Latest news with #Yakama
E&E News
5 days ago
- Politics
- E&E News
Trump topples $1 billion Columbia River settlement deal
President Donald Trump declared Thursday that the federal government must pull out of a settlement agreement that had halted the long-running legal battle over 14 dams in the Pacific Northwest, reopening a fight over the future of fish populations in the Columbia River Basin. The White House said Trump signed a memorandum withdrawing from a $1 billion agreement that included the Nez Perce, Yakama, Warm Springs and Umatilla tribal nations, as well as the states of Oregon and Washington. The Biden administration signed off on the agreement in late 2023 following two years of negotiations and triggering the first of two five-year delays in the lawsuit. Advertisement The announcement is expected to throw the clash over hydropower and water flows in the Columbia River Basin — and the future of salmon and steelhead trout populations in the region — back into court. Tribes and conservation groups in the Pacific Northwest have pushed for the removal of four dams on the Snake River, saying those structures have contributed to the decline of native fish. As part of the settlement, the Biden administration signed off on studies of taking down the dams — an idea that congressional Republicans have denounced. But White House officials under former President Joe Biden emphasized that only Congress could authorize dam removals.
The Guardian
29-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘We play for Indian Country': how Bilingual Basketball league is preserving Indigenous languages
Long before Michael Jordan changed the sport of basketball, another Jordon transformed the National Basketball Association's (NBA) history by breaking the league's racial barrier as its first Native American player. In 1956, Phil 'The Flash' Jordon, a descendant of the Wailaki and Nomlaki tribes, was drafted by the New York Knicks and played 10 seasons in the league. Though he may not carry the same cultural cache as other hoopers throughout professional basketball's century-plus existence, Jordon embodies a longstanding Native American fixation on the sport – especially at the community level. Throughout the years, Native Americans have embraced basketball and made it their own. One way they're doing so today is with 'rez ball,' a lightning-fast style of basketball associated with Native American teams. Although the notion of Native Americans in basketball hasn't fully permeated the mainstream sports consciousness (basketball gyms on reservations are still among the most overlooked in the country by talent scouts), the NBA, Women's National Basketball Association (WNBA) and other basketball entities have begun to acknowledge native hoopers and their rich legacy more fully. Rez Ball, a LeBron James-produced film currently streaming on Netflix, is based on Canyon Dreams, an acclaimed book about a Navajo high school team in northern Arizona. The Toronto Raptors unveiled an alternate team logo designed by Native American artist Luke Swinson in honor of the franchise's annual Indigenous Heritage Day; the illustration depicts two long haired, brown skinned hoopers flowing inside of a basketball silhouette, which doubles as an amber sunrise. And earlier this season, NBA superstar Kyrie Irving – whose family belongs to the Lakota tribe of the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in North Dakota – went viral for meeting with a group of Native American fans after a Dallas Mavericks game. The eight-time All-Star also debuted Chief Hélà, his pair of indigenous-inspired sneakers, during the 2024 NBA Finals last June. As for the WNBA, the league boasts the only professional sports franchise owned by a Native American tribe. The Mohegan Tribe purchased the Connecticut Sun (formerly the Orlando Miracle) in 2003 and relocated the team to the Mohegan Sun Arena in Uncasville, Connecticut. Still, there's much left to be desired for Native American representation and their conservation of traditions and identity at large, both on and off the court. It's something Native basketball players and coaches are hustling to retain and defend. 'Imagine not being able to speak your language, that's having your identity stolen,' says Adam Strom, a member of the Yakama tribe in Washington state. 'I'm not fluent in Ichiskíin, [a Yakama dialect]. I only know a few words. But there's a big push in Indian Country to preserve and hold on to your language. Basketball is a conduit for that.' For Strom and others invested in the Native American basketball community, the sport offers a chance to celebrate Native American history, retain indigenous languages and provide an inviting, accessible space for intergenerational exchange. Strom is the head coach of the women's basketball team at Haskell Indian Nations University – the only Native American institution in the country that offers a sanctioned four-year athletic program for Native Americans, and which Strom compares to an HBCU equivalent for indigenous students. For that reason, it's unlike any other campus in the nation. But Strom's role – along with various staff positions at Haskell – have come under fire by the Trump administration's budget cuts. The recent executive order has put the Native American institution directly at risk. After slashing tribal funds and attempting to revoke Native American birthright – a draconian move which a federal judge has deemed as 'unconstitutional' – it's an especially precarious moment for Haskell and its students. That hasn't stopped Strom or his basketball program from trying to instill a winning mindset imbued with cultural awareness in the next generation of Native American community members. Despite formally losing his job, Strom – a 24-year veteran and son of the late basketball coach, Ted Strom – is leveraging his basketball prowess to proverbially level the playing field. Or, in his case, the hardwood court. 'At Haskell, we play for Indian Country,' Strom says, who is now working without pay as a volunteer due to Trump's unprecedented firings. 