Michelle Tom stared into the screen. The Navajo doctor had just
finished a grueling shift at the Winslow Indian Health Care Center
urgent care facility in Winslow, Ariz., caring for Covid-19 patients.
Now, she was spending her Friday night speaking via livestream to
Native American youth about the pandemic.
"I've seen it hit everyone," she said of the coronavirus. "But
I have the strength of my ancestors, the strength of my prayers,
and the strength of all of you. We have to keep talking about it,
especially to our young people."
In recent weeks, similar messages have resounded across the Navajo
Nation, as younger generations have come to play a pivotal grassroots
role in the pandemic response. They have moved quickly for good
reason. Navajo residents have been devastated as the virus has swept
through a reservation that spans four states. Already, 4,633 people
have tested positive for the coronavirus, and 153 have died as of
May 23, a staggering toll in a population of 356,000 and
the highest infection rate of anywhere in the U.S.
Young Navajos are motivated, in large part, by a desire to protect
their elders many of whom have underlying health conditions
and who are at high risk of Covid-19 and the vital cultural
knowledge they carry. Frustrated by the federal government's slow
response, and worried about their loved ones, they have mobilized
to provide health information, assistance, and supplies so their
elders can stay safe at home. Those efforts have been key as the
Navajo Nation struggles to contain the pandemic across its vast
lands.
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"What's sacred to us is our elders," said Allie Young, a 30-year-old
screenwriter who grew up in the Navajo Nation outside Shiprock,
N.M. "And tied to our elders are our language and our traditional
practices, stories and culture. With this virus, there's a threat
to that. Because when our elders are dying, that knowledge goes
with them that we're still learning."
The virus has proven particularly difficult to combat on the reservation,
where many families live in multigenerational households that make
social distancing and quarantining harder. Those challenges were
compounded by the weekslong wait for federal aid from the CARES
Act to arrive as the pandemic raged. Young Navajos, sensing that
help could not wait, are now leading a variety of response efforts,
from donation drives to deliver much-needed water and food, to social
media campaigns to reach isolated residents, to recruiting medical
volunteers to staff clinics.
Young who recently moved from Los Angeles back to Shiprock
to be with family knew it was critical to communicate with
elders as the deadly virus spread. She also knew that would be difficult,
given that some residents lack internet access and even electricity.
So she created a social media campaign called Protect the Sacred
that instead targets tech-savvy young people, in the hope they'd
bring accurate information about the virus to their own loved ones.
Since launching in late March, Protect the Sacred has held three
livestreams featuring Navajo health care professionals like Tom,
political leaders, and celebrity allies such as actor Mark Ruffalo
and filmmaker Taika Waititi. The celebrities draw young people in
but public health officials have been able to use the panels
as a way to dispense advice and beg young people to stay home.
"It's up to you to protect yourself, your community,
and your elders."
Jill Jim, Executive Director, Navajo Nation Department of
Health
"Even as young as you are, you can be a transmitter if you're not
careful. It's up to you to protect yourself, your community, and
your elders," Jill Jim, executive director of the Navajo Nation
Department of Health, warned Navajo youth during one of the sessions.
Building on the success of Protect the Sacred, Young and Navajo
Nation President Jonathan Nez recently rolled out another campaign,
#NavajoStrong, to collect financial donations and recruit badly
needed medical professionals. Before a 57-hour curfew locked down
the reservation recently, Young, Nez, and a caravan of volunteers
including chef Jose Andres and actor Sean Penn donned
masks, bright green vests, and gloves to deliver supplies to more
than 500 families.
Like Young, Kyle Jim, a 32-year-old Shiprock resident who works
with nonprofits, realized the hardships his people faced early on.
As the virus hit, he grew deeply concerned after seeing his neighbors
flood the town's only grocery store. Although he knew the tribal
government was providing some aid to communities, he knew many families
were falling through the cracks. The reservation also relies on
emergency assistance from 110 local chapter houses, which were closed
due to the virus. He feared some residents especially those
without transportation would struggle to get food or other
essentials.
