Kim Duncan’s three adopted daughters, from left, Shalyn, Shyanne and Shelbi, sit smiling with their watermelon in the summer heat. (Photo: Albi))
Cetan Sa Winyan, director of the American Indian Movement’s Indian Territory Oklahoma chapter, said all tribes — not just the four already petitioning the U.S. Supreme Court — should stand together against potential changes to the Indian Child Welfare Act in a case the court has been asked to review.
“They closed the boarding schools and opened up CPS (Child Protective Services), but it’s the same thing — they’re still coming in and taking our children,” Winyan said.
The ICWA was enacted in 1978 to help keep Indigenous children in Indigenous homes. In ICWA cases, the first preference for placement is that the child go to an extended family member, even if the relative is non-Native. Second preference is someone within the child’s tribe; third preference is another tribe.
The Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, the Oneida Nation of Wisconsin, the Morongo Band of Mission Indians of California and the Quinault Indian Nation of Washington are petitioning the Supreme Court to request that the bill remain intact.
The state of Texas is challenging the constitutionality of ICWA, claiming it’s a race-based system that makes it more difficult for Native kids to be adopted or fostered into non-Native homes. Another argument is that the law commandeers states too much, giving federal law imbalanced influence in state affairs.
A Supreme Court response to the tribes’ petition and the petition filed by the plaintiffs is due Oct. 8.
Tribes and advocates argue that ICWA is culturally- and politically-based, not race-based, because tribal nations have political status as sovereign governments under federal law.
Cherokee Nation Deputy Attorney General Chrissi Nimmo said the tribe will put all the resources it has into making sure ICWA is protected.
“ICWA attempts to keep children connected to their tribe … and an attack on that is absolutely an attack on tribal sovereignty,” Nimmo said.
The bill was enacted to quell the disproportionately high rate of Indigenous children’s removal from their traditional homes, culture, language and dress. Before ICWA passed, 25% to 35% of all Indigenous children were being forcibly “assimilated” from intact Indigenous family structures to predominantly non-Indigenous homes.
“There was this bias that would lead to children being placed in foster care for things that weren’t abuse or neglect but things mainstream social services didn’t understand,” Nimmo said.
Te’Ata Loper, partnership grant coordinator for the Oklahoma Indian Child Welfare Association, said ICWA is “vital to the continuation of our tribal nations and tribal families” and is optimistic the court will maintain tribal sovereignty given the legal precedent found “in countless Supreme Court case decisions.”
The Oklahoma Indian Child Welfare Association is a nonprofit supporting Indigenous families and children by providing advocacy, education, training and collaboration with Oklahoma tribes and partner agencies.
AIM Indian Territory also provides a support system for tribal families trying to navigate the child welfare system. Winyan said the organization has been working to educate Oklahoma tribes about what’s been happening with ICWA in the courts.
She knows some don’t understand the politics of it, or the severity, but Winyan said many can understand ICWA’s impact when it’s compared to the boarding schools era.
“It’s just another form of saying, ‘Kill the Indian, Save the Man,’”she said. “It hasn’t changed.”
One mother from the Cherokee Nation has seen the impacts Indigenous children face when raised in non-Indigenous homes.
Kim Duncan adopts and fosters children through the tribe. She and her husband, also an enrolled Cherokee member, became certified to foster and adopt in December 2017 and shortly thereafter took in two girls who were also Cherokee.
The girls, then ages 9 and 10, had gone through six different non-Indigenous homes between Dec. 13 and Dec. 28 of that year, by the time Duncan and her husband became their seventh and final home.
“The other six homes before us completely shut down and said, ‘we don’t want any more kids,’” Duncan said. “That’s how traumatic it was … They were probably the hardest two we’ve ever taken in and we ended up adopting them, and they are totally different kids now.”
Duncan said leaving the Indian Child Welfare Act as it is would mean that Indigenous children like hers would still get to grow up in homes where they are surrounded by people that not only sometimes look like them but speak their language, understand their culture.
A non-Indigenous home, she said, just can’t provide those needs to Indigenous children.
Duncan said when they made a home for their two girls, they were immediately drawn to Duncan’s husband because he was perhaps a familiar — darker — face.
“They just related to him more,” Duncan said. “My children are darker-skinned, most of them, and they related to them.”
Duncan has fostered 14 children since 2017 and adopted three of them.
“People that are non-Indian are not as passionate about keeping the language strong, the culture strong,” Duncan said. “If we allow our Indian children to be adopted by non-Indian homes, we’re going to lose it.”
ICWA applied in the adoption of Jennifer Bailey’s now 7-year-old Cheyenne daughter. Bailey is a member of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes.
The birth mother, Bailey said, walked away from the adoption agency and chose she and her husband to raise her child because the child and Bailey were of the same tribe.
Bailey said she’s concerned that changing ICWA would lead potentially to long-term impacts on culture and language preservation, because it will keep Indigenous children from staying connected to their history and ancestry.
Nimmo said if ICWA is ruled as unconstitutional, as “race-based,” it would open the door to dismantling other Indigenous laws using that argument.
