From Granny: Battle Won

Battle Won!

Into the misty dawning,grandmother sun comes smiling,a burst of molten
golden glory bringing joy to the hearts that are watching,and a song lifts to
fill the valley.
Day after day the battle rages,dust choked air surrounds us,pain has
become our constant companion as we watch our children dying,put up our heads
and keep fighting.
Through the fog thick as cotton,floats a sound that makes our hearts go
soaring,thin but strong voice of an Elder saying,remember why you are
fighting.
Hope that one day we will find peace,prayers that these others
leave,belief in what our ancients taught us,a way of life we have lived forever.
So hard,our peoples tried to teach them,to learn as well what they were
saying,to understand the changes,but we will not accept them as our betters.
We are,a People strong and true,warriors born to lead and guide,gentle
loving and filled with hope,keepers of our Mother Earth.
Once more the cannon thunders and we fall before it,once more their guns
rain death and destruction,once more they claim our hearts to walk on.
This is a morning filled with wonders,as those who battle find their
spirits renewed,the urging of those gentle voices,telling us to fight on
children.
Dead and dying lay around us,mangled bodies torn by their
weapons,brother,sister,father

,cousin,these are our kin and we love them.
In the village that waits behind us,grandmothers gather the young for
running,slipping away into the mountains,finding safe places to hide them.
The war we can not win in one battle,the loss here will stagger minds
forever,that we continue at all is due to the teachings of our ancestors.
As the face of Father Sky clears, a sight to freeze hearts appear,massed
upon the valley floor are thousands,death waits here on this hillside,and we
accept it.
Will they ever see the beauty that is our world,those who take what is
not theirs,will they understand it is not for using,but for sharing?
Silence,Grandmother Sun is setting,blood red,swirled with rainbow
colors,the days dust has finally settled,a ragged cheer is sent up,as the last of
the People falls in death.
A day has passed,of freedom fighting,of the desperate cry of a defending
People,watching,crying,fighting,as their lives,their future,their hearts,are
stolen.
And do those who do the killing,understand or regret the slaughter,do
they see the blood soaking,into the lands that birthed us,and know,they have in
truth lost more than they gained?
That they shut one more door to their Creator,block one more path to
truth and learning,that the voice they try so hard to silence is ancient beyond
the knowing?
Those little ones and grandmothers hiding,they make to each other a
blood promise,we will not forget,we will not forgive,but we will live,we will
survive,and one day,we will no more cry,but will bring justice!

as told by my grandmother

granny

12.03.2007 03:19 NYM Warriors Targeted & Arrested At Anti-olympic Protest

Once again colonial fascism rears its ugly head as the colonial brownshirts (vancouver police) arrested three Native Warriors on February 13, 2007 for protesting the 2010 winter olympic games, scheduled to take place in unceded Squamish Territory (whistler re: vancouver). In yet another example of colonial terrorism, the kops arrested NYM Warrior Tselletkwe, of the Secwepemc Nation, Gord Hill of the Kwakwaka'wakw Nation, and Lynn Highway of the Anishnabe Nation. The kops, well known for the terrorism they inflict on Indigenous Peoples, also arrested members of the Indigenous Resistance Organizing Committee (IROC).

As the vancouver olympic organizing committee and the vancouver board of trade (businessmen) were celebrating their unveiling of a "3 year countdown clock" in the downtown business district in vancouver, one Native Warrior stormed the stage and took over the microphone, yelling "Fuck the olympics" until the kops managed to capture him and haul him away.

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-<< Wisdom from Talking Jaguar >>-

INCREDIBLE WISDOM FROM "THE SECRETS OF THE TALKING JAGUAR" BY MARTIN PRECHTEL

http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Talking-Jaguar-Martin-Prechtel/dp/

0874779707/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1202661764&sr=1-1

"When I divine the Earth Bodies of many people of today, their worlds look like a post-war country, bombed out, dry, flowerless, and tired. The flat devastation wreaked upon these people's Earth Body needs renewing. Their World House needs reassembling, replastering; it has to be remembered back to life, so that the faraway native souls, their natural indigenous beings, can return to their homes. Maybe this is why Chiviliu (his Shaman teacher in Guatemala) sent me away, to sing and speak these people's lives back together. After all, he said that the destruction was coming from them. Our world was being killed by people whose naturalness had been disenfranchised long ago. The violence they leveled upon us came from their soulless minds and angry, homeless souls, looking for permanence through violent business growth, killing, forgetting, and mocking everything that reminded them of their inadequacies.

