Patty Stonefish can take down a fully grown man by his finger. She makes it look graceful—a skillful flick of the wrist and her 220-pound husband, Dereck, drops straight to his knees. Patty, a 26-year-old joint-lock ninja of Lakota heritage from North Dakota, has been studying taekwondo for more than a decade. She knows dozens of complex hapkido sequences that can immobilize opponents. But for demonstrations like the one she is doing tonight, she keeps it simple: single-action moves with names that women can remember in a panic, like grandma’s grip, jazz hands, and, in this case, single-finger takedown. Most people start timidly, afraid of pushing too hard, but Patty urges them to act like they mean it—anyone who apologizes has to drop and do squats.

Based in Fargo, North Dakota, Patty and Dereck are kicking off a series of self-defense workshops in a local community center through their project, Arming Sisters/Reawakening Warriors. Their first group is small, with just three participants—two adults and a preteen girl. Dacia, 41, of North Dakota’s Spirit Lake Tribe, said she’d never heard of the program before seeing the event advertised by the tribal center.

Before launching into the hapkido moves, Patty and Dereck talk through the impacts of generational trauma in Native American communities. Dacia keeps coming back to the point that strikes her most: You have the power to change your own life.

Patty launched the original program in 2013 to offer Native American women a self-defense model that was more about rediscovering strength than putting up your guard. This year, she and Dereck are trying to expand, launching workshops for men and boys on masculinity. Together, they have led more than 25 trainings around the country, from reservations to college campuses. In Patty’s words, the workshops focus on putting the “self” back in self-defense. Many Western approaches put people on guard against the world, she says. “I wanted women to rediscover what’s powerful in themselves.”

Patty Stonefish’s tattoo is of the Arabic word “horreya” which means “freedom.” She spent years in Egypt during and after the Arab Spring watching women take their place on the frontlines of Tahrir Square. “I got it because especially as a Native freedom got ruined for me” she says of the tattoo. “Egypt gave me the true definition back.” Photo by Dan Koeck.

That means common self-defense principles—like verbalizing boundaries and removing yourself from dangerous situations—are applied much more broadly. “Removing yourself” could mean anything from crossing to the other side of the street to leaving a relationship after years of abuse. And while you might come away with some useful tricks to thwart an attacker, the hope is that the physicality and communion will also rekindle a belief in yourself. “You are strong,” Patty tells women. “You are awake.” Only individuals can re-empower themselves, Patty says: The “re” in these sessions is central. When you realize you can take down a man like Dereck with one move, she says, you begin to think, “I’m strong—I’m not only physically stronger than I thought, I’m emotionally stronger than I thought.” Maybe strong enough to break cycles of violence and trauma.

That means common self-defense principles are applied much more broadly.

Patty, who as a preteen survived an assault by two White men, long internalized her own trauma; she didn’t tell anyone for years. “I wouldn’t say it out loud even to myself,” she says. She hears similar stories during the talking circles that follow her workshop’s trainings. Sometimes women, emboldened by one another, share their stories for the first time.

About one-third of Native American women are raped during their lives, according to the Department of Justice, and some activists think that number is much higher. “Lots of women will tell you they don’t know anyone who hasn’t been raped,” says Sarah Deer, a Muscogee (Creek) professor at William Mitchell College of Law who has studied violence against Native American women for decades. And they are most likely to be assaulted by non-Native men. Eighty-six percent of sexual assaults against Native American women are perpetrated by members of other races, a fact that sets them apart from White, Black, and Latina women. These rapes are rarely prosecuted: Under federal law, tribes have no jurisdiction over non-Natives; federal prosecutors, who could charge attackers, usually don’t.

Patty and Dereck Stonefish’s marriage tattoos connect when they grip forearms—the best way they say to pull someone up easily. Photo by Dan Koeck

A few hundred miles west of Fargo on the Fort Berthold Reservation, an oil boom began around 2009, attracting thousands of non-Native workers. Advocates became so concerned about Native women’s vulnerability to violence that a national Native American coalition petitioned the United Nations to investigate human rights abuses.

Stonefish’s expanded program’s “warrior” track encourages conversations among men and boys that challenge what Dereck calls the “colonial” approach to masculinity that emphasizes glory through violence and war. Instead, Dereck explores a traditional view of warriors who care for their people, often at great sacrifice. “We try to show boys how we traditionally valued women as the core and pillars of our community,” he said.

This is the second time Brande Redroad, an 11-year-old also from the Spirit Lake Tribe, has participated in the program. Tonight, she came with her mother, Tanya, 41. She’s vocal with her opinions, comfortably says no when she doesn’t want to try a particular move, and shows her strength easily when she does. “I always knew I had the power in me. I just didn’t know how to express it,” she said. “No one really showed me how to use it until now.” Her mother nods. “We’re going to be talking about it all the way home.”

This article is part of a larger project funded by a grant from Images and Voices of Hope.