'Any time my players step on the court, they represent Native Americans throughout the United States. My recruiting pool is a sliver compared to those other universities we participate against. Players have to meet that bloodline. There's a lot of pride in that.' According to the NCAA, only 544 student athletes out of 520,000 are Native Americans competing in Division I sports. As the least represented ethnic group in all of college sports, it speaks volumes that Native American women account for roughly 19% of all Natives in Division I competition. Players such as Jude and Shoni Schimmel, two Indigenous sisters who were raised on the Umatilla Indian Reservation in Oregon, are examples. The sisters went on to have successful careers at the University of Louisville, with Shoni becoming an All-American first-round draft pick of the Atlanta Dream in 2014. In a New York Times article about the Schimmels, Jude referenced basketball as ''medicine' that 'helps and heals' Native Americans'. Shoni (who pleaded guilty to abusing her domestic partner in 2023) has since retired from the WNBA, while Jude, after playing overseas in Spain, is currently signed to Athletes Unlimited Pro Basketball. More than any institutional accolades or professional achievements, though, the Native American spirit for basketball is most visible at the grassroots level, where significant assists are being made to carry forth a vibrant legacy. For basketballers in Indian Country, it's a way to stay interconnected by passing generational knowledge on to the next player. 'Without language you lose culture; without culture you lose your people. Kids from this community, their great-great-great-grandparents spoke [indigenous] languages. So how do you count, pass, catch, run in that language?' says Mitch Thompson, co-founder of Bilingual Basketball and an assistant coach with the Seattle Storm. The program is designed to support marginalized communities by providing free basketball camps that utilize bilingualism and sociolinguistics as part of their core mission to reclaim historically overlooked spaces through basketball. Thompson, a basketball coach with experience working for NBA and WNBA organizations in the United States and Mexico, is a passionate advocate for social equity and cultural empowerment through the sport. Having grown up in northeastern Oregon, Thompson became familiar with rez ball through the nearby Yakama, Cayuse, Walla Walla and Umatilla reservations. His vision for Bilingual Basketball came to life in 2021 after Adrian Romero, a Mexican American basketball player he had formerly coached, and their friend, Irma Solis, decided to offer the program to local youth. At the time, that meant serving a predominantly migrant, Spanish-speaking demographic. To date, they've served around 2,000 participants, mostly in the Pacific north-west. Everything changed in 2024 when Thompson teamed up with his former colleague, Strom, to bring the program to Native American reservations for the first time – starting with the Yakama in White Swan, Washington. 'Adam and I worked closely with the Yakama language department. I believe it was the first ever basketball camp offered in Ichiskíin,' says Thompson. 'There are only around 100 conversational speakers of this language on earth. Everything needs to be approved by tribal elders. But if you can combine that identity and those nuanced cultural aspects with basketball, that's powerful.' The weekend-long camp mixed English with Ichiskíin. The program offered indigenous prayers, a 'basketball powwow' (dances and songs used to pass down Native American traditions), and dribbling routines led by ceremonial drummers. It may be the first and only basketball camp of its kind, according to Thompson, who has extensive experience working with non-traditional basketball communities around North America. 'This is culturally sensitive. These communities had boarding schools and the kids were stolen from their families and forced into spaces where only English was spoken,' says Thompson. 'They had to practice Christianity [and] cut their hair. This is the opposite of that. We're celebrating language. This is a healing process.' Bilingual Basketball followed up their Yakama camp by working with the Prairie Band Potawatomi Nation (PBPNO) in Kansas – a tribe with even higher linguistic preservation needs. In 2019, the PBPN language and cultural department coordinator, Dawn LeClere, declared the Potawatomi language as nearly extinct, with only five known fluent speakers, a dwindling fraction of the estimated 10,000 that once flourished in the 1700s. Language preservation – outside of basketball – is a lifeline for North American tribes. To be sure, translating modern basketball jargon into an ancient language that isn't fluently spoken isn't easy. It requires tremendous creativity, and the phrases often don't match on a 1:1 basis. There is no word in Ichiskíin for 'basketball,' for example, so professional linguists and community members teamed up to invent a literal translation that combines the native words for basket and ball. For participants and coaches alike, it's all a new experience. 'We have learned so much working with the Yakama and Potawatomi nations,' says Romero, one of the program's co-founders and directors. 'The involvement from the language programs has been huge by providing translation of basketball terminology and everyday phrases. There have also been many volunteers to help teach the language throughout the duration of the camp. The kids got a chance to enhance their language skills and also learn cheers and cultural dances like Native American hoop dance.' As a bilingual speaker in English and Spanish, Romero learned new phrases including 'kgiwigesēm' ('you all did good') and 'tuctu' ('let's go'). If you try Googling those words, nothing appears. And that's exactly the kind of gap that Strom and Bilingual Basketball are trying to bridge – rather than destroy – with basketball as their tool. While these native communities face persecution in other arenas outside of basketball, the 134-year-old recreational sport has offered an unlikely pathway towards cultural preservation. It's something that Strom and the founders of Bilingual Basketball are committed to passing forward in real time. 'There's a sense of amnesia in American culture that [Indigenous] communities and people don't exist anymore. They absolutely do,' says Thompson. 'Their language and culture has persevered through genocide, boarding schools, and other intentional ways to keep them impoverished. Most Americans don't have any real, interpersonal connection to tribal communities. Really connecting to the communities, going into the spaces. But they're still there. It's important for non-Indigenous Americans to realize it's not just something of the past.'