“Nothing else that we deal with as tribal people — land doesn’t matter, money doesn’t matter, language doesn’t matter, artifacts don’t matter if we don’t have future generations,” Nimmo said.
OK3 members Sierra Sikes, Courtney Hooker and Kenna Fields. Photo provided by Albi
Two Oklahoma artists appeared on this season of NBC’s “The Voice,” showcasing the talent they’ve built upon while living in the Sooner State.
The Oklahoma City-based trio OK3 secured a four-chair turn, which is when judges select an artist to join their teams, after performing “Made You Look” by Meghan Trainor during the season premiere on Feb. 26. They joined Grammy-winning R&B artist John Legend’s team.
Singer-songwriter AJ Harvey of Norman made his debut on March 11, landing a two-chair turn from Chance the Rapper and duo Dan + Shay with a performance of Bob Dylan’s “Girl From the North Country.” Harvey moved on as part of Dan + Shay’s team.
OK3 began when Sierra Sikes, 24, Courtney Hooker, 26, and Kenna Fields, 22, met through their vocal coach. At the time, Fields was 12, Sikes was 14 and Hooker was 16. They attended nearby schools in the Oklahoma City area, allowing them to foster a friendship that would continue into their careers.
“We were together all the time,” said Hooker. “Probably six days a week, whether or not it would be us actually practicing or rehearsing for something, or if it was just us having sleepovers or hanging out.”
OK3 during rehearsals for Team John Legend. Photo provided by Albi
In 2017, the members of OK3 went their separate ways. Hooker said they always aspired to come together again in adulthood.
“We came back together because of this opportunity,” Hooker said. “It was so quick, and it just felt right.”
Hooker graduated in 2020 from the Academy of Contemporary Music at the University of Central Oklahoma with degrees in vocal performance and commercial music. Sikes also attended UCO, graduating with a degree in musical theater in 2021. Fields is a senior at the university studying contemporary music.
Harvey, 25, grew up in Wichita, Kansas, and moved to Norman in 2020. A member of the Ponca Tribe and Pawnee Nation, he attended powwows as a child and developed an interest in traditional ceremonial music.
Harvey said he keeps the contemporary music he performs and the powwow songs he grew up around separate, but draws connections between his own chords and the emotion found in traditional Native tunes.
“You might hear a song that makes you choke up,” Harvey said. “We always were told that that’s a good thing, that maybe the spirit of that song and hearing that drum (is) medicine for us.”
Harvey said having a Native background and relatives in central Oklahoma gave him an opportunity to move to Norman and become involved in its local music scene.
“A goal of my moving here was to make a name for myself, in whatever way that was,” Harvey said.
Harvey has a residency at The Deli. He takes the stage every Thursday night with the band Biscuits and Groovy and has performed at venues around Norman and Oklahoma City such as Beer City Music Hall and Ponyboy.
While living in Wichita, Harvey performed in local businesses such as coffee shops and bookstores. Norman has provided him with an array of venues as well as connections with artists in the local music scenes.
“After I moved here, I really wanted to develop songwriting that I thought was me,” Harvey said. “I’ve gotten to see other aspects of people (in Norman) who really take to that craft.”
Scott Booker, manager of the Grammy-winning band The Flaming Lips and founder of UCO’s Academy of Contemporary Music, said the opening of venues in central Oklahoma has played a key role in its flourishing music scene.
“One of the things we didn’t have when ACM first started was what I like to call a venue ladder,” Booker said. “We had very small venues and we had bigger venues, but we didn’t have very many in between.”
Another factor lending support to musicians in central Oklahoma is its abundance of universities with music programs. Among them are UCO, Oklahoma City University and the University of Oklahoma. UCO is Oklahoma’s only university with a contemporary music program.
“If you look at before ACM and then now, you’ll notice that there’s so many more venues,” Booker said. “There’s all these venues that have opened up, and I think it’s a direct relation to more people focused on music.”
ACM provides opportunities for students to work with local and touring professionals. Faculty members have worked with Grammy-winning artists such as Miley Cyrus, Elton John and Reba.
“All of the professors there are in their own projects,” Hooker said. “Now that I’m out of college, and I’ve grown and been in the industry for a bit, I’ve played gigs, like with my old professors, which is so cool.”
Because Fields is a student at ACM, she said, having professors in the music industry was helpful as she balanced academics while competing on “The Voice.”
“At the school, all the professors understand, you know, they’ve been in the industry, they’ve done this,” Fields said. “They offer any help and advice, and I can use the facilities when I need. So that’s really nice, because I feel like a lot of other majors wouldn’t necessarily be as understanding.”
Harvey said when he received an Instagram message for casting in December 2022, he thought it was a scam. Once the new year rolled around, he responded, beginning the audition process that led to his nationwide emergence.
“This was a whole other ballgame for me,” Harvey said. “You’re out there in front of these excellent musicians and performers, and you get to see what they think of you. Overall, it was an incredible experience.”
During his blind audition, Harvey said he was trying to keep himself centered.