For their to be a world at all, every indigenous, original and natural thing must start singing its song, dancing its dance, moving and breathing, each according to its own nature, saying its name, manifesting simultaneously its secret spiritual signature. Every Gypsy must be singing her ancient tune, every Bushman, Croat, Arab, Jew, Chuckchee, Hmong, Papuan, Celt, Yoruba, Saxon, Cree, Guarani, Sami, Inuit, Kazaki, Tahitian, Balinese, jaguar, honey creeper, anteater, beetle, butterfly, oak, birch, ceiba, baobab, dog, mosquito, shark, coral, lighting, tornado, mist, mountain, deer, desert, and so on forever, each must be making its magic sound. When any of these stops singing for being killed or destroyed, a piece of the World's House is lost. This in a village is the equivalent of losing a family. When this happens in the village, it's a call for all the people to come together to find or renew the family's lost tribe - or to grieve their gaping loss. Our grief, when deeply expressed communally, as it is in a village, sends the lost sound like an echo back to its home. This puts some mud back into the void left in the World House.

If done passionately, grief strengthens the World House, because the creative substance of our songs is perceived by the spirits as canoes to take the dead home. Our tears are jade beads to adorn the Face of Life, the Earth Fruit.

Shamans say the Village Heart can grow a brand-new World House if it is well-dressed in the layered clothing of each indigenous soul's magic sound, ancestral songs, and indigenous ingenuity. The wrecked landscape of our World House could sprout a renewed world, but a new language has to be found. We can't make the old world come alive again, but from its old seeds, the next layer could sprout.

This new language would have to grow from the indigenous hearts we all have hidden. It shouldn't be the tongue of oneness, not one language, not a computer tongue of homogenization, but a diverse, beautiful, badly made thing whose flimsiness and inefficiency force people to sing together to keep it well-spoken and sung into life over and over again, so that nobody forgets to remember. We need to find gorgeous, unsellable, ritual words to reanimate, remeasure, rebuild, and replaster the ruined, depressed flatness left by the hollow failure of this mechanized, orphaned culture.

For this, we need all peoples: our poets, our shamans, our dreamers, our youth, our elders, our women, our men, our ancestors, and our real old memories from before we were people.

We live in a kind of dark age, craftily lit with synthetic light, so that no one can tell how dark it has really gotten. But our exiled spirits can tell. Deep in our bones resides an ancient, singing couple who just won't give up making their beautiful, wild noise. The world won't end if we can find them."

Karen Stuart : 'Heart to Heart Healing', Brisbane, Aust.

- Grandmother speaks and it's time to listen -

Hero's

She sat quietly in the corner sewing,not one man even acknowledged her
presence,captured so long ago she could barely remember another way of
living.
Carried here by pony,loaded just as another piece of trading material
learning to speak their words by listening,and yet never speaking to them.
From the Tsalagi women who came with their warriors bringing skins for
barter,she learned to speak with them as well,from far away her People were.
The rolling grass lands where sacred buffalo dwell,she did not know her
own age,perhaps twelve,cooking, cleaning, dumping slops,feeding the white mans
stock.
These were her duties of the day,nights for her were only pain,forced
into the blankets of the highest bidder,just lay there nothing from her was
needed.
How many mornings did she wake,lips and eyes swollen shut,beatings and
rapes beyond the counting,a life that was no longer worth the living.
For She Finds Birds,it was the way she wanted,to not be seen as human
the men who came spoke openly before her,in truth they looked right through
her.
One day, she kept dreaming,she would be free to return to her People,a
thousand ways she thought of killing these men who did not think her human.
Perhaps now her day drew near,these things they spoke of the Tsalagi
should hear,the destruction of a village,more slaughter of innocents was
planned.
The laughter low and mean,the schemes carefully laid,oh,the money they
would be making on the bounty of the scalps they would be taking,none cared
about the ages.
A sudden slap to her head,brought her back to her duties,blood running
from her lip,sealed the fate of this man she hated,this night she would
escape and take the message.
To the Tsalagi camp she crept,knowing capture would mean her death
whispered words to a woman who was praying by the water earned her,food
horse,and freedom.
This one time there was a different ending,as the whites came creeping
with the dawning,their plans of bloody murder,were turned back upon them
with a vengeance.
Seventeen dead and only one was red,caught in a trap of their own making
the white men learned what came of drinking for courage,as they died there
on lands of their claiming.
Quickly the small trading party,took the message and made their own
plans,fires made and stuffed blankets,while they in the forest waited for
their betrayers.
Moving swiftly they returned to warn the village,knowing there would be
retribution, by the "Great White Fathers" who said his red children must
learn to behave better.
It would not be seen as defending,but cold murder of defenseless traders
by the strange "laws" of these new peoples,the Tsalagi had no right to bring
such slaughter.
And the young girl who brought warning,none knew but hoped she had
returned to her own People,prayers of grateful thanks rose to protect her
long ride home.
Soon they came,those blue leg soldiers,bringing the death that by now
was expected,a few had moved from the village,southward to safety,but many
were too old for all these changes.
They died there on their homelands by the thousands,standing proud and
singing prayers,we will not forget these Hero's of our People,warriors all
who died with honor!

granny