WEHELU PEACEMAKER

WEHELU PEACEMAKER

According to our legends and lessons (which some of us did not pay much attention to because we were busy growing up and exploring the landscape in our homeland, and we were pup-dumb), it takes certain qualifications to become a warrior. Not just anybody can do this. At her home, “Gramma” Lela, reminded my brothers and cousins of these things. She was not really my DNA “Gramma,” but she was the mother of my native foster mother and we called her grandchildren “cousin,” so that settled it. She was “Gramma”.

She could not speak English very good, and we could not understand her native dialect at all, but she told us the original rules that we must fulfill before we could be considered a warrior in the old “way,” a goal that we must all reach for. This was in the days when Hollywood and history books were busy characterizing natives as blood-thirsty savages living only to attack wagon trains. They displayed that the indigenous were a population devoid of feelings so it couldn’t have hurt much when it came to being killed or maimed by the army or the good guys. The American culture pointed out as unequivocal truth that we were callous because in their theaters we failed to cheer when the cavalry came “ta-ta-ta-ing” in at the very last second, guns blazing, bleeding natives falling all around.

A warrior is strong and he use his strength to care for people.
A warrior is peaceful toward everyone.
A warrior does not wait for peace to come. He take peace and offer it first.
A warrior is a good hunter, tracker, fisher,
he can run over the mountain, run down a deer, carry it in and share it;
he can carry five salmon across valley to feed hungry family.
A warrior always eat last.
A warrior always speak true.
A warrior respect earth and all people.
A warrior sing at dawn for all people who cannot sing for self.
A warrior is responsible.
A warrior never thinks of self first, but others.
A warrior dances for earth and for goodness for people.
A warrior takes children to the flowers on trees and in meadow.
A warrior has good heart, give to people who need.
Above all, warrior respect the “way” and Aponiha (the universal powers:
Great Wonder, Great Spirit, Great Power, Great Mystery).

It was the middle of the 1960’s, turmoil was all around. From many indigenous fires (African, Oriental, La Raza) there was a cry for justice and respect. The younger generation was not listening when wisdom spoke. Some of us in my mountain tribe were furious because Americans kept taking from us. They said it was theirs because God gave it to them. We could not agree with God, constantly. Some of us wildly, young men decided to strike back, an eye for an eye. We made plans. Our logistics were flawed but we were in a hurry. We gathered a few old, rusty guns. Furious with Americans we went to Craven’s home for his approval to our “war plan.” He was home and we filled his little house, spilling out into the yard. We laid out our plan. He thought. Then he squeezed into his back room and emerged with an old broken, weary, rusty rifle. He must have found it after a battle seasons ago.

Dusting it off, he looked around the room with sad, old eyes and said, “Outside, yard.” We thundered out. He gathered us in a circle, him in the center with his rifle. He began chanting, then spun the rifle over his head and began to dance. He passed the rifle behind from hand to hand while dancing and chanting. Rifle over head spinning once more, then he grabbed rifle with both hands over head, stopped dancing and chanting.

He was out of breath but said, “This (dance and chant), dis’wassa’wi.” “This,” holding rifle up, “not our way.”

He looked upon us searching our faces and searching our hearts. We came to him for war approval. Dis’wassa’wi seemed like approval but then he said the rifle was not the way. We were confused and disarmed in our confusion.

Again his old, blue-white eyes searched our hearts. He was looking for understanding within us. His tired face turned to each of us and his eyes, that had seen many, many seasons, pierced our aspirations. He slightly shook his white-white head, just a nod. Something like the strength of an eagle wrapped around him. He spoke,

“I don’t need warriors with guns in their hands. I need warriors with their hearts in their hands, and all of their dreams in their hearts.”

Silently we filed away into the evening filled with mosquitoes. He returned to his old coffee cup. We did not understand his words. They sounded like a truth. They sounded simple enough, but what did they mean for sure? We were all smart enough to know, weren’t we? In my old pickup I found a piece of paper and a pen. I wrote his words. Arriving at my little home, I read his words again. I pondered there under the stars. Over the velvet softness of evening again I heard Gramma Lela’s voice explaining what a warrior is in our “way.” When my spirit heard, “A warrior take peace and offer it first,” I cried.

Late, I slept. I dreamed and saw the great Generals of the mighty armies, dismiss their troops and gather at the table in a silent contest seeing who could offer peace first. I awoke from that beautiful dream and thought, “Yes, Craven is a warrior. He is a great warrior who should be honored above all of the Generals of all time.”
In my heart I called him “Wehelu Peacemaker.” (Chief of all peacemakers)

Sul’ma’ejote