“All I kept saying to myself was ‘this is just another show at The Deli,’” Harvey said. “I look up and see Chance the Rapper and Dan + Shay looking at me and I was like ‘alright, we’re good.’”
Fieldssaid OK3 spoke with other contestants on the show about Oklahoma’s reputation for country music.
“I think what we wanted to show is that there’s a lot of versatility in the Oklahoma music scene that people aren’t aware of,” Fieldssaid.
OK3 and Harvey were eliminated from “The Voice” in their respective battle rounds, which are when two artists on the same team perform one song together, with their coach deciding who will move on to the next round. Harvey was defeated by 17-year-old Anya True in a performance of John Mayer’s “Half of My Heart.”
Legend chose 20-year-old Zoe Levert after her battle with OK3, describing her as the “underdog” against the trio.
Having gained exposure from “The Voice,” Sikes said, OK3 wants to continue to build their platforms locally and nationally. Hooker said OK3 is hoping to release original music, and released her own original song “Then I Met You,” on March 21.
“We’re really trying to build off of the momentum from the show,” Sikes said. “Now it’s not just Oklahoma people that know us, (but) we’re getting people from the north and west, and all that, that are telling us that they’re rooting for us.”
Harvey said his goal as a musician is to establish an audience for himself, and his experience on “The Voice” gave him a chance to hone in on this aspiration.
“I hope to have a following of people that like what I do and like what I have to say, musically,” Harvey said. “At the end of the day, that’s the most important thing, and to make the music that’s most me as much as I can be.”
“The Supreme Court of the United States is set to hear oral arguments for St. Isidore of Seville Catholic Virtual School v. Drummond later this month. The case will be a hallmark decision for school choice, religious schools, and charter schools nationwide. Photo by: Micky Albi
The Supreme Court is set to hear oral arguments for the St. Isidore of Seville Catholic Virtual School v. Drummond case next Tuesday, April 30.
This case, consolidated with Oklahoma Statewide Charter School Board v. Drummond, will be a major decision regarding the exercise of religion in charter schools. Because of this, organizations and stakeholders nationwide have submitted amicus (or “friend of the court”) briefs with arguments regarding the outcome of these cases.
The Facts:
In 2023, Oklahoma Attorney General Getner Drummond filed actions against the Oklahoma Statewide Charter School Board and its members seeking to terminate the board’s new contract with an online Catholic Charter school sponsored by the Oklahoma City and Tulsa Catholic Archdioceses.
The charter school was named “St. Isidore of Seville Catholic Virtual School
This online charter school would:
receive state funding
be accessible to any student in the state of Oklahoma, regardless of religious background
Have the state’s expectation of secular instruction in charter schools waived
Drummond contended that this contract violated Oklahoma State law, the Oklahoma Constitution, and the Constitution of the United States, and the Oklahoma Supreme Court heard the case in June 2024.
The court agreed with Drummond, holding that the contract did violate state and federal law.
The case was then appealed to the Supreme Court in 2024 and scheduled for oral arguments on April 30.
Why this matters:
This case could set precedent about how and when it is appropriate for states to use funds for schools with religious affiliation.
Drummond, now running for Governor for the 2026 election cycle, is getting national attention for these cases.
Oklahoma students could have access to state funded religious schools, regardless of denominational affiliation.
The Court’s conservative majority could take a major step towards the Trump Administration and Project 2025’s goals of total “School Choice.”
Oklahoma Public Figures
Former Oklahoma Attorneys General Scott Pruitt and John M. O’Connor filed an amicus brief arguing that schools like St. Isidore’s do not become “state actors” simply by accepting state funding. They argue that the Oklahoma State Charter School Board rightfully approved the state contract with St. Isidore’s, but “the current Attorney General quickly sought to rescind that approval solely because St. Isidore is a religious school.”
Ryan Walters also filed a Brief in his official capacity as State Superintendent for Education, arguing that the “Establishment Clause” of the First Amendment should not be used against the “Free Exercise Clause.” The “Establishment Clause” is one of the elements of the First Amendment and states, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion.” This has been interpreted through precedents to mean that no governmental agency shall take steps to favor any religion as an official state religion.
Walters argues that the holding of the Oklahoma Supreme Court puts these doctrines in conflict saying, “No one disputes that aside from its religious character, St. Isidore is qualified to serve as a charter school. So putting the school to the choice of abandoning its religious identity or losing its contract with the state to open a charter school violates the Free Exercise Clause under this Court’s holdings in Trinity Lutheran, Espinoza, and Carson.”
Former Governor Frank Keating also joined an amicus brief arguing that, “Oklahoma’s experience illustrates the need for and value of diverse educational options, especially for low-income and rural families.”
South Carolina and 11 other states
The states of Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana, Montana, Texas, Kansas, Nebraska, Missouri, Ohio, Florida, Georgia, and Utah joined an amicus brief submitted by South Carolina. These states expressed an interest in this case due to programs that use state funds to pay for scholarships to private schools. These states argue that the Oklahoma Supreme Court has “turned the Establishment Clause on its head,” by prohibiting families from using state funds to pay for their choice of religious education.
