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Greetings readers,

Opening the Water Issue of the Student Insurgent, you have made the choice to take a path towards self-help. You have decided to put a stop to the ignorance, and courageously face the reality that is the complicated state of the world.

After years of taking advantage of our earth, karma boomerangs global warming into our faces, as our climate struggles to stay on its kilter.

One of the first major changes inflicted on our planet has been the changes in our water, from the rising of the ocean levels, to the temperature of the oceans, to the absence of water.

As the symptoms of the sickness be- come impossible to ignore, direct action has become imperative. Unfortunately, most of the world is run by capitalists and the wellbeing of our future is on their backburner.

‘This struggle is not an easy one. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the mass of global warming. One way of making this fight more manageable is breaking it down.

Focusing on the “water issue” allows us to frame climate change in way that we can more easily grasp. This issue is overflowing with problems that all deserve our attention because it is our lives, and our children’s lives. Drinking water is disappearing, some bodies of water are shrinking while others are flooding.

‘The way of life we have chosen for our- selves is not sustainable. We can see it failing before our eyes, and now is the time to make change. Every positive action we create brings us closer to the truth, which is our survival. It is imperative that we take action.

In hopeful solidarity, Claire

The Student Insurgent is based in the Survival Center, EMU Suite 1. Come on down and check out the Radical Reading Room, our cool computers, and our nice people.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

} Letters to the Editor(s)... When the Earth Becomes Water...3 Water: A Pagan Perspective..8 The Consequences of Tourism...10 Golf is for Dumb Dumbs...10 Climate Impacts to Native People...11 Water is Sacred...12 Indigenous Rights on the Rivers...13 Where Does Violence Come From?...15 Selections from “Ape and Essence”...17 The Pen is Mighty... 19

ee

‘ah Maria Madina, Grace Ogren, Thomas Walker, Claire Winograd, Misa Joo,

The Student Insurgent is based out of the University of Oregon in Eugene. We are a radical publica- tion that seeks to deconstruct the existing social order and facilitate its replacement with one which is ecologically sound and functions on egalitarian lines. We strive to be an open forum — somewhere the silenced and oppressed can express their ideas and opinions free from the filters of the main- stream media. Subscriptions are $15 a year by mail. The Insurgent is distributed freely to UO stu- dents, the community, and prisoners. The Insurgent encourages its readers and supporters to submit news and feature articles, short fiction and poetry, cultural criticism, theory, reviews, etc. Graphics, cartoons, and photos are also more than welcome. If you would like your material to be considered for publication, just e-mail or snail-mail any content you'd like to submit to the address below. We reserve the right to edit any submissions for grammar, clarity, or length. Poetry and art will not be edited or censored in any way. All articles, with the exception of unsigned editorials, solely reflect the opinion of their author and not necessarily that of the Student Insurgent.

Subscriptionsjare slofasyearby muileihelnsurgentasidistributedsyreelytolU Oystudentsatiercommunityyandiprisonerss

evlhestudentalnsurgent 1228) Universit Of Orevor=: Eugenie) © Rgds ol 340-37 10—-stidentinsH)sent@eniail: COM>

Peat WHO??, SHALL SPEAK FOR OUR SURVIVORS??? Thursday, July 18, 2013. Greetings Sisters and Brothers:

My name is minister, Ba- bayafeu Iyapo-I. In December 1989, I was among the first busloads of innocent human beings. Whom were falsely profiled, targeted, and secretly transferred- to the then new PBSP Supermax (SHU) facility. As a part of a once-secret state sponsored Involuntary Human Research Ex- periments. Which were specifically designed to carry out a most evil mad scientist schemes of neo-Fas- cist Genocide, population control, and Domestic Torture Operations.

Out of a proposed pool of 100 captive prisoners, whom I was able to personally bear witness to. Please be advised!!! of the below factual evidence of state sponsored domestic human rights violations.

Fact one: From 1989 thru 1995, our daily conditions here, were so malicious, racist, and hate- ful. That a First 30% percent of un- protected men here, proceeded to go insane. And sonic a person, whom is insane, cannot possibly speak for our remaining survivors. Then who???, is left to speak for us???

Fact Two: From 1995 thru 2000, pour daily ordeals here, were so antagonistic, predatory, and vio- lent. That a second 30% present of un-protected men here, wrongfully agreed to become a most despised False witness, snitch, Debriefer, and coerced Neo-slave of the Secret Police. And since a person, whom is amoral outcast, an ethics-less liars, an admitted traitor, ad a snitch. can- not possibly speak for our remain- ing survivors. Then who???, is left to

2 Letters to the Editor(s)

speak for us??? ~ %

Fact Three: From 2000 thru 2005, our daily realitys here, were so extremely isolated, discrimina- tory, punitive, and debilitating. That a Third 30% percent of un-protected men here, proceeded to commit a record number of suicides. and tragically, since ANY person, who is now deceased. cannot possibly speak for our remaining survivors. Then who???, is left to speak for us???

Fact Four: Based on my math- based evaluations. 30+30+30 would equal=90% percent. which means, if you are able to agree, with the above historical Facts. then behold: Is it, not True??? that between 2005 thru 2013, there remains a small pools of still captive Human Survivors of state sponsored Torture. Whom are Blessed to Be, "still alive, still sane, still courageous, ad still committed enough.” To help draw, write, speak, and Teach the True Reality-based Human Horror Storys; “...of our past 23 plus years, of state spon- sored Genocide, Population Control, Torture, and other Domestic Human Rights violations...”

