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He relayed stories that showed it, and he had faith that Americans everywhere, having heard these stories, would do the right thing.

Oakes, in immense grief, left the island. Marshals might raid the island at any time. But Trudell did not falter.

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His was a voice of constancy, offering a lighthouse for a movement troubled at sea. Tragedy was not new to Trudell. It was a foundational part of his family history. A few years later, the couple had a daughter, who, after moving to Nebraska, fell in love with a Santee Sioux native, Clifford Trudell. The couple married and had John, born in a hospital close to the reservation in Omaha, on February 15, John grew up on and around the Santee reservation in North Dakota. Life felt wholesome; the reservation offered respite from the civil commotion and disarray that characterized U.

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She hugged me; she kissed me. And then it was time to go.

In the early s, John enrolled in school off the reservation, where he confronted a Western culture indifferent to his spiritual understandings and offering few answers to his enduring questions. But these concepts never resonated with him. How could he trust a religion that was upheld by a culture that was threatening the lives of his tribe and Native American people everywhere?

He longed to escape a school that seemed to stifle, not teach. He soon found a way, enlisting in the Navy during the early days of the Vietnam War. He spent his deployment far from the jungle battlefields, bobbing in the waters off of Saigon, watching the stunning kaleidoscopic sunsets and meditating on the fate of his people. I n , the occupation was more than a year old, and the federal government began plotting to end it.

The population on the island plummeted as water became increasingly difficult to access. Meanwhile, factions and power struggles began emerging within the occupiers; some wanted to hire an attorney to represent their claims. Others, including Trudell, believed self-representation was the only honest way forward. When government agents raided Alcatraz on June 11, there were only 15 people remaining on the island. It is unknown whether Trudell was among them, but one thing was clear: Though the occupation was officially finished, Trudell was just getting started.

His next fight would be with the FBI. They had no idea that the even greater danger lay in a deeper kind of power: They married in and often traveled and gave speeches together.

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Meanwhile, Trudell galvanized AIM through protests, most notably the campaign to reclaim Wounded Knee village from tribal chairman Richard Wilson, who was notorious for suppressing political opponents and failing to act in the best interests of the reservation. But this time, he used it not to communicate to outsiders, but rather to organize disparate tribes. It worked. Calvary in , which now had symbolic power. The FBI and federal marshals soon moved in.

Clashes were deadly. In , he was arrested for assault after entering a reservation trading post to obtain food for senior residents. And on February 11, , as part of a protest against the Bureau of Indian Affairs, he burned the U. Edgar Hoover Building. She awoke to the smell of smoke and a pounding on the door. Fire filled the house.

It was too late to run. Tina, who was pregnant with a boy they intended to name Josiah Hawk, perished, as did all three of their young children — Ricardo Starr, Sunshine Karma and Eli Changing Sun.

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From the time that his mother died in to his first days on Alcatraz, Trudell had turned to language — orations, poetry, rhetoric — as an existential stabilizer, a spiritual compass. But this time was different. He had no words, and he was left only with angry suspicions — suspicions that the FBI had caused the fire, suspicions that they were now on the hunt for him.

And if I can get through it, then maybe I would learn how to live again. He disappeared from the national scene and drove, crisscrossing America, alone in despair. T he voice of a chanting woman rings out.

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Another joins, deeper, complementing the first. A third now, creating a chorus whose song creates an image of the Great Plains of the American West, the mountains of South Dakota at first orange light. Their voices carry pain but build toward hope. Produced by Jackson Browne and entitled Tribal Voice , it was the product of years of grieving, mourning, and, eventually, finding the words for his pain, for his hope.

He wrote much of it while on the road in the early s, a cigarette between his fingers, a cup of coffee by his side, and a journal on his lap, during a period when he made very few public appearances. The lyrics on Tribal Voice reflect that nomadic lifestyle — dynamic, alive, quaking with power — and they at once inspire us to move our bodies, while also attuning us to the earth, to our connection with the earth.

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Few heard the album at the time of its release, but those who did — including Bob Dylan — praised it for its brilliance, and for its urgency about raising American political consciousness. But the years of tragedy in the s, including the death of his wife and children, remained deeply with him, and he would never return to the central activist role he once held — perhaps one of the reasons that, of all of the activists of the late 20th century, he is one of the least known to us today.

Connected to life and all living. If there was anything that was eternally human, Trudell believed it was our infinite web of connections. Despite the wars, violence and oppression he witnessed in America, it was his narrative. He stuck to it. On December 8, , Trudell posted a final message on his Facebook page. Celebrate Love. Celebrate Life. Death, for Trudell, was not the end. It was nothing more and nothing less than a ride … a journey back to his origins — the collective human origins he forever encouraged us to remember — of Mother Earth. His voice, one hopes, will continue to drift in swells across the San Francisco Bay, spreading throughout the nation, where it deserves, as urgently today as ever, our embrace.

She was imprisoned for murdering her husband, then escaped and assumed a new identity. Her adoring friends and employers had no idea. M ore than 12 years after Jannie Duncan walked off the grounds of a mental hospital and into a new identity, Debbie Carliner opened a newspaper and got the shock of her life. She was lying in bed in her home in Washington, D.

It was January 5, Her husband looked over, confused. Carliner showed him the layout, which included five snapshots of a middle-aged black woman looking radiant in various settings. There she was smiling, surrounded by friends in one image, resplendent in a wedding gown in the next. The woman was Joan Davis, 54, a kindly and beloved former family employee. In the s, when Debbie Carliner was a teenager and her mother decided to go back to work, her parents had hired Joan to make the beds and help with the cleaning.

Joan was an excellent worker, and she was warm and unfailingly trustworthy — so much so that when they left on family trips, the Carliners asked her to watch after their home in Chevy Chase, Maryland. All of which made reading the story that much more bewildering. And that was hardly the only revelation: In , Jannie had been arrested for the murder of her husband, Orell Duncan, whose savagely beaten naked body had been buried in a shallow grave near Richmond, Virginia, the story said.

She stood trial, was found guilty of murder, and sentenced to 15 years to life in prison.