“This Court should protect religious schools from unconstitutional discrimination, defend states’ ability to provide educational opportunities to their citizens, and confirm that Amici States can permissibly give public aid to religious schools and organizations,” they wrote to SCOTUS.
Constitutional Law Scholars
A brief submitted by a group of Constitutional and Educational Law Scholars argues in support of Drummond and the Oklahoma Supreme Court. This brief argues that charter schools are in fact state actors as they are a part of the public school system. The brief says, “While the exact structures of charter schools and the regulatory requirements governing their operations vary state-by-state, charter schools across the country share a common structure and function rooted in their very designation as charters.”
Religious Freedom Organizations
Several religious Freedom Organizations have submitted briefs in support of both sides of this case. Briefs from the Baptist Joint Committee (BJC) and the National Alliance for Public Charter Schools argue that the petitioners (St. Isadore) demonstrate a “fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of a public charter school and the public charter school’s role within the public education system.” The brief argues that there is a difference between students who receive state funding to attend private schools and schools that are distinguished as charter schools.
Additionally, the Baptist Joint Committee argues that the state of Oklahoma does not have an obligation to fund religious charter schools simply because they are also funding nonreligious charter schools. “The Constitution draws a firm line: The State may not intertwine its authority with religion,” the brief argues.
However, other Jewish and Muslim organizations have sided with St. Isidores, with several joining on two briefs that argue that Drummond and the Attorney General’s Office are prejudiced against “minority religions” such as Catholicism. The brief states,“That hateful sentiment is also reflected in the petition and corresponding motion that his office filed before the Oklahoma Supreme Court,” about Drummond’s comments in his argument before the Oklahoma Supreme Court.
The National Weather Center in Norman. Photo: Albi
Midafternoon on a late February day, a meteorologist for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association in Norman received an email notifying them of their termination.
“I was just busily working away, and we got an email that said, you’re fired in an hour and 10 minutes,” the meteorologist, who wishes to remain anonymous for fear of retribution, said.
The first round of NOAA layoffs impacted about 800 NOAA employees nationwide, and their pay ceased that day. An anonymous employee who works for NOAA in Norman estimated that 15 to 20 employees were fired that day in Norman.
Rep. Tom Cole (R-Okla.) told OU Daily on Thursday about five or six employees were laid off in the initial cut at the National Weather Center. Cole, whose district includes the National Weather Center, said he is working to get more information about what was cut and what he can do to promote the needs of his district at the national Capitol.
“The National Weather Center, there’s only one of those — pretty dadgum good,” Cole said. “So I can pretty much defend the places I am and advocate expansion, but I can’t tell you we can protect every single thing.”
NOAA layoffs came as part of a series of federal cuts enacted by the Department of Government Efficiency, an organization headed by Elon Musk that seeks to reduce federal spending. The Department of Education and Department of Agriculture are among other federal organizations that have undergone cuts.
The meteorologist, who worked under NOAA’s Oceanic and Atmospheric Research division, began their job last year.
“To work at the (Oceanic and Atmospheric Research division) was kind of my, let’s just say, goal in life,” the meteorologist said.
In January, the Fork in the Road Deferred Resignation Program offered federal employees the option to resign and receive pay and benefits through September. Some staff in Norman took the opportunity, the meteorologist said.
“The federal workforce is expected to undergo significant near-term changes,” the Office of Personnel Management’s frequently asked questions webpage reads. “As a result of these changes (or for other reasons), you may wish to depart the federal government on terms that provide you with sufficient time and economic security to plan for your future.”
Following the Fork in the Road offer, the workplace environment was “fearful” and tense, the meteorologist said. National Weather Center staff had anticipated the layoffs that came in February.
On their offboarding paperwork, the meteorologist wrote: “I was not fired due to performance issues, and I would gladly return to the service of the American people.”
Although probationary employees were cut first – meaning those who were either newly hired or underperforming – senior employees also worried about future reductions in force, according to the meteorologist.
That reduction in force came on March 12, and an additional 1,000 NOAA employees were laid off nationwide, according to the Associated Press. Cole said he doesn’t know how those layoffs impacted Norman because his office wasn’t informed about them, but they will continue to look into it.
The federal hiring freeze paired with the expected reduction in forces, will cause a lack of new employees being hired and trained to fill the roles of career staff when they retire, the meteorologist said..
“There not being very many younger folks to take on that information, and there’s a greater chance of a loss of institutional knowledge, aka methods and ideas being passed down throughout the (National Weather Center) and NOAA as a whole,” the meteorologist said.
As severe storm season approaches, operations at the National Weather Center have been hindered by slowed funding, the meteorologist said, and observations for weather models and warnings are not happening at full capacity.
“With severe season coming up, that’s the (National Weather Center’s) busiest time of the year,” the meteorologist said. “If we can’t do what we’re supposed to do during that time, I think that that’s kind of a big deal.”