As such, if ANYBODY ever asks you/or needs to know more??? about who, is most qualified to speak for our captive survivors? Then please feel free to advise them, that the cap- tive Nazarite Christian Learned Elder known among our Faithful as, “The minister, Baba Yafeu lyapo-I.” Is one of the chosen few 10% percent, of still captive survivors of state sponsored torture. Whom has Repeatedly prov- en by his word and actions. That he is 100% percent qualified to help reveal the Gospel Truths of; “...why/and how it became absolutely necessary, for over 30,000 sill captive human

i © “@

beings. To democratically, voluntarily, and peacefully agree, to participate in the largest recorded series of Hunger Strikes, work stoppages, and refusals to attend school/or other programs- ever to be reported in the state of california, as well as across america as a whole...”

until next time, peace and blessings.

Respectfully submitted, minister, Baba Yafeu Iyapo-I.

Day 11 of my complete Liquid Reli- gious Fast In Solidarity with the Five Core demands.

Gary Erwin- prison rape 4/24/2013 Dear Sisters and Brothers:

Thank you for issue(s) of ‘Student Insurgent; received v24 #3.1 previous (prison isu?) is still being held hostage by ‘Big Brother’ Aka. Media Review dept. I must spend 10% of my time fighting Ist amend/ Media Review battles. Many are won on appeal- DOCS counts on pris- oners to not resist, and or tire and surrender - delay, deny, and discour- age... A default ‘NO’ to every re- quest/ point, forcing every prisoner to expend time/resources to (re)fight same battles over and over.

As of August 2013 PREA (Prison Rape Elimination Act) na- tional standards for state(s) DOCS will go into effect. While this marks progress in all too long fight for human rights (even for incarcer- ated ‘humans’) this will only become meaningful if prisoners and our outside supporters stand up and hold our respective DOCS to the federally mandated points of these standards.

While any prisoner is at risk

for sexual assault/abuse, GLBTQI prisoners are targeted at higher rates, 3 to 4 times more than ‘straight’ pris- oners. Through personal experience as a sexual violence survivor, and currently reviewing PREA standards - I've learned that the pivotal weak point in pursuing post sexual assault support services is; ‘documentation. Unreported or underreported sexual assault incidents will delay care and lead to kafkaesque ‘groundhog day’ cycle of repeated security (intrusive and insensitive) interviews each time prisoner sexual assault survivor says words: ‘sexual assault’ while seeking recovery services.

Interested parties are encouraged to

request (free) copy of standards from:

PREA Resource Center

National Council on Crime and De- linquency (NCCD)

Suite 500 Oakland, CA 94612 ATTN: Ms. Sarah True

Further comprehensive info and sup- port for survivors can be found @ Just Detention 3325 Wilshire Blvd Suite 340 Los Angeles, CA 90010 ATTN: Ms. Cynthia Totten, Esq. JustDetention.org

I welcome dialogue/interaction on this issue

Garry Erwin #95B0644 POB 2000

Dannamora, NY 12929 In Solidarity, Gary Erwin

CCF

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* Yphen the Larth Jsecomes Yp/ater

Words by Sarah Waria Wedina Act by Anna Cholsky

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Ny ee heli Genreone was on a busy street in Rio Piedras, San Juan. At night, sometimes, there were gunshots. The sounds that ripped off

in the dark echoed of the street beneath my past apartment in Chinatown. At the end of my brother’s street were stray cats that lived in the green belt be- fore an extensive intersection of supermarkets and traffic lights. On Thursday nights, his group would play Rumba on the street corner. His babalao played the trumbadora. They would alternate la diana and el coro, calling out ancient songs. The gallo would sing out, and they would chant back, again, and again. Songs that recognize tradition and the spirits of the island rose up from the sea, alongside the cracked sidewalks and graffiti. Shadows from the street- lights at night were painted by an artist to capture the dark. It was there at my brother's first floor apartment that we all contracted dengue fever. First it was Dagiiao, my past love, who had become my brother's respected friend and co- founder of their Rumba and Hip Hop collective. Then it was Benito, my broth- er, who came down with the fever. Lluvia, our youngest sister, took care of him, before I arrived with my daughter to San Juan.

There were two weeks of our skin sweating in the apart- ment, the fan perpetually circulating city air, a layer of grime on the red tiled floor. There were two weeks of my brother, sister, and I trying to piece our lives together, of trying to map the history of my absence back into the lines of our palms. Then, Lluvia left on a plane back to Seattle. That night, I lay on the futon couch as Benito played the quinto on the corner with his Rumba group. Emblem be vele va bele va. I felt my body rise higher, and higher into an alternate state of fever. Emblem be vele va bele va. A few times, I felt my brother’s babalao come into the apartment from the street. His large frame would open the gate, walk silently past me like a soft pawed jaguar into the kitchen, and then retrace his footsteps. I sought ice cubes from the freezer for my temples, and my crown. I felt the heat of dengue take over my body, and I almost, in that moment, welcomed the spell of heat that came from inside me. It was as though I was being pulled into a thick dream state, a differ- ent level of consciousness brought on by the fever. As though the fever was burn- ing the past away, and placing me into the present, into my brother's apart- ment with the old tiled floors. The front door to the porch was left open, a lock on the gate. Emblem be vele va bele va. The music and drumming came through the open windows, and the door left ajar.

