Because it’s really united people around the world,” DuShane said. “I think this needs to be a moment. It’s a new way of life. A lot of people don’t want to leave.”

Eric Wallace-Scenft of Vermont, points out a tool hey needs as they work to build a home in the Oceti Sakowin Camp near the Standing Rock Reservation on Saturday, Dec. 3, 2016 near Cannon Ball. The home is being built a native familie who doesn't have a proper winter structure they said.

When word came that the Corps would not grant Dakota Access an easement to cross the Missouri River, questions immediately arose about what the victory meant for the camp’s future. Without the easement, the project cannot be completed as designed.

Even as Standing Rock Sioux tribal chairman David Archambault II told people the fight was over — at least for now — camp leaders vowed to stay put. On Tuesday, in a news release, the chairman’s message was more overt: “We need to go home.”

When he announced the news of the Corps’ decision at the camp, Archambault reflected on what the movement had accomplished: He painted a picture of a Utopian community, which he had earlier described as having "a life of its own."

Judge to consider completion of Dakota pipeline in February

Occupiers self-policed. They self-organized. Many built solar-powered dwellings.

“We have to continue living in a good way,” he told a massive crowd. “Take the things that you’ve done here and take them home. It’s time now.”

As temperatures continue to fall and snow piles up, camp leaders announced Thursday they would close the gates to newcomers.

Even before that, signs of winter's tight grip were apparent all around the camp: The weather was so cold that piles of icy human waste built up in the portable toilets. Community water jugs froze, and donated cabbage and squash left outside the communal kitchen were rock-solid and buried in snow.

Still, many vowed to stay until it's clear that the pipeline is dead for good.

“We’re here for the long haul,” Longwalker said Wednesday. “This ain’t over.”

'Gray hair gets you to the head of the line'

In mid-September, Beatrice Dewing towed her pop-up camper behind her small station wagon from New Jersey. The out-of-work 64-year-old waited until it was clear that tribal leaders were welcoming supporters before she came to stand with them at the camp.

She has joined other political movements before, traveling as far as Palestine to take a stand.

At Standing Rock, she's reveled in the fellowship she found with other campers. Native Americans treat her with the same reverence as their own elders, she said.

Chief Arvol Looking Horse, listens as speakers address the crowd in the Oceti Sakowin Camp near the Standing Rock Reservation on Sunday, Dec. 4, 2016 near Cannon Ball.

"Gray hair gets you to the head of the line," she said. "They help you carry things. Now that it's icy, I walk with a cane, and a lot of people come and offer me an arm to be on. It’s a real treat."

Dewing said she hasn't had a moment for boredom. Something always needs fixing on her camper, which she says was meant for summer months.

The front door is held shut with thick layers of duct tape, and its pliable walls have been battered by high winds. Her camper is packed with candles, boxes of Triscuits and mounds of blankets and comforters.

In recent months, tensions have grown in the camp between some of the natives who started the movement and a contingent of supporters who tribal members say treat the cause like a concert or festival. Dewing said she's tried to be deferential to those who started the movement here.

"It's taken me a long time to learn about customs and things," she said. "I’ve probably committed some major social gaffes since I’ve been here, without even realizing it."

But she has seen others treating the camp like a version of Burning Man or Woodstock.

"They think if they wear a headband or stick a feather in their hair or something, that makes them respectful of native culture," she said. "But the Native Americans don’t always see it that way."

At times, she has wondered whether she was an asset or a liability to the cause.

"I go back and forth," she said recently. "I have times when I feel like I'm not really doing anything here. You know, I'm sitting here in my camper. I've got my heaters going all the time."

But her camper has provided a warm refuge for those who are cold or lonely, and she offers her solar panels for people looking to charge their phones.

Bill Hill has made five trips since September to shuttle supporters between the encampment and New York City.

Each time, he stops in Atlantic, Ia., for hot showers and meals. The old RAGBRAI bus he drives is owned by Iowa organic farmers Denise O'Brien and Larry Harris.

The 34-year-old yellow bus with more than 300,000 miles is a mural on wheels. The rear features a portrait of a Native American family bearing the words: "Keep our families together."

A side panel states: "No human is illegal." And the RAGBUS on the Iowa State Cyclones novelty license plate bears witness to its former life.

Several years ago, about half the seats in Hill's van were ripped out to make room for bicycles for members of the Molasses Asses team. At Standing Rock, that space was used to install a wood stove and sleeping bags.

Over the years, Hill has used the bus for other political causes, including collecting medical supplies for Cuba with Pastors for Peace.

"It's a multipurpose bus," O'Brien said.

O'Brien, who unsuccessfully ran for Iowa secretary of agriculture in 2006, said she and her daughter have a tradition of attending political events around their early-December birthdays. She made a trip to the camp last week, staying in a tent just in front of the old bus.

"That was just a family thing," she said. "Because we really believe in what's going on here."

Hill, a 70-year-old who lives in Arizona, slept in a bed built at the rear of the bus. He began wrapping its giant tires in snow chains Wednesday as his group prepared to head back to New York.

Even with heavy snows and gusts of wind as high as 50 miles per hour, he expects the camp to continue.

"I think it's going to be hard to get people out of here," he said. "People have committed themselves to this."