As a Moore native, Cole said he knows the impact of severe storms, and he advocated for the National Weather Center to retain its lease after it was listed to have its lease terminated like many other federal buildings. Cole said it is his job to continue to defend NOAA by raising his concerns to the administration.
In a meeting last week, Cole said he suggested Musk talk to legislators before making cuts that will impact people in their congressional districts. Musk responded that DOGE will make mistakes, but work to fix them, Cole said.
“Nobody from DOGE has probably ever visited the National Weather Center; I’ve been there countless times,” Cole said. “I know the federal facilities in my district far better than anybody in Washington, D.C. does. So we will defend and advocate for them, we have under every other administration.”
The day after Cole spoke, severe storms ripped across the central and eastern United States, killing 42 people. Wildfires burned across Oklahoma over the weekend, killing four people and leaving over 140 injured.
Cole also said the federal workforce and national debt — which is currently over $36 trillion — are too large, and government overspending is driving inflation, so “tough calls” must be made. DOGE is doing the needed work to cut unnecessary spending, Cole said.
“I look at the overall picture, as well as the specific things, and my job’s to, if they’re making a mistake and we find out about it, to try and bring it to their attention and correct it,” Cole said. “We’ve been able to do that in a number of cases and we’ll continue to do it.”
On Thursday, a U.S. district court judge in California ruled fired probationary employees in some departments must be rehired, but the ruling did not include the Department of Commerce, which NOAA falls under.
Alison Gillespie, public affairs specialist for NOAA, declined to comment on layoffs, but wrote in an email on Thursday the bureau will continue to fulfill its mission and serve Americans.
“We continue to provide weather information, forecasts and warnings pursuant to our public safety mission,” Gillespie wrote.
Shabnam Khalilyar during a more pleasant time in Kabul, Afghanistan, inside the presidential compound. Photo provided by Albi.
A year is not a long period for the immeasurable pains and sufferings of your country’s loss to be healed. Perhaps decades won’t be enough. For those still stuck in Afghanistan, the bitter story of Aug. 15, 2021, is not over yet.
A generation fell old overnight, burying their hopes and desires beside the graves of their loved ones and martyred soldiers.
Now safe, I continue having flashbacks to the weeks before and after Kabul fell to the Taliban.
After mid-July, the dynamic atmosphere in the presidential palace compound known as the Arg, where I had worked since July 2020 for the chief of staff to the Afghanistan president, deteriorated dramatically. The compound no longer had the vibrancy of the past. The luxurious cafe, which until a few weeks before when it was hit by missiles was the gathering place of stylish girls and boys of the office’s employees, was nearly empty.
The rapid fall to the Taliban of outlying provinces was terrifying, but some people remained confident Kabul would not topple, at least for a year or two. According to conventional belief, the fall of the provinces was part of a deal with the Taliban, and after a year there would be a transitional government.
But for people who truly believed in liberty and civil norms, neither situation was optimal. Even in the case of a transitional government, they would be offered a repressive Islamic regime, disguised in the form of a republic, coalition or something else, which in essence was an Emirate or caliphate.
At the negotiating table, the Taliban were not willing to compromise. They demanded the lion’s share. But the Afghan negotiators, including representatives of Ashraf Ghani, chosen in a disputed presidential election, didn’t seem very reliable.
Both sides were in Doha to bargain for their share of a future Afghan government, not to defend their values. Nearly all of Afghanistan’s politicians pretended to their Western counterparts to be liberal and democratic, which was a ploy to grasp power.
These were the power-lovers who would not hesitate to transform their subjects from well-suited, beard-shaved liberals to turban-wearing bearded Mullahs. A number of previous officials who returned to Kabul and swore allegiance to the Taliban made this presumption a decisive reality.
Toward the last week of July, the headlines became truly alarming.
The mass killing of civilians in Malestan, a town in the southeastern province of Ghazni, and Kandahar, a southern province, added to the fear.
An average of 325 killings a day between May 1 and July 15; the deployment of 20,000 Tajik forces to the Afghanistan-Tajikistan border; the dramatic fall of provinces to the Taliban; and the murder by the Taliban of a Khasha, a comedian in Kandahar, were the headlines of the local newspaper on July 24 alone.
In spite of all the insecurities, many officials inside the Arg, some very well-informed, were unprepared for the tragedy. Even many of those who had passports and visas in their pockets had not booked flights. And those who had flights out of the country had booked them well after Aug. 15, the fateful night that turned our world upside down.
On the morning of Aug. 14, residents were stunned by the local headlines. The Taliban had captured eight major cities with no comment from security officials. That afternoon, not many staff members were around in the presidential palace dining hall.
“I am afraid that on a very normal day just as today, we may hear about Ghani’s escape from the country through news headlines. They may carelessly surrender us, who cares about us?” I said to my colleague while having lunch.
She replied, “There is no doubt, they are really mean toward us.”
I never thought that day would be tomorrow.
During the afternoon, office staffers were waiting for Ghani’s televised speech. Some expected him to resign and declare a transitional government. Contrary to those expectations, he did not resign, and he spoke only vaguely about the situation.