The next day Dagiiao came for me and my daughter in his borrowed car. We decided to drive to El Yunque, the sacred rainforest. We went, first, along the complicated car packed freeways of San Juan, through the multi-lanes that often remind me of the winding freeways of Los Angeles. Further out, on the side of the road, we stopped to buy fruit from a vendor, then continued our journey, until we took a A right onto a road that winds upward. There we stopped by a turnoff, inside the ver- dure. Inside the humidity, we made our way down a short pathway to the river. My fever was taking over my body again. I felt the heat rise

up inside me. As Dagiiao played with my daughter by the shore of the river, I lay down on the smooth ancient stones. I let my bare arms be cooled by the roundness of the stones beneath me. I felt my fever rest inside me. I closed my eyes to the blue sky. I listened to the river.

Iheld the smooth stones in my hands, and pressed them against my fevered wrists. Then a man came out from the river. His skin glistened with water. We were the only ones

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at the riverbank, except for him. He had been swimming, after harvesting ortiga, fresh nettles, in the rainforest. Dominican, his Spanish had a slightly different curve around his words than Dagiiao’. He said my daughter looked like his daughter, both brown with their African hair. I lay back down on the smooth rocks. He told me that the river is medicine. That I should swim. I had not brought my bathing suit. I had not packed anything, ex- cept myself and my daughter into the car. And the fever that followed behind.

‘The sounds of the river took back over. After the man left, Dagiiao, my daughter, and I walked down below the bridge to be further sheltered from the eyes of anyone who might drive by on the narrow curving road above. ‘The bridge was old concrete. It spilled light shadow over the river. I stripped from my clothes, and walked my fevered body in. The water and me, we met there. I let the waters come back up and over my hips, my shoulders, ntil I submerged myself below the water, below the shadow of the bridge. I came back up joating there. | felt the fever being pulled from my body.

hat had held us together that long. We ent to the emergency room hospi- tal, and sat, hours in the overcrowded waiting room. I went back into the allway to have my temperature taken. My fever persisted. We could have passed the night waiting for an overworked doctor to attend me, but the wait was long. - We abandoned the hospital. We

both knew that the river was Ie) stronger medicine for the fever still burning away inside me, stronger than the white mammoth hospital with sterile plastic chairs lined in uncomfortable rows. My bones had begun to ache. My skin was flushed and hot. My bones were weak inside my body, as though the very skeleton inside me had been touched by the fever. Eventually the dengue left my body, and I left San Juan. My daughter and I boarded a plane back to Mexico City at the end of October, then took the night ride to the mountains. That was two years ago.

High in the mountains, the months leading up to the end of October are the rainy season. The time of rain, when all the water comes. When the land turns bright viridian. When the seeds planted by the campesinos are brought to green by the sky. In September, my daughter and I moved closer to the river on the edge of town. The rains were still coming a month ago, and even tonight, the grass is wet beneath my feet when I step outside to search the sky. A week after we moved into our rented house by the river, the road caved ina few houses down. Below the road, men had been excavat- ing land, preparing to build a new house. The waters that had fallen had made the earth wet and heavy. The waters soaked the earth. And when the earth shifted from the weight, the earth buried two men.

My soft gray moccasins thudded against the wet red clay and stones that led from the site back to my house. I ran for my shovel and gave it to one of the other workers. He was young and his eyes were full of fear. There were many men shoveling, working against time, trying desper- ately to unbury the two men. The ambulances came, the police, the fire department. All of the people who live in the barrio stood in vigilance as the men shoveled franti- cally. I felt a tightness in my chest. One of the women who herds her black mountain sheep in the grass across the street from our house passed by, her walk slow. Mari. A diminutive for Maria, my name. This mountain town of women and children with the name Maria. Marux in tzotzil.

When Doja Mari walked past me that day, she paused to speak with me. She grows ancient with the rains, but her voice sounds like that of a small child. Her two long black braids fall down her sides, her hair parted with a thick stripe of gray. She wears the traditional long black woolen skirt, and speaks mostly tzotzil. Her bell like voice crossed the short distance between us. I had held a stone of heaviness in my chest, waiting for the men to be unburied. She said, her soft voice filled with regret and clarity, “Ya se murieron.” They have already died. In that moment, I knew it was true. The tightness in my chest expanded, and then I took a breath. Although the work- ers were still frantically digging, the two men buried be- low were standing as light shadows on the mound of dirt above the crowd. Perhaps too, they stood on the jagged piece of road that had not fallen, watching the efforts of the entire barrio to seek back the bodies their spirits had already left behind.

‘The waters, they shift the pathway of the river, they soak the earth, and move the roads. When the waters come, people pray for their houses, the ones on sloped hills. When the waters come, everything begins anew. Lake Atitlan, surrounded by three volcanoes in Guatemala, also has communities on the hillsides that pray for their homes when the rains come. There, I met an ancient woman, Ja- cinta. I sat by the edge of her bed, the floors stained black from coal. A small fire

The waters, they shift the pathway of the river, pit in the corner of the they soak the earth, and move the roads.

room was left unlit. Her bony hand held in mine like a resting deli- cate bird, we claimed our friendship. She said to me, “Que dice tu corazén?” What does your heart say. I carried her words with me when I left the next morning. I took her words with me as the boat sped across the lake in early daylight, as the volcanoes loomed up against the bright sky. I carried her words back to the mountain town.

