The blockade is located deep in the bush, several hours’ drive down logging roads through wilderness seldom seen or known to most people. Wildlife darts into the treeline as you tear down the gravel kicking up a cloud behind you as you go. Along the way you spot bear and eagle, but the occasional dusty rig loaded with freshly harvested lumber reminds you why this road was built in the first place. This is the heart of the resource belt, and industry has left its scars. You pass huge cut blocks the size of mountain sides, and strange machines, the purpose for which you can’t imagine, parked in clearings like sleeping monsters.
At night the coyote calls, the cool air smells of pine, the campfire is the only light, and above you the stars blaze in full untainted brilliance. In the morning you take your water straight from the river where the salmon still run. This land is truly wild and free.
Some miles on down the road, a hand-painted banner hung from the trees tells you are entering sovereign native territory and that the road is closed up ahead. A little further on a lone figure sitting on a lawn chair in army fatigues and sunglasses speaks into a walkie-talkie as you come to a stop in front of a car flipped on its side, which serves as a barricade.
You kill the engine and the silence is deafening. Heatwaves shimmering on the road are the only things that move. You stare past the road block but a couple of beat up old trucks parked off in the distance is all you can see. Nonetheless, you are certain you’re being watched. There are now three figures on the road that you can’t remember seeing there before, and a fourth elderly person dressed in jeans and plaid is slowly making their way towards your vehicle, seemingly in no rush at all. They have a slight limp in their walk, which is no less strong and sturdy. You roll down the window as they approach, peering into the truck and looking somewhat cop-like in the sense that it is clear who has the authority in this situation.
“What do you want?” is all they say, staring you down. Their face, neither angry nor friendly, is perfectly expressionless.
“Oh, we… We’re from the city,” you manage to stutter out, suddenly at a loss for words as if you were just on a drive to the corner store and somehow ended up here. Then, regaining your sense of purpose you carry on. “We heard about your struggle against the oil and gas industry. We came here to help.”
“Hum,” they look over at everyone piled in the truck. “You just sit tight here, ok. No funny business. Those warriors are armed.”
You look up and see the heavy weight of a rifle slung over the shoulder of the three figures in camo. The elder turns and walks back down the road leaving you to sit and ponder.
“That was intense!” says Hobo from the back seat.
“What do you think? Did I say the right thing?” you ask.
“We’ll see,” says Bobcat, hopping down from their perch in the bed of the pickup where they’d been riding the whole time.
The seven of you chat to pass the time until the heat and boredom lulls you into a stupor. The sun makes its way across the sky and the shadows grow long as the afternoon wears on and evening arrives. The warriors are gone from sight again, but you’re sure they’re not far away, keeping an eye on you.
“What do you think they’re doing?” asks Red at length.
“Probably discussing what to make of us, I don’t know if they get many visitors,” answers Phreak.
“Either that or they’re just waiting for us to turn around and go home,” Garlic chips in.
“The thought had occurred to me.”
As the sun begins to set and the day’s light fades to deep blue, you start to wonder if you’re being given the ‘not welcome’ sign. You’re about to say something when a tall, slender figure emerges from the woods and cautiously approaches the truck. As they begin to speak you’re surprised by how young they are, no older than sixteen at the most.
“Kalanu told me to come get you. We’re just about ready to sit down for supper. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
Leaving the truck parked on the road, you unpack your sleeping gear and follow the youth into camp. A dog barks in the distance as you enter, but the first thing you notice is the enticing smells wafting from the large canvas wall tent that serves as the camp kitchen and mess hall. Your stomach growls as you pass through the front flaps into the warm glow of kerosene lamps. A dozen warriors are seated around a long wooden table laden with steaming trays of fry-bread and wild game.
“Welcome. Take a seat.” You eagerly accept the invitation and people start to pass out plates and cutlery. Before you eat, the elder who met you on the road speaks.
“I’d like to thank the Creator and our ancestors who put us on the path that led us here today. Thank you to the earth from which we all came and to whom we will return. Thank you to the animals who gave their lives so that we may eat. And welcome to our guests. I hope you’re not vegetarian. “
You look over at Garlic who dumps a spoonful of meat onto their bannock and says ruefully, “Not today I guess.”
The food is delicious, more flavourful than anything you’ve ever bought at the store. You fill your plate more than once and find you feel quite satisfied as you sit round the campfire after supper, a warm cup of tea in your hands.
“So what brought you folks out here?” asks an older, heavy-set Native with flecks of white in their long black hair.