At 9 a.m., on Aug. 15, the presidential palace was utterly spiritless. Few people showed up for work. The empty courtyard of the Arg was a sign of the sinister fate that awaited. The president’s protective service members, who were usually numerous and vigilant, were not present at the last security check gate. Shortly after I arrived, someone directed us to “go to your home, the Taliban have attacked Kabul.”
Those of us who had shown up for work were in shock. We realized we were all wanted by the Taliban because we worked for the president’s office. We grabbed our belongings and scurried out of the compound. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye.
The streets were jammed in the Shahr-e-Naw neighborhood, where most foreign offices and hotels were located, and in the Wazir Akbar Khan, the city’s wealthiest neighborhood.
Crowds of people who had fled their workplaces were desperately seeking shelter. Even hospitalized patients were being taken to their homes. Those too infirm to walk were carried on the shoulders of loved ones. Anxiety pulled on the faces of everyone in the street.
By evening, Kabul and some remaining provinces were handed to the Taliban without a single bullet fired. The prisons were emptied of thieves, thugs, ISIS members and Taliban detainees. The jails became welcoming places for former security forces, journalists, civil society activists and whoever opposed the Taliban. Hundreds and thousands of innocents were detained, tortured and killed in those dim and damp cells.
On Aug. 17, I confronted a city that seemed to have landed from a science fiction movie, an alien Kabul, a masculine Kabul. The city lacked women, lacked joy and lacked life.
The message to the enlightened generation of Kabul was clear: this city belongs to you no more. A great number of people preferred not to see a dead Kabul and escaped the country. I was one of them.
On Aug. 30, desperate after days of trying to get into the Kabul airport, I fled the city in which I had been raised for Mazar-e-Sharif, a city in northern Afghanistan from which a few flights were still departing.
The last hugs and leave-takings, especially with no idea as to when or if I would see my loved ones again, were brutal. I gave my grandpa, who had raised me with love and passion, a tight hug.
The most important thing to him was my safety, and with no hesitation he let me go. But on that day in October when he knew I was flying to the United States, and we realized we might not see each other again, we cried during the video call.
It is impossible to pack all of your life into a backpack, but the good memories traveled with us, in our hearts and minds. The memories are helping us to survive this period, away from our loved ones, in exile.
Sandy Harris, left, and Jonnette Paddy, right, with Indigenous Women Rising talk about abortion care and reproductive health with attendees at the “Women Are Sacred” conference on June 27, 2023, in Albuquerque, N.M. (Albi Arhó)
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. – Rachael Lorenzo calls it their “auntie laugh,” a powerful chuckle that lasts long and fills any space. Aunties are prominent figures in Indigenous culture who offer comfort when one needs help.
Aunties answer the phone when no one else does.
That’s what Lorenzo, who is Mescalero Apache, Laguna and Xicana, does as founder of Indigenous Women Rising, a national fund that covers the costs of abortions – and the traditional ceremonies that follow – for Indigenous people.
Since the reversal of Roe v. Wade a year ago, demand for the organization’s services has skyrocketed. The group funded 37 abortions in 2019, 600 in 2022 and over 300 in the first six months of this year. From January to June, it’s spent more to help people than in all of 2022.
“We’re investing more money into … airfare, bus, gas, child care, elder care, after care for the individual who’s getting an abortion,” Lorenzo said. “If there are special needs that they have, we do our best to fund that, as well.”
Indigenous people have been uniquely affected by the end of Roe.
Abortion was never readily available to Native Americans, thanks to a federal law that has prohibited nearly all abortions at Indian Health Service clinics since 1976. That’s always meant traveling long distances for the procedure.
But now states with some of the largest Indigenous populations also have some of the strictest restrictions on abortion: places like North and South Dakota and Oklahoma, home to the Cherokee Nation, the second-largest tribe in the U.S. with over 300,000 enrolled members.
Across the country, some 2 million Native Americans live in the 20 states with laws on the books banning abortion at 18 weeks of pregnancy or earlier, according to a News21 analysis.
“There are clinics closing, providers moving out of those states that we have served or serve, and so we’re seeing more people need to travel from very rural states in order to get abortion care,” Lorenzo said.
Indigenous Women Rising is a national fund that covers the costs of abortions – and the traditional ceremonies that follow – for Indigenous people. Since the reversal of Roe v. Wade, demand for the organization’s services has skyrocketed. (Photo by Albi Arhó)
Add into the mix disproportionate rates of sexual assault and unintended pregnancy, a crisis of missing and murdered Indigenous women, high rates of maternal mortality, and poor access to preventative care and contraception, and the end of Roe has made a bad situation much worse.
“Roe has never been accessible for Native women,” said Lauren van Schilfgaarde, a tribal law specialist at UCLA who has studied abortion care in Indigenous communities. “When you add in the rates of violence and the complete gutting of tribal governments’ abilities to respond, you have a real dangerous recipe in which Native women have a lack of reproductive health.
“Dobbs has exacerbated that.”