High in the mountains, water is powerful in a different way from my grandmother's island, Borinquen. In the mountains of Southern Mexico, we are far from the ocean. Instead the waters are brought from the sky. In Puerto Rico, and in Cuba too, where I learned my Spanish, grand- mothers leave offerings for Yemaya. They leave sugarcane and molasses and seashells on their alters for her. Our last trip to San Juan, more than a year ago, I swam into the ocean with my daughter. A full children’s moon rose in the still bright sky. Rumba was on the corner. My brother was there, his voice floating along, calling back. From the ocean I could hear them. Emblem be vele va bele va. Their rhythm honored the sea, Yemaya.

The next morning, I packed my suitcase. I said goodbye to my father, to our family, to the sea, and the salt. To the dinners Bell and Lluvia had prepared of yuca, tostones, and fried pana. To the warmth of the sky at night. I al- ways feel as though I am leaving my grandmother behind when I leave San Juan, as though her spirit had decided to return to the island of her birth, after she had left her body. I packed my daughter’s clothing into my suitcase, and made the bed. It was the only time leaving San Juan that I did not say goodbye to Dagiiao. He was still there, claiming the earth sounds in his backyard, strumming his guitar, but the trip had been about my family. And about the separation of Dagiiao from me. My daughter and I flew back to Mexico City, and then made the night ride a day later back to the mountains.

In the mountains, I have been receiving letters from a woman in Mexico City. She was born in an old gold mining town, high in the mountains not far from Mexico City, where the forest meets the Sierra. I was born by the sea, near a port : H E where ships dock, where the sea is gray like the sky. Tonight & Fisgiege 7 after the dome overhead became dark, and the sky had wept, FACTS ‘ABOUT i she said that I should rest as the rains came to my earth. WATE woe (4 Spanish is poetic. The words open up, and we speak about : 4 pte

letting the rain wet the earth. That is how the months of rain fill our words, our communications, our thoughts. That is the way we bless each other from a distance with our words until we meet. There is uncertainty, but also a strong chord of trust. Trust in the malachite mountains that rise up from outside the adobe wall, which shelters a small garden. Trust that the rains will continue to fall when they need to fall. I choose to trust in their strength rather than rise up in fear as they shift the earth each season with their current from the lake-sky.

TH APPROXIMATE RATIO.OF, WATER TO LAND ON THH EARTH’s SURFACE Is 70% TO 30%, RESPECTIVE OF THAT, AN ESTIMATED 10% 01 TOTAL WATER IS FRESH WAT Pa slae S THE APPROXIMATE PERCENTA‘ G ATER IN THE. HUMAN BODY IS 70°

During the time of dengue in San Juan, after I had recovered GFVHAT, ABOMT 1 nee SERFERO from my fever, I returned again to the rainforest. The Do- - SPINAL FLUID- FRE (WOTES. minican man who had come from the river, invited Dagiiao, a at " A | my daughter, and me to his house there. We went to meet the Bae man’s family: his partera wife, and youngest daughter, who THE SALINITY OF BLOO did bare a resemblance to my own daughter. Her dark brown THE SAME AS THE SALL P skin, her wide eyes of black earth. We went back to the river, ad OCEAN. THE HEART, MO’ ( the six of us, to another entrance inside the rainforest. They OOp HE MOON ir? ee

& f “a +!

say the Tainos, our ancestors, made prayers there. The rain began to fall, lightly at first. And from far down the river, I heard song. I heard voices rise up. It sounded like ancestral prayer. Taino prayer. Yoruba prayer. Perhaps my African an- cestors had sought shelter not far down the river as maroons from slavery in the sacred rainforest. The sound was beyond my ears, almost as though I had scooped up a song from the past, but it was real, and it was there, further down. I asked Dagitao if he had heard the song, but he had not. Maybe

it was the small amount of fever still left in my blood from the dengue. Maybe it was an echo from my people who had gathered there years ago. Maybe it was the sound of the river inside my bones.

AS

Sarah Maria Medina is a poet and a fiction/creative non-fiction writer from the American Northwest. She is Boricua, of mixed heri- tage. She received a B.A. in Comparative History of Ideas from the University of Washington. Her essays have appeared in Hip Mama Magazine, Squat Journal, Mutha Magazine, and Rebelle Society. She has also been featured in Mutha Magazine’ column, Ask A Mutha. Her poetry has been printed or is forthcoming in Raspa, a Queer Latino Literary Journal, As/Us Literary Journal, Semicolon Journal, and Qu.ee/r Magazine among others. She is also the author of a chapbook of poetry titled Girl Turnin’ Queen and Other (Bro- 3 ken) Havana Love Stories. She currently resides in Mexico with her : Bi daughter, and is working on her Havana memoir.

5

PEOPLE IN THE NORTHWEST— IT's ABOUT WATER

--BY ROBERT SASKATOON--

Native people in the Northwest stand to be impacted by climate change in a variety of ways. Water is a common theme across these impacts. Tribes such as the Klamath, who liye in a semi-arid landscape, are likely to face increasingly severe droughts and struggles to access wa- ter amidst competing demands from farmers, dams and others. However, even coastal tribes and Native people living in temperate rainforests will be impacted by changes to water. Since much of the Northwest is wet, issues around water ¢ ¢an be overlooked when discussing climate justice. Below are two examples of how Native people are being affected by climate impacts to water, and what they’re doing about it.

