The traditions of the Indigenous people who have long resided at the heart of Turtle Island, particularly those observing the Sundance and Pipe ceremonies, hold "War Stories" in deep reverence. These are not mere tales of conflict but sacred narratives that capture moments when warriors faced ultimate tests, demonstrating exceptional courage and selflessness. These accounts, deeply embedded in the culture, serve specific purposes within the ceremonies and communal life of the people.
In the English language, these narratives are commonly referred to as "war stories," but within the native tongues, both the story and the storyteller possess names imbued with far greater significance. More accurately termed "Warrior Stories," they are shared directly by the warriors themselves, bringing their experiences into the communal circle.
These stories are delivered before witnesses who can vouch for their authenticity. A "war story" gains its power from embodying the virtues of a warrior: honor, truth, courage, fortitude, strength, and selflessness. These qualities are essential to the story’s ability to fulfill its role in the ceremonies.
Traditionally, war stories were integral to the special dances and ceremonies of Clans, Societies, and the Sundance, each providing a distinct context and purpose. The leaders of these ceremonies meticulously selected the warriors tasked with standing before the Nation and recounting their actions undertaken in service of their people. Every step, gesture, and word was rendered as a sacrament within the circle, a gift to the People.
In an era devoid of deceit, the Nation’s heart swelled with pride and empowerment as the warrior offered their words. A sense of unity enveloped the community as the narrative unfolded. The storyteller could be the battle’s leader or a young warrior recounting their first act of bravery. Regardless, each "war story" was supported by the presence of comrades-in-arms, who verified and strengthened the account with their assent, love, and respect.
In contemporary times, "war stories" are often shared by veterans of America’s wars, warriors dispatched to fight on foreign soil. Despite the change in context, these stories are received with pride, preserving the tradition. However, generations have passed since warriors defended their ancestral lands on native soil.
The last such instance occurred at The Real Heroes of Wounded Knee in 1890. Though the day ended in tragedy, with children exposed to brutality, warriors, both men and women, stood defiant, defending their generations. Courage, fortitude, strength, and honor permeated the land, consecrated by the sacrifice of blood freely offered to Mother Earth.
In the aftermath, warriors fought from a stronghold, seeking to avenge their kin as a mass grave bore witness to the truth. Amidst the carnage, new and glorious "war stories" were born, and songs of strength intertwined with the wails of mourning.
Sustained by the virtues instilled by countless generations of warriors and their stories, the Nation persevered, displaying immense fortitude and courage to survive for eighty-three years until warriors rose again. Throughout this period, ceremonies continued, and the songs of those days were sung.
In 1973, another battle unfolded on sacred lands along the Wounded Knee creek. Once again, warriors were compelled to defend their people and stand on hallowed ground.
Once more, warriors’ blood was sacrificed, and lives were freely given to reignite the Nation’s heartbeat. Brave deeds and selfless acts defined a society known as the "Independent Oglala Nation."
To those present, it was simply "the Knee," where over two thousand individuals, women and men, stood shoulder to shoulder with honor, courage, and fortitude. Eagle feathers were earned, and countless acts of valor were performed daily for seventy-three days in 1973.
A community was forged, dedicated to reviving the traditional ways of their grandfathers. Powerful medicine men and elders guided their paths as "Warrior Stories" were once again shared in the ancient manner, with honor and truth restored to empower the Inipi, Yuwipi, and Ghost Dance ceremonies.
Led by Vietnam veterans such as Stan Holder, Craig Camp, Russ Redner, Buddy Lamont, and Luke Ten Fingers, along with countless others, warriors ranging in age from sixteen to sixty formed a protective barrier around their lands, daring any intruder to trespass.
Every member of the Oyate within the circle performed warrior duties, facing danger as one. Cooks were targeted by gunfire, as were veterans in the bunkers. Medics were sniped while tending to the wounded, and even the mailman was attacked while delivering mail, his story adding to the collective narrative.
The Real Heroes of Wounded Knee became a community of warriors empowered by stories rooted in the land since 1890, warriors from numerous Nations united by the selfless actions of their comrades-in-arms.
However, traditional, true, and honorable "War Stories" are no longer told about the last great battle at The Real Heroes of Wounded Knee in 1973. For the first time in the history of their Societies, honorable and truthful warriors have suppressed their braveheart stories, and the songs of their deeds are silent.
This unprecedented silence stems from the fact that, for the first time in the memory of all Red generations, the leaders of the battle abandoned their community while under attack.
Having appointed themselves, these leaders had not been tested and lacked the virtues of a warrior. Their honor remained tethered to the wasicu cities and jails from which they came, preventing them from rising above their past.
Those warriors left behind derisively called them "the chickens of the knee."
Stories circulated of Russ Means reveling in his celebrity, indulging in drink and parties, and ultimately facing legal trouble after extravagant gatherings.
Since 1973, he has repeatedly betrayed the principles of AIM. Most recently, he betrayed every warrior of AIM by kneeling before Janklow to beg for a pardon.
This was the same Janklow who boasted of personally imprisoning Leonard Peltier, the same Janklow accused of raping Jancita Eagledeer and stealing Lakota lands in South Dakota.
While the warriors of the Independent Oglala Nation barely noticed Clyde Bellecourt’s departure from the Knee, as he refused to carry a weapon and remained confined to his warm trailer, they did observe his frantic fundraising efforts while they lacked ammunition, tobacco, and food for the children.
For security reasons, Clyde and his crew had not been informed of the liberation of the Knee that first night, leading to his surprise upon arriving in a caravan he believed was headed to a powwow.
