SHIPROCK, N.M. — The Colorado mine spill that contaminated the San Juan River has done more than hurt Navajo Nation farmers and ranchers. It threatens the tribe’s native way of life.
Dying crops have gone without irrigation for more than a week after tribal officials barred use of the San Juan in fears of contamination. That means a decrease in the yield of corn seeds and pollen — the spiritual base of the Navajo tribal culture.
“The corn is our sacred plant,” said Franklin Miller, who is helping organize the tribe’s response to the Environmental Protection Agency-caused Gold King Mine spill on Aug. 5 near Silverton.
People here say these natural products have become even more precious, sought out and increasingly difficult to find in the upstream disaster’s wake. The tribe fears the impacts of the spill could last for decades, meaning uncertainty for the corn yield and, further, their religion.
The Navajo use corn seeds in everyday prayer but also for a wide variety of ceremonies, including, possibly most importantly, puberty rituals for girls. Traditional tribal dishes, including kneel-down bread, blue corn mush and dried steamed corn, all use the seeds as well.
The tribe has been working hard in recent years to keep its culture and language alive in the face of a changing socio-economic landscape that has drawn many off the reservation. The older generation, which still speaks the Navajo language in everyday conversation and embraces their romantic, ancient way of life, fears the Gold King disaster could mean further departures from the past.
Many farmers in the Navajo’s agricultural-based communities had already been struggling amid years of drought and the difficulties and costs of modern farming. There are now fears the river disaster could accelerate those problems.
“It’s mostly affecting the elders,” said Alphriam Jones, an emergency response volunteer. “They are the most upset.”
For many Navajo, the river signifies life.
“The river is part of the bigger scheme of things,” said Lenora Tsosie, a community worker.
Roy Etcitty, standing on the banks of the San Juan, said tribesmen once sprinted from sweat lodges along the river’s banks into its cool flow to wash off in catharsis.
Now, he says, he’s not sure if he would put his lips to the current for fears of what’s inside. Even after officials reopen the San Juan, Etcitty says, he will fear the contaminants he can’t see.
“All the water that comes from the mountains is precious to us,” he explained. “Without the river, I don’t know what we would be.”
Jesse Paul: 303-954-1733, jpaul@ or