NOOKSACK TRIBE AND GLACIAL MELTING:

Glaciers feed rivers with a seasonal flow of cold, clean water. Unfortunately, climate change is rap- idly melting many glaciers in the-Northwest, As a result, river flows are changing. The Nooksack Tribe has identified this as a serious concern for salmon in the Nooksack River, and by extension for Nook- sack people. Research by the Tribe raises concerns about how the decline of glaciers will impact.river temperature, seasonal flows, and snowpack. Given that salmon rely on cool water to thrive, and Native people throughout the Northwest rely on salmon to thrive, glacial melting spells trouble. The Nooksack Tribe describes climate change-induced harm to salmon as “unacceptable,” and is strongly advocat- ing for restoration of watersheds as a way to miti- gate climate impacts. Addressing pollution and im- pacts associated with colonization is one Way that people can take action to mitigate climate impacts on that precious liquid that gives us life—water!

NISQUALLY PEOPLE PREPARING FOR ESTUARY CHANGES:

Sea-leVel rise creates a-host of challenges for coast- al peoples’ health. One often overlooked impact is how higher sea levels will impact-estuaries. Estu- ary ecosystems are. vital for many, species, includ- ing salmon’and many types~of shellfish, Given the importance of these species to Native people in the Northwest; any changes to estuaries are a concern. The Nisqually Tribe is taking a forward-thinking ap- proach to adapt to sea-level rise by restoring estu- aries in their homelands, and in doing so are an-. ticipating how sea-levels may pushvestuaries farther upriver in the future.

FOR MORE INFORMATION:

Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission. 2011. “Last Dikes Coming Down on the Nisqually River.” http://nwife, org/2011/08/the-last-dikes-coming-down-along=nisqually-estuary/

Leslie Kaufman. 2011. “Seeing Trends, Coalition Works to Help a River Adapt.” New York Times, July 20. http://www. nytimes.com/2011/07/21/science/earth/21river.html?pagewanted=all&/r=0

Also check out this journal, if you can! This entire issue is dedicated to tribal climate issues: Climatic Change. October 2013, Volume 120, Issue 3.

ty

—~S

“WATER IS SACRED’

‘The Student In- surgent interviews Dania Colegrove, Hoopa, in her stop in Eugene en route

to oppose the Mega- Igad Transport in Eastern Oregon.

12

Student Insurgent: What are your general thoughts about water, its role in Hoopa people's lives, the struggles to protect water, and the struggle to uphold the rights of the Hoopa Tribe?

_ Dania: Water is sacred, It is a scary thought that some- ~~ time there may not be any water in the river. All aspects x , of the tribe rely on water. Water is the river. The highway.

___ Water is our shopping center. We gather the materials

= for our baskets from the water. Water is our culture. We

use water to bring balance to the world with our World

Renewal Ceremonies. Water is our Life. Everything de-

pends on water. Everything needs water. Animals, trees, * the people cannot live without water. Water is just like air.

2 You've got to have it to live.

e Our biggest struggle today is to save water from going south. The biggest water thief in the United States, West- land’s Water, has its eye on Northern California water. Not just the Hoopa tribe, but all northern California tribes should be worried about the peripheral canal and where it’s going to gets its water. The peripheral canal is Governor Jerry Brown's big water plan for California to divert water from the north to the south, which will affect the Sacramento Delta, one of the biggest estuaries on the west coast. Oregon, Washington, California, and Alaska are the only salmon states in the US. It will deplete the salmon population to divert the Sacramento away from the Delta. The people in the south are not going to get any more water than they already get now. The water is getting diverted to the future development in the desert and for fracking in California. I just got an email today from the south telling us they heard that Governor Brown was selling Trinity River water for fracking. The people

in southern California wont get any more water than they get now; they are only going to pay a higher price

for their water. The water is going to make Westland’s richer. Fifty-two percent of the Trinity River goes into the Sacramento River at the Lewiston Diversion right now.

SI: How has the Hoopa’s connection to the water on the Klamath Basin affected its relationships with other tribes and other “stakeholders” on the river?

Dania: Hoopa did not sign onto the Klamath Basin Restoration Agreement (KBRA) like the other Klamath Basin Tribes did due to the fact that the Hoopa Tribe holds the Grandfather Water Rights. The US Government has a trust obligation with the tribe to insure that the river would have adequate flow to insure a sustainable liveli- hood. The other tribes signed onto the KBRA because they think they do not have those Grandfather Water Rights, although they do have an inherited right. It’s a “di- vide and conquer” tactic. As far as whether or not a tribe has Grandfather Water Rights, even if it is not written down, it is an inherited right. The Klamath tribe had 35 years of litigation to prove their inherited rights in court. In 2013 they were able to assert their tribal water rights. For more information, you can read the Klamath Tribe website. In 2010, the KBRA bill did not pass Congress. So currently the stakeholders (tribes, farmers, commercial fishermen, sports fishermen) have formed a task force and are trying to re-do the KBRA, reducing the costs so it will pass this time. Current details can be found on the Klam- ath Riverkeeper’s website.

SI: Why is it important for “settlers” to respect the rights of indigenous people in regard to water, the Klamath dams, and dam removal?

Dania: “What affects one, affects us all. We all live down- stream.” The river has to be healthy to have a healthy ecosystem and sustainable fisheries. It is important for settlers to respect indigenous peoples because they are all on indigenous lands, forcibly taken by the government. This is all indigenous land. Learn whose land you're on and respect it the way it should be respected.

SI: What are your dreams for the Trinity River/Klamath Basin, the salmon and the Hoopa Tribe?

Dania: My dream for the Trinity River is to have more flow — we should have 75% and let Westland’s have 25%, or remove the dam altogether. My dream for the Klamath Basin and the salmon it would be dam removal to insure healthy sustainable river and fishery for the next genera- tions. You can’t eat money and you can't drink oil.