Yahoo
29-03-2025
- Sport
- Yahoo
‘We play for Indian Country': how Bilingual Basketball league is preserving Indigenous languages
Participants of the White Swan Bilingual Basketball day in July 2024 on the Yakama Nation Indian Reservation. Photograph: Marcos Romero Turner Long before Michael Jordan changed the sport of basketball, another Jordon transformed the National Basketball Association's (NBA) history by breaking the league's racial barrier as its first Native American player. Advertisement In 1956, Phil 'The Flash' Jordon, a descendant of the Wailaki and Nomlaki tribes, was drafted by the New York Knicks and played 10 seasons in the league. Though he may not carry the same cultural cache as other hoopers throughout professional basketball's century-plus existence, Jordon embodies a longstanding Native American fixation on the sport – especially at the community level. Throughout the years, Native Americans have embraced basketball and made it their own. One way they're doing so today is with 'rez ball,' a lightning-fast style of basketball associated with Native American teams. Although the notion of Native Americans in basketball hasn't fully permeated the mainstream sports consciousness (basketball gyms on reservations are still among the most overlooked in the country by talent scouts), the NBA, Women's National Basketball Association (WNBA) and other basketball entities have begun to acknowledge native hoopers and their rich legacy more fully. Rez Ball, a LeBron James-produced film currently streaming on Netflix, is based on Canyon Dreams, an acclaimed book about a Navajo high school team in northern Arizona. The Toronto Raptors unveiled an alternate team logo designed by Native American artist Luke Swinson in honor of the franchise's annual Indigenous Heritage Day; the illustration depicts two long haired, brown skinned hoopers flowing inside of a basketball silhouette, which doubles as an amber sunrise. And earlier this season, NBA superstar Kyrie Irving – whose family belongs to the Lakota tribe of the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in North Dakota – went viral for meeting with a group of Native American fans after a Dallas Mavericks game. The eight-time All-Star also debuted Chief Hélà, his pair of indigenous-inspired sneakers, during the 2024 NBA Finals last June. As for the WNBA, the league boasts the only professional sports franchise owned by a Native American tribe. The Mohegan Tribe purchased the Connecticut Sun (formerly the Orlando Miracle) in 2003 and relocated the team to the Mohegan Sun Arena in Uncasville, Connecticut. Advertisement Still, there's much left to be desired for Native American representation and their conservation of traditions and identity at large, both on and off the court. It's something Native basketball players and coaches are hustling to retain and defend. 'Imagine not being able to speak your language, that's having your identity stolen,' says Adam Strom, a member of the Yakama tribe in Washington state. 'I'm not fluent in Ichiskíin, [a Yakama dialect]. I only know a few words. But there's a big push in Indian Country to preserve and hold on to your language. Basketball is a conduit for that.' Related: 'Protect our future': Alaskan Indigenous town fights 'destructive' uranium mine project For Strom and others invested in the Native American basketball community, the sport offers a chance to celebrate Native American history, retain indigenous languages and provide an inviting, accessible space for intergenerational exchange. Advertisement Strom is the head coach of the women's basketball team at Haskell Indian Nations University – the only Native American institution in the country that offers a sanctioned four-year athletic program for Native Americans, and which Strom compares to an HBCU equivalent for indigenous students. For that reason, it's unlike any other campus in the nation. But Strom's role – along with various staff positions at Haskell – have come under fire by the Trump administration's budget cuts. The recent executive order has put the Native American institution directly at risk. After slashing tribal funds and attempting to revoke Native American birthright – a draconian move which a federal judge has deemed as 'unconstitutional' – it's an especially precarious moment for Haskell and its students. That hasn't stopped Strom or his basketball program from trying to instill a winning mindset imbued with cultural awareness in the next generation of Native American community members. Despite formally losing his job, Strom – a 24-year veteran and son of the late basketball coach, Ted Strom – is leveraging his basketball prowess to proverbially level the playing field. Or, in his case, the hardwood court. 'At Haskell, we play for Indian Country,' Strom says, who is now working without pay as a volunteer due to Trump's unprecedented firings. 