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This Land Is Their Land After a century of struggle, Native Americans are retrieving their rights and their heritage to preserve an ancient culture from extinction j ; .. ~ Ii By NANCY GIBBS T he temperature was - 29°C, not counting the 32 km/h winds blowing across the hilltop cemetery, as mourners gathered to remember a grue- some massacre. A century ago, on Dec. 29, 1890, soldiers of the U.S. 7th Cavalry slaughtered hundreds of Sioux men, wom- en and children who had sought refuge their laws and educate their children with- out interference. Says Scott Borg, an attor- ney from Albuquerque, N. Mex., who regu- larly represents Native Americans: "The U.S. government has no more right telling the Pueblos how to run their internal af- fairs than does a country like Iraq to tell Kuwait how to run its internal affairs." The vehicle, and the obstacle, to Indian autonomy is the immense, inert Bureau of "Grave robbing was so widespread that virtually every tribe ... has been victimized. " under a white flag at a place called Wound- ed Knee. To mark the anniversary, descen- dants of the survivors came on foot and on horseback, some from hundreds of kilome- ters across the plains. They circled the chain-link fence around the grave site, ay- ing their prayers in silence and burning sage for purification. South Dakota Gover- nor George Mickelson offered words of sorrow and apology, the culmination of a "Year of Reconciliation" between whites and Indians in South Dakota. The journey to the grave ite, he said, "has been a pray- er and a sacrifice, a wiping away of tears." Each week brings a new installment in the fight for the survival of an ancient cul- ture in a modem age, and for dominion over lands lo t a century ago. Above all, Native Americans wi h to pre erve the right to practice their religion, enforce Indian Affairs. The 167-year-old agency, which is in charge of everything from tribal courts and schools to social services and law enforcement on the reservations, has a sorry record of waste, corruption and choking red tape. A recent urvey of government execu- tives ranked it the least respected of 90 fed- eral agencies, with the Indian Health Ser- vice close behind. An effort to restructure the bureau was halted by Congress until a task force of Native Americans could be as- sembled to con ult in the proce . But hope for progress runs thin: "Restructuring the BIA," one tnbal leader noted, "is like rotat- ing four worn-out tires." Most Native Americans can no longer afford to wait for the U.S. government to take action. The crusade for greater elf- determination reflects the de perate pov- erty and social pain that marks daily life on many reservations. "Indians are the most regulated people in the world," says Dale Riesling, chairman of the 2,000-member Hoopa Valley tribe in Northern California. "Self-determination means that we arc completely free to set our own direction and goals, basically our own destiny." That destiny is in dire need of reshaping: life ex- pectancy in some tribes is 45 years; in oth- ers 40% of the population is alcoholic; and Indians have the lowest per capita income of any ethnic group in the U.S. A weak school system has made it nearly impossi- ble for Native Americans to succeed in competitive jobs off the reservations. Without the resources to addre these problems, tribal leaders fear that poverty and aimlessness will destroy whatever re- mains of traditional Indian culture. Back around the turn of the century, the U.S. government's "progressive" policy to- ward Native Americans amounted to forced assimilation. The BIA shipped Indian chil- dren off to boarding schools, gave them An- glo names and banned their native tongues and religious rituals. Each generation moved further from tribal tradition, to the point where languages, which were entirely oral, and skills, such as basketmaking, were in danger of disappearing. After decades of drift, tribes that have begun to focus on pre- serving their heritage for the next generation have also reduced their rates of teen suicide, illiteracy, addiction and despair. But protecting an ancient culture also means fighting for rights that are blithely violated by neighboring communities. In last year's most celebrated confrontation, Mohawks faced down Quebec police and Canadian army troops 30 km west of Mon- treal in a battle to prevent weekend golfers from putting into their ancestral graves. At the same time, in northern Wisconsin, Chippewa Indians fought what has become an annual battle on the shores of Lake Minocqua. Their adversaries, local fisher- men armed with rocks and insults, fear that the Indians' spearfishing will deplete the supply of walleyed pike and drive away sport fishermen. Though the Chippewa have voluntarily limited the size of their annual catch, they resent the fact that their ancestral claims are begrudged as conces- sions rather than viewed as legal rights. Such confrontations are the flash points of a struggle heating up in courtroom across the U.S. Heeding the lessons of the civil