SI: Thank you, Dania.

why is the sea

ing of a thousand streams?

k

= In the days long before the periodic table, there were 5 elements rather than 118. These elements were not distant theoretical particles but personal fi U and tangible elements that influenced our lives. These elements were earth, é fire, air, spirit and of course water. Though chemistry has it’s perks, the x y alchemical elements contain symbolism that have stood since the dawn of yf U civilization, through oppression of religion and science. ! Water is the element that represents the power emotions have over us, the lust, love, fear and hatred that guides our lives. When we think of the nature of water this makes sense, water flows free and wild as our emotions do. Water controls all the natfral systems of the world and flows within us. é Why else would we cry tears of joy and sorrow? f Throughout my life water has brought feelings of fear. I would have y night terrors of water filling the room, I never learned to swim. I lived ina town threatened constantly by a creeping tsunami, fear of the oceans rising, of the water being unsafe to drink. Worry over catching pneumonia in the rain, fj of getting electrocuted in the bathtub. I was afraid of drowning in my own i saliva for chrissake! * i Ul Water drives every living thing on earth (just examine the livelihood of a desert versus a rainforest)I suppose this element of control is what brings the undertones of fear into the game. Water controls where and how we can live and our bodies entire chemistry. Now corporations tap into that very control with olympic sized backyard swimming pools, bottled water and wasteful agricultural models that do us as much good as a fucking hole in our head. Yes water makes some of the issues that rightfully scare us the most, but water also makes up something far more powerful. Water is the elixir of life and the connector of all living things which points us to it’s symbol of love. Our bodies aré 70% water, it’s the same puddles we jumped in in childhood bliss, the same tear you wiped away in comfort. The same water that makes our trees grow, that quenches our thirst and falls effortlessly from the sky. It’s the water you were rescued from drowning in, that you watched float / through the sky as clouds, every river you swam in. As a matter of fact, it’s the very stuff that you pissed out this morning. All of it is the same good ff

old fashioned dihydrogen monoxide, with only time keeping it separate. e Let the waters of love connect us all and help us remember that we truly

are one being. Don’t let the waters of fear guide your vessel! a -Grace Ogren He

Vater dives from clouds |

without a parachute, *) ngs, or Safety net. 4/a-~ | runs over the steepest

The Consequences of Tourism on the Yjforlds Ly/ater Supply

=

Mass tourism cannot be sustained. It is a “f Uf i Go 1S. Ld water-intensive industry. Under a 4 degree global f° climate change scenario, 3.2 billion people will face Dumb-dumbs

Asa golfer I experience firsthand the contra- dictions of participating in the sport. I would be heaving my heavy golf bag walking 18-holes and sweating every hit, while watching red-faced, white haired men speed by me in golf carts, downing

water stress by 2100. Although agriculture is respon- sible for most of the world’s total water, tourism is dependent on fresh water; tourists need water when using any facilities in the hotels or resorts includ- ing using spas, wellness areas and swimming pools. Fresh water is needed to maintain hotel gardens and golf courses, and it is part of food and fuel produc- tion.

_ Golf is an expensive sport, which makes it exclusive to people with money and privilege. Part of what makes it so expensive is the costly maintenance of ithe golf courses. I played varsity in high school and raveling around the state, I saw a variety of golf ‘ourses, all of which resembled more a mars land-

‘scape than Oregon landscapes. In Bend, the courses Qwere especially strange because rolling green per-

fectly manicured lawns were plopped down in the

jiddle of the high desert. You can go anywhere in he world, and most courses look the same.

Most golf clubs are not interested in mak- ing their facilities more sustainable. The Environ- mental Institute for Golf sent a survey to nearly 17 thousand golf facilities in the US. Only 15 were turned. What the survey found was that golf courses comprise an estimated 1,198,381 acres of ‘irrigated turfgrass in the US and their total annual ‘\water use is estimated at 325,851.4 gallons of water per day. Only 12 percent of the golf courses reuse |water. In Palm Springs, 57 golf courses are main- ‘tained in a desert. Every day each course consumes 'as much water as a North American family of four uses in four years. The US Golf Association (USGA) claims \that they are working to make golf more sustain- able by improving grasses that require less water, creating new irrigation systems, and using alterna- ‘tive water sources like storm runoff water. Even with changes to the system, I believe that golf will emain unsustainable and exclusive to the elite.

Enough people enjoy the game of golf that if they spoke up, clubs would have to listen. Golf often

Energy and water use are interlinked; water is needed for energy production like air-condition- ing/heating, laundry, running a hotel or resort. It is estimated that, when you add up the water used for infrastructure, fossil fuels, biofuels, and food, a tourist uses 2,000-7,500L of water per day.

Changes in the availability of water can be detrimental to tourism in a specific area. Countries like Mauritius and the Barbados have a very small amount of total natural renewable water resources but their tourists use more water per day than in | many other countries. On a regional level tour- ism negatively impacts dry regions where renew- able water reserves are limited.

In Bali water resources are diminishes from overexploitation to meet the increasing de- mand for clean water for tourist facilities. Eighty percent of Bali’s economy depends on tourism and tourism depends on a healthy water supply. ‘Tourism in this country provides 481,000 jobs, directly employing 25 percent of the workforce and supporting more than 50 percent of its gross domestic product.