'Any time my players step on the court, they represent Native Americans throughout the United States. My recruiting pool is a sliver compared to those other universities we participate against. Players have to meet that bloodline. There's a lot of pride in that.' According to the NCAA, only 544 student athletes out of 520,000 are Native Americans competing in Division I sports. As the least represented ethnic group in all of college sports, it speaks volumes that Native American women account for roughly 19% of all Natives in Division I competition. Players such as Jude and Shoni Schimmel, two Indigenous sisters who were raised on the Umatilla Indian Reservation in Oregon, are examples. The sisters went on to have successful careers at the University of Louisville, with Shoni becoming an All-American first-round draft pick of the Atlanta Dream in 2014. Advertisement In a New York Times article about the Schimmels, Jude referenced basketball as ''medicine' that 'helps and heals' Native Americans'. Shoni (who pleaded guilty to abusing her domestic partner in 2023) has since retired from the WNBA, while Jude, after playing overseas in Spain, is currently signed to Athletes Unlimited Pro Basketball. If you can combine that identity and those nuanced cultural aspects with basketball, that's powerful Mitch Thompson, co-founder of Bilingual Basketball More than any institutional accolades or professional achievements, though, the Native American spirit for basketball is most visible at the grassroots level, where significant assists are being made to carry forth a vibrant legacy. For basketballers in Indian Country, it's a way to stay interconnected by passing generational knowledge on to the next player. 'Without language you lose culture; without culture you lose your people. Kids from this community, their great-great-great-grandparents spoke [indigenous] languages. So how do you count, pass, catch, run in that language?' says Mitch Thompson, co-founder of Bilingual Basketball and an assistant coach with the Seattle Storm. The program is designed to support marginalized communities by providing free basketball camps that utilize bilingualism and sociolinguistics as part of their core mission to reclaim historically overlooked spaces through basketball. Advertisement Thompson, a basketball coach with experience working for NBA and WNBA organizations in the United States and Mexico, is a passionate advocate for social equity and cultural empowerment through the sport. Having grown up in northeastern Oregon, Thompson became familiar with rez ball through the nearby Yakama, Cayuse, Walla Walla and Umatilla reservations. His vision for Bilingual Basketball came to life in 2021 after Adrian Romero, a Mexican American basketball player he had formerly coached, and their friend, Irma Solis, decided to offer the program to local youth. At the time, that meant serving a predominantly migrant, Spanish-speaking demographic. To date, they've served around 2,000 participants, mostly in the Pacific north-west. Everything changed in 2024 when Thompson teamed up with his former colleague, Strom, to bring the program to Native American reservations for the first time – starting with the Yakama in White Swan, Washington. 'Adam and I worked closely with the Yakama language department. I believe it was the first ever basketball camp offered in Ichiskíin,' says Thompson. 'There are only around 100 conversational speakers of this language on earth. Everything needs to be approved by tribal elders. But if you can combine that identity and those nuanced cultural aspects with basketball, that's powerful.' The weekend-long camp mixed English with Ichiskíin. The program offered indigenous prayers, a 'basketball powwow' (dances and songs used to pass down Native American traditions), and dribbling routines led by ceremonial drummers. It may be the first and only basketball camp of its kind, according to Thompson, who has extensive experience working with non-traditional basketball communities around North America. Without language you lose culture; without culture you lose your people Mitch Thompson Advertisement 'This is culturally sensitive. These communities had boarding schools and the kids were stolen from their families and forced into spaces where only English was spoken,' says Thompson. 'They had to practice Christianity [and] cut their hair. This is the opposite of that. We're celebrating language. This is a healing process.' Bilingual Basketball followed up their Yakama camp by working with the Prairie Band Potawatomi Nation (PBPNO) in Kansas – a tribe with even higher linguistic preservation needs. In 2019, the PBPN language and cultural department coordinator, Dawn LeClere, declared the Potawatomi language as nearly extinct, with only five known fluent speakers, a dwindling fraction of the estimated 10,000 that once flourished in the 1700s. Language preservation – outside of basketball – is a lifeline for North American tribes. To be sure, translating modern basketball jargon into an ancient language that isn't fluently spoken isn't easy. It requires tremendous creativity, and the phrases often don't match on a 1:1 basis. There is no word in Ichiskíin for 'basketball,' for example, so professional linguists and community members teamed up to invent a literal translation that combines the native words for basket and ball. For participants and coaches alike, it's all a new experience. Advertisement 'We have learned so much working with the Yakama and Potawatomi nations,' says Romero, one of the program's co-founders and directors. 'The involvement from the language programs has been huge by providing translation of basketball terminology and everyday phrases. There have also been many volunteers to help teach the language throughout the duration of the camp. The kids got a chance to enhance their language skills and also learn cheers and cultural dances like Native American hoop dance.' Related: 'A slap in the face': activists reel as Trump administration removes crucial missing Indigenous peoples report As a bilingual speaker in English and Spanish, Romero learned new phrases including 'kgiwigesēm' ('you all did good') and 'tuctu' ('let's go'). If you try Googling those words, nothing appears. And that's exactly the kind of gap that Strom and Bilingual Basketball are trying to bridge – rather than destroy – with basketball as their tool. While these native communities face persecution in other arenas outside of basketball, the 134-year-old recreational sport has offered an unlikely pathway towards cultural preservation. It's something that Strom and the founders of Bilingual Basketball are committed to passing forward in real time. 