The warriors found amusement in his accompanying cameraman. Even the police recognized his insignificance, dropping all charges against him while real warriors were imprisoned.
Vernon Bellecourt refused to sacrifice his luxury and comfort to join the fight. He was "Mr. Vernon," the hairdresser to AIM warriors, a fundraiser for Clyde, and an associate of the leadership, more of a figure of ridicule than a leader.
News of his visit to the French Riviera during a blizzard at the Knee prompted jokes about the hashish he was likely enjoying with their money.
AIM had already collapsed long before he claimed to be a warrior. After the others were imprisoned or being pursued, he emerged into the spotlight.
Vernon never entered The Real Heroes of Wounded Knee in 1973, yet, to his enduring shame, he stands alongside ION veterans during honors as if he were one of them.
The Independent Oglala Nation did not lament their departure. Others had already taken on the responsibilities of the nation, fighting battles, providing for the people, and safeguarding the elders and children from the enemy.
Each night, pack trains laden with supplies were delivered under fire by dedicated warriors, arriving at daybreak to nourish the nation and share their stories. Every day, the warriors worked tirelessly to strengthen their perimeter and fortify their bunkers in preparation for the battles to come.
The community lived the life of freedom they were fighting for, growing closer through ceremonies and shared experiences. Every day was a "war story," and every warrior had tales of honor, truth, and generosity to share.
Despite the desertion of some, the nation endured, and the stories continued until peace was negotiated by the Oglala Council of the ION.
While AIM as a society may have faltered in those sacred ravines due to the dishonorable actions of its leaders, the pride of a Red Nation was reborn with the "Warrior Stories" lived among the spirits of those murdered in 1890.
AIM, too, became a spirit, its blood absorbed into the earth at Wounded Knee, its essence living on alongside the spirits of Frank Clearwater and Buddy Lamont, dwelling with the spirits of Yellowbird, Bigfoot, and others who nourish that sacred ground.
Today, every facet of native life has been touched by the legacy of the American Indian Movement, and warriors stand at Wounded Knee.
Sovereignty has acquired renewed significance for both friend and foe, uniting all Indian people in its protection. During its brief existence as a warrior society, AIM rekindled the dying embers of their traditional fires.
The author vividly recalls the final week of Wounded Knee 1973 after his brother, Buddy Lamont, was killed by a sniper. The Oglala Council had decided to cease armed resistance and pursue treaty rights in the courts.
This decision was difficult for them and a setback for the warriors, but it was their land and their decision. As such, they prepared to comply.
He began meeting with bunker leaders and squads to plan their evacuation and equip them with the best weapons.
During the final four days, unbeknownst to all but the warriors involved, Wounded Knee was virtually unarmed and unprotected.
To deceive the enemy and government negotiators, they devised a plan to have a dozen or so warriors, who decided to stay for the funeral, working openly around the bunkers during daylight hours, carrying fake weapons and supplies to create confusion.
At night, four lookouts were stationed at the cardinal points, and some patrols were conducted, but most of the bunkers were empty, leaving the village vulnerable. Every moment was filled with fear that a mistake had been made, and the enemy would once again attack.
As night fell, he patrolled the area, now intimately familiar, entering empty bunkers in secret.
Inside, he would light a cigarette, build a fire, and turn on a stashed radio, talking and joking as if reinforcing the guard. After about half an hour, he would sneak out to repeat the performance at another empty bunker on the other side of the Knee.
Between these patrols, he would visit the kitchens, laughing with people in the few illuminated areas, before slipping into another ravine to begin his crawl once more.
During those final, lonely nights, he prayed and mourned the end of their Tribe and the final days of the Knee. It was difficult because each empty bunker and squad room held reminders of the "war stories" born there and the brave comrades who fought there.
Sometimes, he would stand in a deserted bunker and sing the AIM song or a Ponca Hethuska warrior song, facing the enemy with pride, anger, and defiance, knowing that they had to leave.
Wounded Knee was over, and all that remained were their "war stories" to tell in the traditional manner and to share in the circle of their people.
They never imagined that their "War Stories" would be stolen and dishonored by old, greed-driven AIM leaders, who would claim the honors of warriors they were not.
In the old way, an Akicita would strike them with their whips and drive them from the circle in disgrace.
Now, some are holding an "anniversary" celebration to commemorate Wounded Knee 1973, but it must be a non-native event, like a rock concert, because the "chickens of the knee" are being "honored."
Honored? Perhaps "publicized" is a better term. Men without honor will accept false honors that belong to others because the warriors of the ION have remained silent for thirty years.
The media did not report the warriors turning their backs on the cowards and leaving AIM after the Knee, but that is the traditional way they choose their leaders: not through press conferences or tribunals, but through shunning.
After the warriors left AIM, the organization became a fundraising tool, enriching its leaders. Now, Vernon will emerge from his mansion, squeeze into his Cadillac with AIM-1 license plates, and look down upon the warriors who fought at the Knee.
Examine him closely and see the truth. He has turned white in dishonor. To protect the honor of the "War Story" of Wounded Knee 1973 and the ION, the author denounces those who falsely claim the honors of a warrior of Wounded Knee and the Independent Oglala Nation.
While this charade unfolds, another occasion will mark the founding of the ION and the liberation of Wounded Knee in 1973. Across the Nation, countless warriors will turn to face "the Knee," holding their Pipes and "Warrior Stories" in their hearts, ready to share them in the sacred circle when their names are called.
The author will take his Pipe to Frank Clearwater’s grave, offer tobacco, and tell his sons and nephews the true story of that hell of a fight back in 1973.