Activists at the North Dakota pipeline site say they have little faith in either presidential candidate to bring about the kind of change they hope for

This article is more than 3 years old

This article is more than 3 years old

Frank Archambault is not going to vote for president.

In mid-July, the 45-year-old member of the Standing Rock Sioux tribe packed up all of his belongs and his family – five children and a grandson – to travel from Little Eagle, South Dakota, to Cannon Ball, North Dakota, to join the movement of “water protecters” facing off against the federal government and the oil industry. He is fully committed to doing whatever it takes to to halt the Dakota Access pipeline from crossing the Missouri River.

But Archambault is not interested in choosing the next elected leader of one of his enemies.

“I don’t want to have a say in government,” he said. “I guess you could call it trauma. I don’t have faith in government, so I don’t want to have a say.”

The “trauma” Archambault speaks of lies heavy over the encampments that have arisen on the windswept banks of the Missouri River. Generations of war, massacres, broken treaties, discrimination, police harassment, and poverty have resulted in a general feeling of distrust, disillusion, and disinterest in mainstream politics among the Native Americans gathered at Standing Rock. And historical traumas have only been compounded by the militarized police response to unarmed protesters, who have been met with Mace, rubber bullets, Tasers and sound weapons.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Frank Archambault: ‘I don’t have faith in government, so I don’t want to have a say.’ Photograph: Julia Carrie Wong/The Guardian

“I don’t think anyone here votes,” said Julie Richards, an Oglala Lakota from Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. “We’re all like, fuck the government, fuck voting, and fuck the people running.”

The rest of the nation may be glued to cable news and the latest polls, anxious for the uncertain future of an unusual election. But here, the most pressing news is gathered by standing on high ground to get a clear view of the construction crews across the river. With the pipeline reportedly just a few miles from the riverbanks, a certain amount of what Richards described as “tunnel vision” has set in.

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“We’re either going to change the world with this movement, or the world is going to die,” said Ho-Waste Wakiya, an enrolled member of the coastal band of the Chumash Nation, as he sat outside his tipi at the Sacred Stone camp.

With those stakes in mind, the circus of the presidential campaign seems distant and insignificant. It does not help that neither of the two main presidential candidates has endeared themselves to the Native American activists taking a stand at Standing Rock.

Donald Trump is an investor in Energy Transfer Partners, the company behind the Dakota Access Pipeline, and Energy Transfer Partners CEO Kelcy Warren has returned the favor, donating $103,000 to his campaign and Super Pac.

Moreover, the erstwhile casino magnate waged fights for years against Native American casinos that threatened to compete with his businesses. Trump has at different times accused Native Americans of being mobbed up, drug dealers, or not “real” Indians, according to the Washington Post.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Julie Richards: ‘Fuck the government. I don’t think anyone here votes.’ Photograph: Julia Carrie Wong/The Guardian

“Donald Trump hates Indians and loves money,” said Wakiya, though he warned that the alternative is little better.

Hillary Clinton drew widespread scorn for her 27 October statement on the pipeline. In her first acknowledgement of the months-long standoff, the Democratic nominee took no position, saying, “It’s important that on the ground in North Dakota, everyone respects demonstrators’ rights to protest peacefully, and workers’ rights to do their jobs safely.”

“Hillary is the queen of all fracking … Hillary is going to put in more pipelines,” said Wakiya. “Both of them are all about money. I’m ashamed of both of them.”

Guy Dullknife, an Oglala elder from Kyle, South Dakota, in the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation agreed.

“Trump really doesn’t like Indians,” he said. “If [Clinton] gets in, it’s just all the same.”

Even if he wanted to vote, Dull Knife would have trouble. Kyle is about 300 miles away from the Standing Rock encampments.

“To vote, I’d have to go home, and I don’t want to leave,” he said. “I want this pipe shut down. I don’t want none of my people to get hurt.”

There is one candidate on the ballot in a handful of states that many of the Standing Rock activists revere: Dennis Banks, an Anishinaabe who was born on Leech Lake Indian Reservation in Minnesota. Banks was one of the co-founders of the American Indian Movement, a radical Native American civil rights group that formed in 1968.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ho-Waste Wakiya: ‘We’re either going to change the world with this movement, or the world is going to die.’ Photograph: Julia Carrie Wong/The Guardian

Though he is the vice-presidential running mate for socialist candidate Gloria La Riva in California, New Mexico, Iowa and Colorado, Banks has spent most of the last few months at Standing Rock rather than on the campaign trail.

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The veteran activist said he agreed to run in order to gain access to another forum to advance his message – that the US government should honor the treaties it signed with Native American nations.

But he has no illusions about the outcome of his third party candidacy.

“You can’t be president or vice-president with a felony,” he said. (Banks was convicted of charges stemming from American Indian Movement protests on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.) “Hell, I’m not going to be vice-president of the United States.”

Other candidates merit an occasional mention by the Standing Rock activists. Some give credit to Jill Stein for showing up and joining an action, while others speak fondly of Bernie Sanders, who spoke frequently about Native American issues during his primary campaign.

But for most, 8 November will be notable only in that it is one day closer to the frigid North Dakota winter.

“There are so many things to do at camp,” said Hunter Shortbear, a 29-year-old Oglala Hunkpapa Lakota. “I don’t have time to look at the news. I just hope they have some decency.”



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