'There's a sense of amnesia in American culture that [Indigenous] communities and people don't exist anymore. They absolutely do,' says Thompson. 'Their language and culture has persevered through genocide, boarding schools, and other intentional ways to keep them impoverished. Most Americans don't have any real, interpersonal connection to tribal communities. Really connecting to the communities, going into the spaces. But they're still there. It's important for non-Indigenous Americans to realize it's not just something of the past.'
Yahoo
28-02-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Nothing new: How renewable energy projects perpetuate desecration of tribal lands
Nick Engelfried Columbia Insight Elaine Harvey isn't opposed to clean energy. Like many other Yakama Nation tribal citizensPumped-energy storage, she worries about how climate change will affect traditional landscapes inhabited by the Yakama. Rapidly phasing out the use of fossil fuels is crucial to minimizing climate impacts already being felt in Yakama country and beyond. Harvey just doesn't think the renewable energy transition should once again force Indigenous peoples to bear the brunt of costs from development. 'First it was dams on the Columbia and the loss of our fishing and village sites,' Harvey says. 'Then it was construction of the highway, then Hanford nuclear facility. Now we're in another energy transition, and it feels like the burden is again being put on us.' The struggle to protect the Yakama's traditional territory from unwanted renewable energy is the subject of a new documentary, These Sacred Hills, recently released by filmmakers Jacob Bailey and Chris Ward and produced by Salem, Ore.-based Struck Films in collaboration with members of the Yakama's Rock Creek Band. While touching on multiple energy proposals in the region, the film's main focus is the Goldendale Energy Storage Project, a pumped-hydro facility that would store water in a reservoir 2,400 feet above the Columbia River, releasing it to generate electricity as needed by the grid. While the project site is on private land, it's within the traditional territory of the Yakama on a mountain considered sacred by the Tribe. For Harvey, its construction would represent the continuation of a pattern that has seen Indigenous peoples' concerns repeatedly overlooked in the name of energy development. By sharing the stories of tribal members like Harvey, the makers of These Sacred Hills hope to change the public dialogue about renewables in the region. 'We want renewable energy projects to move ahead, but in a responsible manner that avoids negatively impacting wildlife and tribal resources,' says Harvey. 'That's the central idea this film puts forward.' Jacob Bailey first heard of the Goldendale Energy Storage Project in 2021, after his family purchased land near Goldendale, Wash. 'We were getting to know the area better, spending time up there and learning what was going on in the community,' says Bailey, who lives in Oregon. Somewhere along the way, he came across an OPB interview in which Harvey raised concerns about the Goldendale Energy Project. 'It was the first I'd heard of it,' he says. 'I was curious to learn more, so I started poking around for information.' Bailey sensed there was a story about the Yakama's resistance to unwanted renewable energy development that wasn't being widely told. He reached out to Harvey, who at the time worked downtown as the Environmental Coordinator for Yakama Nation Fisheries, with the idea of making a film. 'It took me a while to say yes,' says Harvey. 'I'm a mother, active in our tribal community and I'd recently started a PhD program at the University of Idaho. So, I was pretty busy.' Bailey was persistent, though, and eventually he and Harvey arranged to meet in person. At first he envisioned making a single trip to learn about the pumped-storage project directly from Harvey and other tribal members, along with fellow filmmaker Chris Ward. 'We quickly realized that one day wasn't sufficient time to tell this story,' says Harvey. In all, Bailey and Ward would end up filming for their documentary on 25 days over the course of three years, at the invitation of citizens of the Yakama Nation. First, though, the filmmakers had to demonstrate they weren't just another pair of non-tribal members trying to exploit the Yakama's story. 'Jacob and Chris had to prove themselves to make this project work,' says Harvey. 'They had to earn the trust of not just me, but our elders, community and youth. We were cautious at first, because we have a long history of people reaching out to us for projects that benefit someone else.' An early test for Bailey and Ward came on their first day of filming, when they accompanied Harvey and other Yakama citizens to dig for roots near where the Goldendale Project would be built. 'We met up with them to drive to the site,' says Bronsco Jim, Jr., Chief of the Rock Creek, or Kahmiltpa Band of the Yakama. 