So Jim and his 24-year-old sister, Bree Lameman, who returned home
from the University of Arizona when the pandemic hit, launched the
"Northern Dine Covid-19 Relief Effort." They quickly rallied young
community leaders, organizers, and volunteers to help identify what
families needed and to solicit donations, from baby supplies and
cleaning products to fresh produce and water. In the 10 weeks since
they began, they've assisted more than 600 families.
As they've traveled across the reservation over the last two months,
they've found that there's also a need to resolve confusion about
Covid-19. "A lot of people don't know what the coronavirus is,"
Lameman said. "They think it's a simple cough or flu you get over."
The grassroots relief efforts among young Navajos have also stretched
to those living afar. Miranda Beyale, who works in a fifth grade
classroom in Rio Rancho, N.M., watched in alarm as the virus began
sweeping through her homeland. After Beyale and her siblings moved
their 62-year-old mother from Shiprock into Beyale's one-bedroom
apartment to keep her safe, Beyale and a colleague who is also Navajo
decided they needed to do more.
"We felt a sense of obligation to put our young minds into action,"
said Beyale, who is 32.
After starting a relief drive through their school's parent-teacher
association, they were swamped with precious supplies like hand
sanitizer, wipes, shampoo, books, toys, and school supplies. They
then put together care packages, which were delivered to dozens
of families around Shiprock. They even received a donation of dozens
of boxes of Girl Scout cookies for nurses on the frontline, each
tagged with an inspirational message.
Beyale's brother, Graham Beyale, helped ferry the boxes to the
Northern Navajo Medical Center. Graham, like so many other young
people, has looked for ways to protect not only his community, but
also his own family. Before the virus struck the reservation, Graham
was living with some cousins and their elderly parents. He quickly
moved out and into a tent on some farmland he is cultivating with
friends to grow crops.
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But like countless Navajo families affected by the pandemic, the
Beyale siblings have not been spared. Their father collapsed on
Mother's Day after being infected with the virus. He remains hospitalized
and on a ventilator, his family unable to visit.
For the Beyales and many others in their generation, the intensely
personal nature of the crisis has become a call to action. That's
been true as well for Heather Tanana, a 37-year-old lawyer who lives
in Salt Lake City. She felt helpless watching the virus tear through
her birthplace and threaten her own family. Her 73-year-old
father, a Navajo physician, works at an Indian Health Services clinic
in Monument Valley and is one of the few doctors who speak Navajo.
One of eight children from a large extended family, Tanana has
also had loved ones fall to Covid-19. "Every time we lose one of
my dad's siblings, one of our elders, it is really disheartening,"
she said.
Tanana and some colleagues who volunteer on the Indian Child Welfare
Act committee were talking about how to help the community when
they came up with a plan. After reaching out to her network, and
local health and social service agencies, she launched Utah Tribal
COVID-19 Relief, or UTCR.
"All of us have full-time jobs, but we are either personally or
professionally connected to tribal communities," she said of her
11 partners. "A good portion of us are Native members who are worried
about our families on the reservation."
The group posted a long wish list online for donations cloth
masks, diapers, thermometers, bottled water, and more and
also asked for financial contributions. The response was more than
Tanana even envisioned. They collected enough supplies to fill two
large trucks and raised more than $15,000.
But the success has been bittersweet. Just two weeks ago, Tanana's
76-year-old grandmother died in a nursing home near Gallup, N.M.,
of Covid-19. The day she found out, one of her partners sent her
a photo of the logo for a new relief drive for the Navajo Nation.
"In a time of darkness, it made me feel joy that people would do
that for individuals they don't know," she said.
Initially, Tanana's project was going to last two weeks. But because
of the halting response from the government, and the ongoing uncertainty
about the pandemic, she and her partners are considering whether
to continue their work. "Everyone expects the need to be there,"
she said. "There's a lot of attention now, but what about in the
fall?"
About the Author
Mona Gable
Mona Gable is a writer in Los Angeles. She is working on a book
for Simon & Schuster about the murder of Savanna Greywind and
the crisis of missing and murdered Native American women.
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