Van Wattlüü un Indioners

When foreign cultures touch the heart

I had closed the photo album, but my thoughts were now drifting between the past and the questions that had arisen in the present. Why does my "playing Indian" stay with me to this day, and why is it linked to such wonderful memories? As the carousel of questions in my mind began to spin ever faster, I walked into the living room and weighed the anchor of my little research vessel.

"Cast off!"

My fingers slowly moved across the keyboard of my laptop. The first letters appeared in the search engine bar. As if I were on the verge of a great adventure, my gaze followed how the individual letters came together digitally. There it was, the word “Indians” and as my index finger hovered over the enter key, I felt a kind of slight excitement. Then my finger swooped down and my research vessel took off. It left the harbor of ignorance and embarked on its first journey into the world of the people we call “Indians”. As big and wide as the ocean extends, filled with the elixir of life, water, this sea of information was now in front of me. I had neither a compass nor a nautical chart and so I steered my little ship helplessly through the raging, virtual sea.

I spent the next few weeks enriching my thoughts with new insights. I filled my small library with knowledge of indigenous symbolism, spiritual paths and historical background. Here people had compiled what was known from the indigenous nations and seemed worth knowing. Cultural issues were discussed in forums and what had been learned could be exchanged in stimulating conversations. The touch of the wild West romance that resonated in some areas also solidified the image I already had within me.
Again I asked myself whether this image really corresponded to reality and where are the voices of the Native Americans?

So I navigated my little research ship deeper into this new world, looking for the voices that are rooted in these cultures. I discovered a video and the title already stated that it was about indigenous people who spend their lives on a reservation. So I pressed play and images of a vast country appeared to me, over which winter had just settled. The cold that had settled over the barren land could literally be felt. However, the images that then reached me left me speechless. “I didn’t know that!” and this sentence hammered itself into my heart.

I also thought for a long time whether I would post this video here, but because it was not published directly by this nation, I decided not to do so at this point.
So I try to find words that do justice to this poverty and the pain of these people, but they don't exist!
And so I ask:

What would happen to me if my homeland was taken away from me, and with them already my ancestors were connected?
What would happen to me if someone tried to take away my cultural connections?
What would happen to me if I was told I was no longer allowed to speak my native language?
What would happen to me if I looked into my child's eyes and I can´t give answers because I don't understand it myself?
What would happen to me if I was no longer allowed to be who I am?

The last sentence created a strange silence in me. My gaze turns almost thoughtlessly to the sky. This morning the clouds are moving like a viscous mass across the roof of the world. It has settled like fog over the otherwise endless view and even the sun has difficulty sending its rays to the earth. Her beauty can be seen milkily behind the gray sea. What remains is a bright spot and the light only peeks out in a few places. But at this point in the universe, where her place has existed since the beginning of time, it cannot be pushed away. She is here! Even if her strength seems to be tamed, or the gray wants to push itself completely between heaven and earth, she is here!

With this certainty, my attention returns back, back to my usual living space.It takes on the image of the small teapot, with the delicate, floral pattern, the blue of which is reflected on the white porcelain. The light that would otherwise provide the tea with the necessary heat has extinguished. A song returns to me that accompanied the post I saw. Saved on my phone, it sounds again, gently breaking the silence around me. Words from a language whose meaning is foreign to me reach my heart and soul once again. This song travels through the silence and it is like the sun at this morning. They are here!

And so, I once again weigh the anchor that had held me fast in my safe harbor. I steer my ship toward a new journey, accompanied now by a melody unknown to me! I set out to discover the true voices of Native Americans!
Just a few days later, I came across a flyer that felt like an answer to my quest. The words on it made my heart leap instantly: "Native American Weeks" were to be held at Pullman City—a Western-themed town right in my neighborhood. Native Americans were inviting everyone to a traditional powwow to share their vibrant culture with us. Suddenly, the adventure was no longer confined to the digital realm behind a screen. Now, I had the opportunity—together with my granddaughter—not only to seek out those true voices but to hear, feel, and experience them live. With the images in our hearts and a backpack full of questions, we set off into the world of the Wild West.

My first Powwow visit

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