“I’ve been an activist in the environmental movement for a long time. I’ve been going to protests since I was a kid, started organizing events when I was a teenager. But none of it seems to go anywhere. Every single day when we wake up there are fewer species on the earth than there were the day before. Each minute the world loses an acre of forest, and just so somebody can get rich selling junk to people. It’s literally insane the way we behave. And well, indigenous people are the only ones who seem to be doing anything about it.”
“We have an ancient connection with this land. Our ancestors walked these woods, all our stories are from here. If this land is destroyed, something in us is destroyed too. Do you understand?”
“I guess so, not really though.”
“Where are you from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I was born here, I grew up here, but I don’t have the same multi-generational connection with the land. My parents are from the old country and so are my ancestors, but when I go there I feel like a foreigner.”
“That could explain a few things. Your people have no concept of natural law.”
“Natural Law? What’s that?”
“There are many laws: treaties, the criminal code, charter of rights what have you. What happens when you break these laws? You get in trouble with the courts, go to jail maybe? Maybe you write a new treaty. All these laws are made up for some reason or another, but we made them up. When they don’t make sense anymore we write new ones. But natural law wasn’t written by anyone who ever walked the earth. Natural law tells the trees how to grow, and tells the river how to flow. You don’t get to bargain with the earth. When your granny gets sick and dies, you don’t say, ‘Hey no fair! I’m going to take you germs to court.’ You just accept that something with more power than you has acted. You have no say. If one doesn’t follow natural law, we’re all in big trouble with something far more powerful than all the police and the courts put together.”
“So natural law is something like the laws of physics?”
“They might have something to do with it.”
Someone throws another log on the fire sending sparks streaming up into the night sky. Above you can see the glimmer of the milky way. There’s no artificial light for miles, and beyond the tiny circle cast by the fire is nothing but pure, impenetrable darkness. The faces of your hosts float like ghosts in the dark. The perfect place to disclose a secret plot, you think.
“So what would you think if somebody were to destroy the fracking machinery, stop the wells, render it all useless.”
Around the fire people let out a collective breath. The murmur of people talking in hushed voices falls to silence. Across from you sits a frail elder with wise eyes staring intently at the flames as if deep in thought. The fact that they’re giving it any thought at all is a good sign, you think. Without breaking their gaze from the flames they speak in a thin voice.
“This has been discussed at great length. Sabotage would definitely attract attention from the feds,” looking up to meet your eyes. “They’d start using big words like terrorist. They might say those no good red-skin Indians are a threat. We don’t want them to get excited and make John Wayne sheriff. We don’t need to defeat Colonel Custer’s cavalry again now.”
“And if we do nothing they may just tear into the earth, poison the waters, and throw us all in jail for being Indian in the twenty-first century,” says the other older native with salt and pepper hair, a look of disgust on their face.
“It’s not time for that yet. But if this blockade falls what other option is there? This land is sacred, it must be protected.”
“About that. There are an awful lot of people out there who happen to agree with you. I think it’s righteous what you’re doing here, and I don’t think I’m the only one.” You look around at your friends who are nodding their heads in agreement. “If you ever wanted support out here I think there are a lot of people who’d be glad to help.”
“Help in what way?”
“Anything you want I’d imagine. What do you need? More bodies on the front lines? Fundraising? Web presence? Propaganda on YouTube, anything!”
“We’re kind of used to it being us versus the rest of society.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“Indigenous land defenders and the children of settlers. Sounds like a powerful alliance, maybe. We’d have to think about it before we invite the whole world onto our land. We’ve had a bad history with that, you know.”
At this, small ripple of laughter is heard around the fire.
“Fair enough.”
You stay up late that night listening to stories about armed standoffs over land evictions, hereditary chiefs arrested for practising traditional ceremonies, children stolen from their parents by soldiers, and it occurs to you that there’s little wonder these people face off against the system with such courage. The state has already tried its hardest to eliminate their culture, yet here they remain with nothing left to fear. After all, what more could be done to harm them that hasn’t been tried already.
Finally you decide to find your sleeping bag, stumbling through the underbrush when Garlic catches up to you.
“Psst! Hey, is that you?” their voice finding you in the dark. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What you talking about?” You’re a little bit surprised by the accusational tone of their voice.
“We came here to find out how indigenous leadership felt about direct action tactics. We found our answer, many thanks to you, but you can’t be doing political organising if you want to roll with us! We’re deep underground right? It was a big risk coming here and exposing ourselves, a risk worth taking. But this? What were you thinking?”
“Shit you’re right.” Your head spins with the gravity of the situation. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Don’t be sorry, it was a great idea. But you’ve got to make up your mind. Are you in or out?”