Standing Bear Network

Standing Bear Network ᑲᓂᐸᐏᐟ ᒪᐢᑿ
SBN is an Indigenous-led community media and cultural storytelling organization focused on healing, accountability, and relationship.

I want to speak about this quietly — the way we speak about places that still breathe.I spent time at Wounded Knee in 20...
12/22/2025

I want to speak about this quietly — the way we speak about places that still breathe.

I spent time at Wounded Knee in 2017. Not as a visitor checking a box, not as someone chasing history, but as a human being standing on ground that has never stopped remembering.

You don’t arrive there and feel finished.
You arrive and feel interrupted.

The land does not tell the story the way textbooks do. It doesn’t explain itself. It holds its breath. The wind moves differently. The silence has weight. You feel watched — not in fear, but in responsibility.

At Wounded Knee, you understand something very clearly:
this was never just an “event.”
It was a wound that stayed open because the world kept stepping over it.

So when I read that the President signed the Wounded Knee Massacre Memorial and Sacred Site Act into law on December 19, 2025, my first reaction was not celebration. It was stillness.

Because protection, when it comes this late, is not about triumph.
It’s about finally stopping the bleeding.

Placing that land into restricted fee status under the care of the Oglala Sioux Tribe and the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe matters — not symbolically, but materially. It means the land cannot be sold off quietly. It means it cannot be taxed, carved up, or repurposed by people who don’t carry its memory. It means jurisdiction returns to those whose ancestors were left in the snow.

The land sits within the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, but more importantly, it sits within Lakota time — not federal time, not market time, not political time. Ceremony time.

I remember standing there in 2017, realizing that Wounded Knee is not only about death. It is about restraint. About what happens when the world refuses to listen and chooses force instead. About how easily governments call violence “order” and grief “history.”

This law does one important thing:
it stops pretending the land is neutral.

By designating it strictly as a memorial and sacred site — with no gaming, no development, no extraction — it acknowledges something Indigenous peoples have said all along: some places are not resources. They are responsibilities.

This doesn’t erase the massacre.
It doesn’t settle the debt.
It doesn’t heal the wound on its own.

But it does something necessary.

It says: this ground will no longer be argued over as property.
It says: the dead will not be negotiated again.

And for a place like Wounded Knee, that matters.

Because memory needs boundaries.
And respect sometimes looks like finally stepping back and letting the land be held by those who have always known how to listen to it.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
Standing Bear Network





The winter solstice is not a celebration of light arriving early.It is an honoring of the longest night.Our people under...
12/22/2025

The winter solstice is not a celebration of light arriving early.
It is an honoring of the longest night.

Our people understood this deeply.

This is the moment when the world grows quiet enough to hear itself breathing. The trees stand still. The animals conserve their steps. The rivers slow under ice, not because they are dying—but because they are remembering how to endure.

The solstice teaches patience.

Nothing is being rushed back into bloom. There is no demand for growth yet. The earth is saying: rest with me. Sit in the dark without panic. Trust that the turning will come.

In our ways, darkness is not failure.
Darkness is the womb.

This is where prayers are formed before they have words. Where grief is allowed to sit beside the fire without explanation. Where ancestors feel closer, because the noise of the world has finally softened.

We do not conquer this night.
We keep watch through it.

A small flame. A steady breath. A promise made quietly to ourselves that we will remain present—no matter how long the cold lasts.

And then, almost imperceptibly, the light begins its return. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to remind us that balance is always moving, even when it feels still.

Kîsikâw pîsim—
the day the sun turns back toward us.

Until then, we listen.
We rest.
We remember who we are when there is nothing left to perform.

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives.

—Kanipawit Maskwa





12/21/2025

Christmas is coming.

For those who are carrying more than they can name—
you are not alone.

12/19/2025

Listening more than speaking.

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives.Some days the medicine is quiet.We still show up.Ekwa. 🤍
12/15/2025

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives.

Some days the medicine is quiet.
We still show up.

Ekwa. 🤍

12/14/2025

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives.

This page carries many medicines.

You will find prayer here, and you will find laughter.
You will find grief, and you will find warmth.
You will find hard truths spoken plainly, and you will find gentleness where it is needed.

We speak about the world as it is — not to inflame it, and not to turn away — but to remain in relationship with it. To remember that accountability and compassion are not opposites, and that healing does not require silence.

