We Walk In Our Traditional Way

Uniting Three Fires Against Violence embodies its mission to end systemic violence against Native people.

I turned onto a winding road through Hiawatha National Forest. Dirt crunched under my bike tires, and trees rose around me in a canopy of green. I was headed to a meeting with Uniting Three Fires Against Violence, a domestic violence and sexual assault coalition serving tribes across the state.

Michigan is the current and ancestral homeland of the Anishinaabeg, or “Original People.” The Anishinaabeg of Michigan include three main groups: the Ojibwe (Chippewa), Odawa (Ottawa), and Potawatomi (Bodéwadmi), who are joined in an alliance called the Council of Three Fires. This alliance encompasses twelve sovereign nations who manage their own lands, governance, and legal systems. 

Uniting Three Fires Against Violence (UTFAV) advocates for each of the twelve nations through statewide tribal and non-tribal education and outreach. Given the history of colonization, attempted genocide, land seizure, and abusive boarding schools, their work is crucial. Violence against Native people remains disproportionately high compared with other demographic groups. Native women are up to ten times more likely to be murdered than white women. And more than 80% of Native Americans–male or female–will experience violence in their lifetime. 

When I arrived at the Uniting Three Fires office in Sault Ste Marie, the team welcomed me with hugs and pastries. We sat at a wooden table with a bowl of sage at the center and introduced ourselves. The UTFAV team is small but mighty: Advocacy and Policy Director Stacey Ettawageshik, Operations Manager Vanessa Owaski-Patzwald, Interim Director and DVS Project Director Sandra Pilgrim-Lewis, and Community Outreach Specialist Samantha Brown. 

At nearly 80 years old, with bright eyes and thick gray hair, Sandra immediately set the tone. “We’re a group of Native women who walk in our traditional way,” she said, when I asked about UTFAV’s work. “It's not because it's a 9-to-5 job for us. It's because we know the trauma that our relatives have experienced. How do we walk beside, and how do we make life better for them, and hold them, and honor them?”

For the next hour, the conversation flowed around the circle, with each woman contributing something unique. Whenever someone spoke, everyone else listened. The conversation was sometimes punctuated by heavy silences, and other times by light-hearted laughter. It was remarkably communal. By the end, I felt like I had experienced something very special. 

Samantha shared a story about domestic violence in her own life and connected it to the nuances of her current work. “I get angry and wear my heart on my sleeve and tell anyone who asks, the history of it,” she said. She described how, as a three-year-old, she tried to protect her mom from her abusive father. “So many of us have been through this, and there's no shame in experiencing these things,” she told me. “There's also no shame in what you had to do to survive or who you had to be in order to survive.”

She added that her work with UTFAV had changed her perspective on how and why domestic violence persists. “Prior to this, I just thought of abuse and violence as kind of a person-to-person issue. I never really was able to grasp how deeply rooted and historic and systemic that this was.” The team discussed colonization and racism, the lack of media response for Missing or Murdered Indigenous women, and the challenges of receiving federal funding. 

They also talked about shocking gaps in the judicial system. Vanessa explained that each of the twelve tribes in Michigan is a sovereign nation that manages its own tribal courts. But in 1978, a federal law was passed that limited the tribes’ ability to prosecute non-Native perpetrators on tribal land. This means that although Native people can be prosecuted in U.S. courts for crimes on U.S. land, non-Native people cannot be prosecuted in tribal courts for crimes on tribal land. It’s a legal gap that creates near-impunity for non-Native offenders on tribal land. 

Vanessa told me that when a non-Native person assaults a Native person on tribal land, the tribe must refer the case to federal courts.* “But when we have federal attorneys that are in Marquette, three hours from Sault Ste. Marie, there are questions: Well did she almost die? Like, how bad was it?” Much of the time, she said, they don’t take the case. 

“So, perpetrators see this,” she continued. “And in Native communities, they know what they can get away with.”

“That’s why they call it the hunting ground,” said Sandra, quietly.

The room fell silent. The women in this circle had all lived or still lived on lands that were referred to as “the hunting ground.” They had experienced firsthand what that meant. And they were still here–in all their strength and wisdom–carrying the message forward.

Later in the conversation, Sandra shared a story from her life that showed the stark reality of this dynamic. She had been married to an air force colonel who hit her so hard that he ruptured her eardrum. Then he cut her off from financial resources, and she lost her health insurance. “Even when you're living in affluent situations, and that batterer decides to control you, they control you with the money,” she said.

“And who was I gonna go to?” she added.

“If I went to the military police, they weren’t gonna listen to me–I was married to a high-ranking officer. If I went off base to get help, they weren't gonna help me, because they were gonna tell me to go back to the military. I was so far from my tribe…and even if I had gone to my tribe, there was not going to be any jurisdiction–he wasn't Native.”

She explained how she finally sold her jewelry and used the money to escape with her two young kids. But it was winter, and she contracted life-threatening pneumonia. She survived because an uncle helped her get medical care.

When she finished her story, the room again fell silent. As I looked around, I saw women who had transformed shame into dignity, pain into compassion. I saw a group that had turned systemic violence into collective resilience.

“And that’s why,” said Sandra, “we keep doing the work.”

The team described the successes they’d already achieved in a short time. They’d advocated for and secured federal funding for tribe members through the Victims of Crime Act. They’d added tribal representation to Michigan’s Domestic and Sexual Violence Treatment and Prevention Board. They’d accessed new sources of federal funding for research and advocacy work. They’d created educational programs and alliances across the state. Progress was slow and arduous, but they were doing it. 

“Something that we say, is to think about the seven generations ahead of us,” Stacey explained. “And also our ancestors, seven generations behind us…every step we're taking every day, everything we do makes some sort of a difference.”

“Walking in our traditional ways is so important.” added Sandra. “Because if we didn't have that, I don't know how we’d keep going, how we’d keep doing this…When I do this work, it's for all of our children. Every last one of them.”

Michigan’s geography overlaps with twelve sovereign nations:

• Bay Mills Indian Community
• Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa Indians
• Match-E-Be-Nash-She-Wish Band of Pottawatomi Indians
• Hannahville Indian Community
• Keweenaw Bay Indian Community
• Lac Vieux Desert Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians
• Little River Band of Ottawa Indians
• Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odawa Indians
• Nottawaseppi Huron Band of the Potawatomi
• Pokagon Band of Potawatomi
• Saginaw Chippewa Indian Tribe
• Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians