The War Cry
May 18, 2015
The War Cry
Chinadyawaho, or Waho as his friends called him, was deeply saddened because of the cruel desires of the foreigners. When the foreigners had arrived in their beat-up, desperate looking wooden ships, their only thoughts were of pity, kindness, and friendliness. Waho’s Cheyenne ancestors had aided them, listening to their odd accented questions about building proper shelters and where to camp to avoid predators. They learned how to plant and preserve their precious crops of maize, carrots, and cabbage in the fertile young land. The foreigners had learned and grown; only too much. They knew the layout of the land, and where the camps were. They had developed selfish desires and plotted on their own friends, seeking out how to eliminate them. Before they had known it, they were pushed out of their true and rightful land, and outmatched in weaponry and numbers. This resulted in the natives being crowded into highly guarded and supervised complexes, these small, uncomfortable, and musty places of life, where innocent and guiltless dark skinned men, women and children were kept. They were treated like inmates in a jail, but why? They were Native Americans, who had helped their so-called friends. The only true Americans as Waho thought, the free and proud and… imprisoned.
They were like doves in a bronze cage and dolphins in an unforgiving net, trapped helplessly. The reservations were horrible. They were constantly being watched with no privacy whatsoever. The guards had specific and strict patrol duties and night shifts. This was their reward for helping their friends.
Soon, this would all change. Navajo Nation, the biggest Native American reservation that covered the corners of Arizona, Utah, and New Mexico, was powerful. They consisted of close to 200,000 vengeful Native Americans. They had the numbers, the will, the want, and the need, to escape from their chains of shame. They needed much more space, a place where the natives could live like they wanted to, dress like they wanted to, have their own laws, and their own government. They needed a place where proud green forest rose high, a place of crisp, fresh wood for tools, filled with singing birds and leaping deer, fat turkeys, and silver wolves. A place that would conceal their elaborate and decorative teepees, with cool aqua pools, the overwhelming and rich aroma of venison cooking, the chopping of woodpeckers. They needed a home.
This was all a dream, until now.
The day of escape was near to come. Waho had talked to hundreds of strong and courageous men who hailed from tribes like the Navajo, Cheyenne, Sioux, and many others. They wanted to try to release themselves from their unrightfully determined predicament. Waho had to admit that they were weakened, but not dead. The nails of their captivity were tightened once, but now coming loose. The bars were holding, but not for much longer. The keys were dangling, but they weren’t out of reach.
He was stirring and mixing the unrest into something that would hopefully change the future of all Native Americans. He had heard tales from his equally optimistic son Jaulawena about the government plummeting, the economy struggling, the leaders rule shaky. If this wasn’t a better time to ambush, then when was?
It was time for the retake, revival, and reawakening of Native Americans. It was time to regain what was rightfully theirs. It was time for the Native Americans to free the helpless natives from their reservations. Waho’s grandfather once said: “The difference between a wise man and a fool is one priceless asset: their wits.” Waho was growing old, but his dreams were not yet fulfilled. They were very close.