Unfortunately tourism uses 65 percent of the islands water supply. Water is being given to tourism rather than to agriculture for locals. ‘They are experiences salt-water intrusion, land

subsidence and deteriorating water quality. Rice farmers and other poor marginalized members of society cannot afford the city tap-water supply. 1.7 million out of Bali’s 3.9 million people don’t have access to clean water, Hotels in Bali need 50,000 liters of clean wa- ter every day.

encourages the preservation of a “gentlemen's ub” mentality, which is a burden on society moving forward.

®

onthe riversotioinen California

The destructive processes of colonization have occurred in many forms throughout hundreds of years. Genocide, theft, disease, poison, and boarding schools are some of the many tactics that colonizers have used to oppress indigenous peoples all over the earth. One form of violence that is not often recognized is the construc- tion of infrastructure that disrupts natural processes of the world and ways of life of indigenous peoples.

‘The following is a brief, incomplete timeline of the struggles of two indigenous groups on two different (but connected) rivers-- the Winnemem Wintu on the Winnemem (or McCloud) River, which becomes the Sacramento River, and the Karuk, on the Klamath River. There are many other tribes with many different sto- ries in presently-named “Northen California” and around the world. These are only two. This timeline focuses on dams as a tool of violence against indigenous peoples, and does not include many other tools of violence

used against indigenous peoples. This does not mean that other forms of violence‘did-notyand:do not, occur, They did, and they do.

arrive

S ‘Treaty calling nets arg 1851- Cottonwood T salaries 1848" ps sountains for a 25st sad August 16 xjame" settle the Wintu, S 0 sre SOP tor eading’sranch on Cottonwo: 1350S"

creek.

rel 2 us. Senate other tree 3852 Td Treaty aN der Cotton treaties Wer ed until Ee don ot ecrecy jon - gnneme! Dance? Lager! “Las ae 1987 ete wat one protes tae of Shas mee * smem I ‘pa hateDery OF other ceFemer war dan eld in sect® izes dares the wed, only o> jand Author? dams built on ground over Cleve’ eservation -~ ful 1g93- U allotm! ed righ! ne issuant \ ents nds- Sh c ' dian: Hote cir traditions) [ sylotments 8 a . een 1937 _USs - Winn anjustices cloud RY in removal one — em : ae begin Temoval of Winters te oe em from the River,

1993 The Yurok and Hoopa receive a 50% share of available fish harvest following a Department of Interior ruling; the Karuk

tribe is not considered to be eligible

2002 Massive die-off of

1952. spawning adult salmon occurs cused Dan, Pa Tron in the lower Klamath River pave o perso™ Pci Mpeg te 1987-1999 ee yea Pe Ton aiteess 14° Sling,“ Y) the Winnemem engage e908 Pd OF FE oc ane Klan! 20k, Th a lawsuit against the Forest give POY anges ‘ror Maing, ‘ ath Rive Service to stop development of mn: ee and sg! 2d trip ™m hab” a ski resort on Mt Shasta. In a oneal for the iS a Ula victory for the tribe, the Forest abet rate esthe v - Service halts the development. ety four HME cart dis neatly arate of eetimes esti at 9 690) 08) cae gaat ca 0" ath dat \ ¢ 2010 Form’, Festoratio® \\ an neds ts are SB} eee} emoving ‘ommitti 020 four 4ams

Indian e

llioin to all

rt of Claims awards

California

enials for chil. llottees,

aruk continue to fight for continue to

. a Y salmon runs and t aditi apes n raditional basi a for their to right hold ceremony pp of fishing on the river, srg mocha the pee we tribes face intrusions by Be me, and against the privatization > ao Water District and other ae Oliteers/settlers on their 1 vvater for profit: homelands. nis

tribes, please check out these great resources:

‘The Effects of Altered Diet on the Health of the Karuk People” by Kari Marie Norgaard, Ph.D., November 2005

Dancing Salmon Home,’ a film about the Winnemem Wintu’s journey to bring the salmon back home to the Winnemem (McCloud) River.

lhttp://www.sacredland.org/PDFs/Wintu_Timeline.pdf

-http://www.klamathriver.org/environmentaljustice.html

http://karuktimeline.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/timeline_final_jun29- 010_34x180_lowres].pdf

ihttp://www.sacredland.org/PDFs/Wintu_Timeline.pdf

Words and Art by Mylece Burton

Where Does Violence Come From?

Violence is taught, bred, imitated. Hours of unemployment, lack of edu- cation, endless, empty time. Empty endless hours of TV and flies and fruit.

To teach how to self-educate, to question if there is something outside of this world of unmarked hours.

Iam sitting on the sofa with the pregnant girl, waiting for something to happen. The whole world is sitting in front of the TV, staring blankly through the window of the bus at the man on the street covered with a plastic bag who is staring blankly at the needle in his uplifted hand that is also as far away as the children on the TV lined up against a plywood wall with burned up coke cans and empty lighters. Belly full of bread and cake and wet dough, drowsy with boredom.

I have discovered that poverty is also stagnancy. I always assumed that those struggling from day to day to survive would be running around frantically like ants, and many do. But there is a stillness of mind, vacancy of expression, lack of empathy or compas- sion; where violence begins.

=

In the stillness of time I observe the restlessness of an unoccupied mind. Endless energy, desire to live, children desperate for sugar like ants.

She watches ants wrestle leaf pieces through the dust, and wonders if there are snakes in the water of the river. It is mid- day in the plaza of the town in the sand dunes by the river. Salt of the nearby ocean on her lips, sand between her legs is wet with sweat and she is stuck to the plastic chair when she tries to stand to leave the bar.