‘Lowest-hanging fruit’
The federal government provides health care to Native people as part of the treaty agreements for seized land. Those living on tribal lands or in big cities can use the Indian Health Service, or IHS, an agency within the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services that covers 2.6 million Native Americans and Alaska Natives across 574 federally recognized tribes.
However, the system is perpetually underfunded, forcing facilities to limit the services they provide.
The Oklahoma City Area Indian Health Service serves Native Americans in Oklahoma, Kansas and parts of Texas. The federal government provides health care to Native people as part of the treaty agreements for seized land, but IHS cannot provide abortions except in very rare cases. (Photo by Albi Arhó)
On tribal lands, the clinics can be hours away by car – a trek that comes with a price tag for Native Americans, a quarter of whom live in poverty. And once they arrive, the clinic may or may not have gynecological or obstetric services.
“Reproductive health care has always been considered, for some reason, outside of the mainstream,” said van Schilfgaarde, who is Cochiti. “It’s always the lowest-hanging fruit for budget cuts.”
The Hyde Amendment further restricted reproductive access for Indigenous women.
First approved by Congress in 1976, it banned the use of federal funds for abortion except to save the life of the mother. Exceptions were later added for rape and incest. While the measure was not directed at Native people, they are among those most affected because they rely on federal clinics.
And exceptions for abortion are rarely granted, even though Indigenous women are 2.5 times more likely to be raped than other women in the U.S., and some 34% of Native American women report having been raped at some point in their lives.
One study published in the American Journal of Public Health found that from 1981 to 2001, IHS performed 25 abortions. A 2002 study published by the Native American Women’s Health Education Resource Center found that 85% of IHS facilities did not have abortion services available or did not refer to abortion providers – even for women in permitted circumstances.
Dr. Antoinette Martinez, who is Chumash, is a family medicine and obstetrics provider at United Indian Health Services, a federally funded clinic serving reservations in Humboldt and Del Norte, two northern California counties.
She can’t provide abortions because of the Hyde Amendment and has seen firsthand the effect of that.
“It really does create another hoop for young and middle-age Native women who do not desire pregnancy, who live either in a rural area or in a remote area,” she said. “Sometimes they come down from three hours away for care.”
Before the COVID-19 pandemic, Martinez also worked part time at a Planned Parenthood clinic in Eureka, California, where she provided abortions to women of all ethnicities and ages.
“I knew the hardships in getting there,” she said of her Indigenous patients. “Sometimes they were very, very forthright about the difficulties that were going on in their life and the obstacles in getting to Planned Parenthood – both financially and physically – because of travel distances due to rural locations or other issues such as child care.”
In Oklahoma City, Trust Women was a go-to clinic for Indigenous patients seeking abortion care and partnered with Native organizations such as Indigenous Women Rising. Nearly 10% of Oklahoma’s population is Indigenous.
Now, with Roe overturned and a near-total abortion ban in place in the state, the facility’s treatment rooms hold unused chairs, plastic folding tables and boxes of medical supplies stacked in a corner collecting dust.
Kailey Voellinger, former clinic director at Trust Women in Oklahoma City, sits in a treatment room on June 29, 2023. Before the state’s abortion ban, Trust Women was a go-to clinic for Indigenous patients seeking abortion care. (Photo byAlbi Arhó)
States neighboring Oklahoma – including Texas, Arkansas and Missouri – also have restrictive abortion policies. New Mexico is the nearest state that allows unrestricted abortion, and it’s an eight-hour drive from Oklahoma City to Albuquerque.
“It’s obviously a really egregious violation of people’s rights and dignity to not be able to access health care where they live,” said Kailey Voellinger, former clinic director of Trust Women in Oklahoma City.
DakotaRei Frausto, who is Mescalero Apache and lives in San Antonio, discovered the complications of having to seek an abortion out of state when, at 17, they learned they were eight weeks pregnant. It was March 2022, six months after Texas enacted a six-week abortion ban.
DakotaRei Frausto, who is Mescalero Apache and lives in San Antonio, was 17 years old when they learned they were eight weeks pregnant. Because of Texas’ six-week abortion ban, they had to travel to New Mexico for the procedure. (Photo by Albi Arhó)
Frausto’s mother found someone to loan them a car for the only option – a 700-mile, 11-hour drive to New Mexico, where clinics were so overwhelmed Frausto had to wait a month for an appointment.
They said the experience drove them to speak out.
“My whole entire life of being an Indigenous woman, I’ve felt silenced. I’ve felt like I was told to be submissive and quiet and small and just not take up space,” Frausto said. “And I was like, I can’t let this stigma – I can’t let racism and sexism – hold me back from talking about an issue that needs to be talked about.”
Frausto started a chat room, which now has more than 500 members from around the world, to debunk myths about abortion, give advice and connect individuals with resources. Frausto said it’s become a community where people feel safe sharing their own abortion stories.
“I want these people to focus on their health, focus on their family and focus on being OK,” they said. “I want to be there to take that weight off of other people when there wasn’t someone to take that weight off of me.”
Other Indigenous reproductive justice advocates are also stepping up to help – establishing support networks and reclaiming traditional knowledge about reproductive health, including traditional birthing practices.