'I assertively told them I would ride with them, because I didn't know who they were or what they wanted. I asked a lot of questions, wanting to find out if they were trying to make money off us. They gave good answers, and the energy felt fine, so I began opening up more.' Jim would become one of the main people featured in These Sacred Hills, along with Harvey, Tribal Councilman Jeremy Takala and tribal citizen Eddie George. However, even after Bailey and Ward demonstrated their good intentions, the decision to share key details about the Yakama's struggles with development wasn't easy. 'We don't like to publicly identify our sacred sites, because we don't want them to be destroyed,' says Harvey. 'Already, people shoot guns at our petroglyphs and loot our cemeteries. It's 2025, and our tribal enforcement officers still catch people robbing our burial sites. So, for us to come forward and talk about how development affects these places is really hard.' Harvey, Jim and others decided the benefits of sharing their struggle outweighed the risks. 'We needed to tell our full story so it could reach the public,' says Jim. 'It was the only way to make people really understand what's going on.' Prior to colonization by Euro-American settlers, the peoples who now comprise the Yakama Nation inhabited a vast area stretching across much of Washington's central plateau. They gathered edible plants, hunted deer and other game and fished in the rivers—including at Celilo Falls, a culturally important site flooded by construction of The Dalles Dam in 1957. In 1855, under pressure from the U.S. government and territorial Governor Isaac Stevens, the Yakama signed a treaty ceding most of their land to settlers. The document also established the present-day Yakama Reservation, while preserving the Yakama's right to hunt, fish, and gather across their traditional territory. Yet, even in the face of pressure from state and federal authorities, some Yakama refused to leave their homes outside the reservation. These included members of the Rock Creek Band, whose descendants still live in the Goldendale area. 'People think we all got pushed onto the reservation, but that's not true,' says Harvey. 'We're still here, maintaining our community, culture and traditions just as our people always have.' Some of these traditions involve gathering wild foods above the Columbia River and in the foothills of the Cascades Range. Others require traveling farther afield, to places well outside the heart of Yakama territory where Harvey's ancestors would trade and interact with other Indigenous nations. Bailey and Ward accompanied Harvey and Jim on as many of these expeditions as possible, learning about Yakama culture as they worked on These Sacred Hills. 'We spent a whole day with the Tribe in the Blue Mountains, where an elder was teaching the process for gathering and preparing edible moss,' says Bailey. 'It helped us better understand the people's connection with traditional foods and what it means to the community.' The filmmakers also saw camas fields threatened by a proposed solar farm, and areas where wind development has restricted access to gathering sites. The number of such projects has increased dramatically in recent years. 'We're struggling to evaluate all the energy projects coming down the pipe,' says Harvey. 'There are over fifty we're currently tracking.' This spike is part of the surge in renewable energy development taking place across Washington, especially east of the Cascades, as the state attempts to meet its ambitious climate goals. With the Trump administration backtracking on federal climate commitments, state-level climate action is now seen as even more important. Many tribal nations, including the Yakama, are active participants in the clean energy transition. In May 2024, the Washington Department of Commerce awarded $7.5 million in funds generated by the state's Climate Commitment Act to clean energy projects under development by the Yakama and four other tribes. What bothers Harvey isn't that renewable energy development is occurring, but that projects built by outside entities proceed without meaningful consultation from tribes. 'Often, we don't even hear about a project until the developer goes through the Environmental Impact Statement process,' says Harvey. 'Then we get a draft (Environmental Impact Statement) thrown at us with sixty days to respond. That's how tribes are treated. If we were involved at the beginning we could help address impacts on tribal resources.' The goal of These Sacred Hills is to draw attention to the need for more tribal inclusion in decisions about energy development in eastern Washington. So far the film has been shown at private screenings, but its makers hope to release it to a wider audience soon. 'Our message is that the primary community connected to the Goldendale Energy Storage Project is saying a resounding no,' says Bailey. 'It is not right, it is not just, to ask people who have always been on the losing end of energy development to give up even more. The issue becomes pretty black and white when you understand what's taking place.' The next private screening of These Sacred Hills will take place on March 4, 2025, at William & Mary university in Williamsburg, Va. Columbia Insight, based in Hood River, Oregon, is nonprofit news site focused on environmental issues of the Columbia River Basin and the Pacific Northwest. This article was published via AP Storyshare
Yahoo
27-01-2025
- General
- Yahoo
The ‘Six Sovereigns' are fighting for the Columbia River basin's future. Who are they?