It feels like she is still in the ocean as she walks barefoot down the street, the push and pull of the waves enhanced by beer. A man rides by on an emaciated horse, and offers her a ride. He helps her up, and stupidly she mounts the horse.

Realizing her mistake, she asks to dismount, to turn back and go home as they make their way slowly along the river, through the sand dunes. Silently she cries as they go farther and farther and she loses the guiding sound of the ocean.

‘The river is clear and still, and lined with palm trees. The horse keeps trying to stop and drink, to enter the cool water and relieve its’ enormous burden.

Something breaks inside of her and she stops pleading, and is silent. The world is distorted, mutated, as if she is looking through the bottom of a glass bottle.

‘They have dismounted and the man is sucking her nipples, and pulling on her bikini, roughly putting his fingers inside her.

Something inside her is not afraid anymore; an animal knows if it struggles and tries to escape the beast will only hold on that much more tightly. Lying, she tells him she has a boy- friend in the city that will know, and come after him. Gently, she tells him she does not love him.

‘The boy goes into a rage, and runs into the water, slapping the surface with the palms of his hands. The horse follows, and begins to swim away. While he throws his tantrum, she turns and begins walking quickly towards the bushes at the base of a sand dune. He starts to chase her, and as she runs under a tree she hits a nest of hornets. Some of them cling to her body and sting her as she stumbles up the sand dune, but most of them attack him. She knows she can outrun him, and continues over the dunes until she sees the ocean.

Finally she reaches the ocean and dives in to drown the hor- nets, the salt stings but the water is warm and so is the sun on her body as she walks down the beach.

Already she has forgiven him, washed by the ocean.

ution He foresaw that

us by the miracles all sense of reality. d slaves of wheels

mselves on being the Conquerors In actual fact, of course, they

Jibrium of Nature and were about to suffer jder what they were up to in the century the rivers killing off wild animals, ‘o the seas burning up an

5 it had taken the whole inal imbecility- And they

inning of the industrial revo

over-weeningly that they would soon lose d, These wretche

a to congratulate of Nature. Conquerors of nature, indeed!

fad merely upset the equil s, Just cons!

the Thing- Fouling rests, washing the topsoil int um, squandering the mineral

to deposit. An orgy of crim!

and duty i Y to rob, swi:

0) i , SWI rn (which is by om! farthly paradise, Rem el ato gress’ He might a ut of the bag at ave

0 be subject to is the rue as well as false, power or

state you happen t that all these gods, t nflict over prestige:

onalism- the theory that the

d that all other states are f f juvenile delinquents;

d, the True and

false gods; and that every co the Beautiful”

re was Nati

nly true god, an

noney is @ crusa

* THE PEN is MIGHTY,

* by cour! Bartunek 3 AMY, :

A pencil is saving me from insanity. I write to share my joy and halve my pain: My words have hit their mark and found their true home in you, the reader. I've met my quintessential other; beacon for; bearer of phrases waxing poetic and turning counter-culture. I'am a writer and in so being experience things with both hands and swim through the noise of this institution. Now here I am, and island of calm, meditating in this sea of chaotic noise. people going nowhere at all but straining at the bit. Always in a hurry, worried they'll miss something. Anything brings excitement to the inching caterpillar, eating and sleeping, waiting for some great transformation that will change her into something of otherness. There is a season for the rain. Keep- ing me hostage in this warehouse of drama-seeking women. In waiting I have found peace- my calm in the storm. I have found myself beautiful whiling away in the wonderment of the written word. I have read classic nonconformist literature. I have found friends in the mail and have spent hours beneath the poet-tree. I have been across the coun- try hitch-hiking and to Walden’s Pond.

I have found someone with my same voice. He takes the words straight from my mouth (or pen). At least once a week I am presented with an envelope of flowers- often with works of repro- duced art on the backs; Picasso and Van Gogh... but no artist can rival the flavor from within. I relish the salt from his hands, his words. I have been whisked away to exotic locales and neighborhood coffeeshops. For the hour that I read those pages I can feel the humidity of the Florida air; smell the

lasagne cooking; and feel the brush of his eyelashes when he leans close.

Sometimes we read books together; lofty pieces of literature; Ayn Rand and Edith Wharton. When I get stumped on a crossword I send it to him and he finishes them off and reassures me that 1 was right, 35 across was “KOALA’ and I shouldn't have doubted myself. I have never been wooed and won like this and indeed I am won. Unseen forces assure me that his words are authentic and true, and that his feelings are as true as mine.

I have received xeroxed flowers and bits of verse and prose. On mother’s day I drew his mom a rose... “Thanks for the boy.” I would like here to copy a year’s worth of letters because the truth therein is self-evident. I am in the midst of a love story recorded for all the ages to come. An old-fashioned hand written courtship. I wouldn't trade it for 1000 days of the “freedom” I had before. Enslaved to drugs and engaged to a man who wouldn't give me eyes to see for fear I would look away from him. I remember in a jealous rage he rent my journal page from binding. I had written a poem about a rose. He wanted to know who had given me this rose.

In writing I have found my freedom and my soul. I know now that a man somewhere exists that will appreciate my poetic ramblings and my spirit. I was in bondage when I could not express myself, but now, with this pen, I feel at last, free.

Witla

i HLALIAHAL

Fresh from the river Straight into my toilet I poop in water

Flushing my poopies Who cares where they will find home?

They go somewhere else.

This eternal cycle, body and earth, is broken. Who else will feed us?

by Thomas Walker

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