‘We’ll find a way’
Lorenzo founded Indigenous Women Rising after their own emergency abortion 10 years ago. At the time, they were a 23-year-old graduate student at the University of New Mexico and parent to a toddler.
The doctor told Lorenzo they had an unviable pregnancy but would have to “wait it out.”
“I didn’t know that I could get an abortion for a situation like this. I just waited it out for a few months, until I started having a miscarriage. Having to go to the emergency room, where I was humiliated by providers … it was just a really awful, dehumanizing experience.”
Lorenzo figured there must be other Native people with similar experiences who needed help.
The fund’s first clients were Navajo, who continue to be the largest group it serves. “We serve all Native folks, whether they are on or off a reservation, whether or not they’re enrolled,” Lorenzo said.
Jonnette Paddy, a member of the Navajo Nation, oversees the organization’s abortion fund and said that post-Roe, most states served are those with some kind of abortion restrictions.
“So we assist in Arizona. We assist in Oklahoma, North and South Dakota, Texas,” Paddy said.
Jonnette Paddy, director of Indigenous Women Rising’s abortion fund, shows a social media post by the group on June 29, 2023. In the first six months of 2023, the fund has distributed $180,000 to support patients. That’s compared with $110,000 in all of 2022. (Photo by Albi Arhó)
In just the first six months of 2023, the fund has distributed $180,000 to support patients. That’s compared with $110,000 in all of 2022.
The end of Roe has left Americans now experiencing what Native people have lived for decades, Lorenzo said. Abortion care – “now it’s an emergency.”
“It should have always been an emergency about who was getting the least care, how we can create equity and make sure that no one is without care,” they said.
Indigenous Women Rising is one of the bigger community groups in the abortion realm but not the only one.
Following an outbreak of youth suicides in Indian Country in 2015, Sarah Adams, who is Choctaw and lives in Moore, Oklahoma, co-founded Matriarch to provide suicide prevention education and resources to the community. She recalls parents telling her they had called IHS for help, only to be told the next appointment was months away.
Today, the organization provides critical services – including help with abortion care – that the tribal government is unable or unwilling to provide. Its members help people schedule appointments at out-of-state abortion clinics, fund procedures and assist with everyday needs, such as child care and food.
She noted that the lack of abortion access for Indigenous women has not even come up among most tribal leadership, which is predominantly male.
After Roe was overturned, the Suquamish Tribe in Washington state was the only one to speak out publicly, issuing a statement saying, “Our bodily integrity and our right to make decisions over whether or when we bear children are foundational to human dignity.”
“We’ve always known that the community is really the only thing that is protecting us, and that we’ll find a way,” Adams said. “We’ll find ways to make sure that we get the health care that we need.”
‘Safe and sacred’
One of those ways is a return to traditional practices.
Melissa Rose lives in Santa Fe. She’s been a midwife for 10 years, but with the end of Roe v. Wade, she has seen her role in reproductive justice change.
Melissa Rose, a midwife based in Santa Fe, N.M., has been learning about traditional plants and herbs Indigenous women use to regulate menstrual cycles and manage abortions. (Photo by Albi Arhó)
Now, self-managed abortion is also part of her practice. Between restrictive state laws and the availability of the abortion pill and traditional herbs used for centuries to end pregnancies, people are choosing home abortions just as they would choose a home birth, she said.
“In our communities, traditionally, we would just do that at home – in a safe and sacred way,” she said. “And so that’s not different now.”
Abortion has always been a natural part of pregnancy in Native culture, where women are viewed as sacred and, before colonization, had sovereignty over their bodies.
“Self-managed abortion is traditional,” said Rose, who is Akwesasne Mohawk and from the tribe’s territory in northern New York and Canada. “The first abortion that ever happened on the Earth was self-managed. We knew what plants to take, and we would stay home.
“We’ve only been a handful of generations separated from this being the norm. … And in some families, this knowledge has been really carefully protected and passed down and, luckily, we have all of that still.”
In Indigenous culture, unlike the western debate, there is no conflict between managing a pregnancy or ending one, she said.
“From a provider standpoint, the treatments are exactly the same for a miscarriage or an abortion,” Rose said. “And midwives have always helped people with those pregnancy transitions.”
Native people sometimes choose to have ceremonies to honor the loss and bring closure by burying the tissue. But in states with strict bans, burying remains could bring criminal charges.
North Dakota has some of the country’s strictest abortion laws. Red River Women’s Clinic used to provide abortions in Fargo but last year moved to Moorhead, Minnesota, where abortion is still legal.
Clinic Director Tammi Kromenaker said her patients include Native Americans from North Dakota, South Dakota and Minnesota who often learn about the clinic by word of mouth.
This year an Indigenous woman asked if she could take home the tissue from her abortion because she wanted it blessed by a medicine man. In Minnesota, working with a funeral home, she could.
“In North Dakota, we couldn’t have done that,” Kromenaker said. “It was just so nice to be able to accommodate that request … to honor somebody’s cultural wish.”
