The father travels in between the cracks of the cliffs, grasping onto the red wall of painted hands and climbing onto a dagger-shaped rock. Lukkya a:wan he’inne. As a farmer, hunter, and father in the small village of Do’ya, he treks through these valleys every other morning to bring food to his home. As he reaches the top of the cliff, his silhouette breaks the horizon line; a speck in an ocean of blue. Five miles from here, his turkeys leave feathers and tracks outside of his home. A soft rush of water runs beneath the cliffside, and there he is. Ish t’samk’okshi. A mature buck steps out from behind the oaks, his velvet hanging down his face and lying atop his cedar brown coat of fur. The father pulls back his bow, steadying his breath as his reflection sits still on the water.

Our people have a deep understanding of the perpetuation of our spirit, of our breath; our spirit never dies, and instead lives on through our children. This flow of seed acts as the river that reflects the father’s figure. For us, our ancestors find their spirit in the Na’le, Anshe, K’yakali, Dona, Siwolo, Yunawi:k’o, Ma’wi; wema:we. These animals and the environment that they occupy have a spirit, the spirit of our people. My father has always told me that if you find success in hunting, and if the animal comes out of the shadows and warmly reveals its figure, your ancestors wish to come back home. They wish to grasp the spirit of the living and hug it tight.

The father in the story had taken one last breath before he released the bow string. At once, he remembered several days back when the U.S. Army murdered his son and imprisoned Nai’uchi and several other Shiwanni. Fort Wingate lies twenty miles down the line of the cliffs, and this is where the U.S. Army had been stationed. Before he could continue running down his train of thought, he released the string. The deer kicked into the air and ran a hundred yards into the valley before it dropped. The father gave into tears, for this was the first time he had gone hunting without his son by his side. It wasn’t long after the murder had occurred that his spirit ventured back into the arms of his mother. This is where we find home. He had spoken from the mind of his father and the heart of his mother—he was silenced for it.

When the U.S. Army and officials made their way into western New Mexico, they were ordered to conduct ethnographic research on the surrounding pueblos. Thus, two expeditions were headed by Matilda Coxe Stevenson and Frank Hamilton Cushing at different times during the late 1800s. They would travel to and from Fort Wingate throughout this time. Two notions that were common among Western society regarding Native Americans were: “1) American Indian societies would vanish under the pressure and aggression of expansionism, and that potential ‘artifacts’ should be salvaged in the process, and 2) that cultures are evolutionary in character; Anglo-American culture, deemed more advanced than Native cultures, therefore had the right to investigate Native cultures no matter what impact such investigation had on that culture.”1 Of course, the Zuni people welcomed them into the village with open arms, even initiating Frank Hamilton Cushing into the Bow Priesthood, one of the most sacred priesthoods in our religion. Years down the line, the researchers and their teams collected ceremonial items such as kachinas and fetishes, and made illustrations of the kachinas, all of which were forbidden. Trust was severed behind closed doors and the sacredness of our practice was exploited. To terminate our culture was to take control, and to salvage our identity was to add monetary value to the “artifact.” The U.S. officials knew this at the time, and dictated the actions of the researchers, no matter how close in connection they were with our people.

As land was being taken control of by the United States government, travel was restricted into areas near Fort Wingate such as Bear Springs, or Anshe an K’yana. Private property separated homes along rivers. The greatest impediment created by these actions was centered on the practice of the priesthood, particularly that of the Sayadasha. Every year, the Sayadasha travels to springs throughout the land to reciprocate blessings between himself, Yadokkya Datchu, the spirits, and our people. This path was severed in the face of our people, but if we were to speak, we would be silenced.

Not only does this cut off the breath of our people, but it separates the spirits from their home. Hundreds of years later, we visit our ancestors’ homes in the same manner they make their return. To our people, these walls of sandstone are not merely a pile of bricks, but rather the homes of our mothers, fathers, grandparents, and siblings who were farmers, weavers, carvers, potters, painters, surgeons, healers, architects, leaders, and most importantly, family. The oil drills crack the bricks of these walls, only for a barrel of $70. The contaminants seep up through the ground as the evil spirits from beneath the surface rise.

Many of those outside of our community propose that the land be used to construct a casino, or to develop a business so one can make a profit. However, our people have sustained the cultural values that our ancestors have set before us, and never value a dollar more than our family. Forever, we visit our ancestors' homes in the same way we visit our Hotda (maternal grandmother), Wowo (paternal grandmother), and Nana (grandfather). Forever, our spirit will find its way back home, beyond the fences and foliage into the arms of our mothers. Although the boy’s physical being was taken from his family, he will forever find his home in the heart of our community. Lukkya a:wan he’iwe; these are the walls of sandstone that protect our spirit