You'd be hard-pressed to find a part of the Pacific Northwest that's more important than the Columbia River basin. Fed by the mighty Columbia and Snake rivers and their many tributaries that eventually reach the Pacific Ocean, it stretches from southeast British Columbia and extends into much of Washington, Oregon and Idaho. It even reaches as far as some portions of Nevada, Wyoming, Utah and Montana. All in all, the Columbia River basin is one of the largest in the country and covers an area of over 87,000 square miles. That covers about 36 percent of the state of Washington alone. It's a major source of regional power, hosting about 150 hydroelectric projects, 250 reservoirs and dozens of dams. About 50-80% of the energy supplied to the region comes from hydroelectric power, according to the Northwest Power and Conservation Council. On the Columbia River, the Bonneville Dam alone supplies enough electricity to power 900,000 homes. But the basin is crucial to the region for myriad reasons beyond power. The 1,240-mile long Columbia drains about 250,000 square miles. One of the longest rivers in America, it is second only to the Mississippi in terms of volume of water flow. It is a crucial source of water for agricultural irrigation, supports a range of diverse wildlife and offers myriad recreational opportunities. Crucially, the Columbia River basin is a cornerstone of the region's Indigenous history, culture and daily life. The reverence and connectedness to the land expressed by tribes in the area are in large part due to the basin's historically epic salmon population. In fact, much of the Columbia River basin is part of the ancestral lands of the Yakama, Umatilla, Warm Springs, and Nez Perce. With the influx of European settlers — who brought an increase in demand alongside a lack of experience in regional fisheries management — that number plummeted. Up until the first half of the 19th century, as many as 16 million salmon and steelhead would return to spawn every year, according to Columbia Riverkeeper. Stories passed down through tribes over the generations tell of a time when the salmon spawned in such great numbers that you could practically walk on their backs to cross the water. That's not the case today. The Columbia River Basin is still home to some of the richest wild salmon spawning grounds in the world, but many species of the fish are in crisis. The salmon in this area are struggling — some species more than others — due to population increase, development and dams. The average number of salmon that return every year is at 2.3 million, according to the most recent NWPCC report from December 2024. That's far short of the interim goal of 5 million that should have been reached when 2025 dawned. Columbia basin tribes have said time and again that effective conservation efforts in the basin are a matter of necessity for the future survival of everyone in the region. 'Since time immemorial, the strength of the Yakama Nation and its people have come from Nch'í Wána – the Columbia River – and from the fish, game, roots and berries it nourishes,' said Gerald Lewis, chairman of the Yakama Nation, in a statement in March 2024. 'We have fought to protect and restore salmon because salmon are not just a natural resource, they are a cultural resource.' Nch'í Wána roughly translates to 'Big River' in the Yakama Sahaptin language. The name is generally the same across other regional tribes and bands, but in their languages. Lewis's comments came at the formation of a new landmark agreement created between the federal government and four regional tribes to form what's now known as the 'Six Sovereigns.' The grouping of governments under the moniker includes Washington state, Oregon and four basin tribes — the Yakama, Umatilla, Warm Springs and Nez Perce (Nimiipuu). Their goal is to restore, protect, defend and conserve the Columbia River basin in collaboration with one another, and to represent the collective interests of the region vis-a-vis the federal government. Balancing priorities for ecological and commercial goals related to the Columbia River basin isn't an easy undertaking. That's where the Six Sovereigns come in. Created in late 2023, the coalition is formed by the Confederated Tribes and Bands of the Yakama Nation, the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, the Nez Perce Tribe, the Confederated Tribes of the Warm Springs, as well as the states of Washington and Oregon. After forming, they came to an agreement with the Biden-Harris administration to stay litigation related to the basin while committing to a far-reaching set of actions crucial to its future success on all levels. The agreement has been hailed as a landmark step toward recovery of the basin. 'President Biden understands that the Columbia River System is the lifeblood of the Pacific Northwest,' noted Brenda Mallory, chair of the White House Council on Environmental Quality in a statement when the agreement was announced. 'This agreement charts a new path to restore the river, provide for a clean energy future and the jobs that come with it, and live up to our responsibilities to Tribal Nations.' Around the same time, the Six Sovereigns also created the Columbia Basin Restoration Initiative, known as the CBRI. Through collaboration, the goal of the CBRI is to comprehensively and collectively develop crucial solutions and honor tribal treaty rights. It will ultimately serve as a sort of collective negotiation table for the Six Sovereigns to sit across from federal and other sovereign and regional stakeholders. One of the Six Sovereign partner organizations, Earthjustice, has recently faced questions over whether legal aspects of the work will be delayed with a new federal administration in place. Part of the agreement made with the Biden-Harris administration was that there would be a halt to all lawsuits by the tribes and states regarding the activities of the federal government for 10 years while urgent solutions-based actions are taken. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers maintains a number of federal hydropower projects in the region. Those agreements are now facing potential uncertainties. But just days into the new administration, representatives for Earthjustice were clear that their work will be ongoing. 'The alliance will continue, and that policy will continue,' said Amanda Goodin, an attorney for Earthjustice, in a phone interview. 'The agreement that's in place is a strong one, so they [feds] would be wise to continue.' She says the agreement for the Columbia River basin makes sure that salmon conservation strategy 'looks at ways we can strengthen our region.' 'For a long time, some have pitted healthy and abundant salmon against other interests in the region,' Goodin said. 'You can have salmon and agriculture.' The Columbia River basin's status as an indisputable powerhouse of resources makes it an easy target for development. In some ways, it's a victim of its own success and importance, particularly when it comes to the future of salmon. At an NWPCC status update meeting in January 2025, Council Member Louie Pitt, who represents Oregon and is a member of the Confederated Tribes of the Warm Springs, spoke on a December 2024 analysis on the total run size of salmon and steelhead in the Columbia River basin. 'Increased salmon and steelhead abundance in the Columbia River Basin – especially above Bonneville Dam – over the past 40 years marks important progress,' Pitt said at the meeting, which was livestreamed to the public. 'These fish still face severe stresses from climate change, pressures from human population growth in the basin and other environmental impacts.' Pitt added that the situation for some species of fish is more dire than others. 'Some stocks are struggling right now,' Pitt said. 'We cannot ease up in our collective efforts to help these fish populations grow stronger and larger everywhere we can – including in blocked areas of our basin such as above Chief Joseph and Grand Coulee Dams.' Others at the meeting, which included the Six Sovereigns, echoed the sentiment of celebrating wins but remaining vigilant on the critically urgent interests that are at stake. 'We get asked all the time, 'What are your top three?',' Kate Markworth, a lawyer for the Yakama tribe responded in part when asked to comment on prioritizing things like irrigation for farmlands over the removal of dams. 'This is not a buffet. Everything is urgent.' The work to protect salmon, steelhead and other fish and wildlife in the basin has been going on much longer than just a few years. In 1977, the tribes that are part of the Six Sovereigns came together to create the Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission, with the goal of protecting and preserving salmon and other fish crucial to the regional ecosystem. But a myriad of complex circumstances over many years was part of what led to the historic agreement with the Biden-Harris administration, including numerous lawsuits filed by tribes, largely to enforce treaty-guaranteed rights. Perhaps the most infamous decision in the last 100 years was the damming of Celilo Falls in the 1950s. The area was a critical fishing, trade and residence area for Columbia basin tribes. Known in Sahaptin as Wy-am, the salmon-rich waters of the legendary Celilo Falls were just upstream on the Columbia River from what is now Dalles, Oregon, in central Washington. It rivaled Niagara Falls during spring flooding, and was a crucial cultural and commercial center for 10,000 years. The ramifications of that loss still echo today. At the Yakama reservation's cultural center and museum, you don't have to look very hard to find deeply emotional references in the exhibits to the history of Celilo Falls, and the damage caused to both humans and salmon species when it was destroyed with damming. Yet, hope persists that it will someday be restored, but it would have to be done right. According to a spokesperson for the CRITFC, the idea has been seriously proposed. Several years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers did a full bathyscaphe scan of the rock formations at the falls that is currently underwater. According to the CRITFC spokesperson, all the landforms were found to still be intact. That means that if the Dalles Dam was removed, the falls would return. Whatever the outcome for Celilo Falls, the salmon and the other flora and fauna of the Columbia River basin, the Six Sovereigns remain committed to fighting for the future of the entire basin. They say it will be done through what they publicly describe as a shared understanding of a collective duty and obligation to protect, honor and cherish the place that we all call home. This article was produced in collaboration and with support from the Solutions Journalism Network.