Some days this space will feel like a quiet fire.
Other days it will feel like wind moving through the trees.

If you arrive here open, honest, and willing to sit with complexity, the medicine will meet you where you are.

There is nothing to perform here.
Only a remembering of who we are to one another.

Ekosi.
You are welcome among us.

Kisâkihitinawâw mâna, êkwa miyo-pimâtisiwin kî-pimipahtâw ôma.

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives…I want to speak about what happened at Bondi Beach in a good way — not from panic, not from s...
12/14/2025

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives…

I want to speak about what happened at Bondi Beach in a good way — not from panic, not from spectacle, and not from the hunger of headlines — but from the place where grief, responsibility, and clarity meet.

A place meant for laughter, movement, and the steady breathing of the ocean became a place of fear. Innocent people were harmed. Families were altered forever in moments that can never be undone. No explanation, no label, no political argument will ever make that loss acceptable.

When violence shows itself like this, many rush to find something easy to blame. A group. An idea. A single story that lets us feel safe by pretending we understand it fully. But our old teachings warn us about this. When we rush past grief, we miss the lesson.

Violence does not begin with the weapon.
It begins with disconnection.
With unattended wounds.
With systems that abandon people long before harm ever reaches the surface.

That truth does not excuse what was done — not ever. Accountability matters. Protecting life matters. But if our only response is fear and punishment, we guarantee the cycle will repeat.

And yet… even in the middle of that chaos, something else rose.

In the midst of screaming, running, and confusion, one man stepped forward. Not because he was trained for it. Not because he wanted recognition. But because responsibility spoke louder than fear.

Ahmed Al Ahmed.

We are told he tackled one of the shooters and took the weapon away. In doing so, he was shot twice — in the shoulder and the hand — and is now in hospital. His family says he should be okay. They also spoke words that need no embellishment:

“He’s a hero.”

In our ways, heroism is not a title — it is an action.
It is fear being present, and responsibility moving anyway.
It is someone placing their body between harm and the people.

Ahmed’s courage does not erase the tragedy of that day, but it interrupts it. It reminds us that even when systems fracture community, the human spirit still remembers how to protect life. That memory lives deeper than thought. It moves the body before the mind has time to argue.

We hold prayer for Ahmed’s healing — not only for his physical wounds, but for the weight such moments leave behind. Acts like this change a person. May he be surrounded by care, gentleness, and time.

We also hold the victims, their families, and the witnesses who will carry this memory long after the cameras turn away. May their names be spoken with respect. May their lives be remembered for more than the moment violence entered them.

Bondi Beach shows us something uncomfortable and something hopeful at the same time: modern society is very good at producing isolation, and very poor at catching people before they fall through the cracks — and yet, even here, courage still emerges.

This is not a call to harden.
It is a call to return.

To community.
To listening.
To building systems that value human life before it reaches a breaking point.

Bondi Beach gave us grief.
It also gave us a reminder of who we can be.

Ekosi.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
Standing Bear Network

Relatives, I want to speak to this carefully and in a good way.There has been a tragic and frightening situation unfoldi...
12/14/2025

Relatives, I want to speak to this carefully and in a good way.

There has been a tragic and frightening situation unfolding today at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Authorities have reported an active shooter on campus near the engineering buildings. At this time, at least two lives have been lost, and several others are injured and receiving care. Police are still searching for the person responsible, and a shelter-in-place order remains in effect.

I want to pause here — because moments like this are heavy.
They shake people.
They awaken fear in students, families, and communities far beyond that campus.

If you have loved ones anywhere near Brown, please check in with them gently. If you are nearby, follow instructions from local authorities and prioritize safety.

What matters most right now is life — the lives already lost, the lives hanging in balance, and the lives of those hiding, waiting, trying to steady their breathing.

I do not want to speculate.
I do not want to sensationalize.
I do not want to spread unverified details.

What I do want is to hold space.

In our teachings, when harm enters the circle, we slow down. We lower our voices. We remember that behind every headline are parents, siblings, classmates, and friends whose world has just been torn open.

If you are feeling unsettled, that is normal.
If this brings up old trauma, that is real.
If you are angry, confused, or numb — all of that belongs.

Tonight, hold your people close.
Say their names.
Check on your children.
Breathe.

And if you pray, pray not for vengeance, but for protection, clarity, and healing — for those injured, for those hiding, and even for the systems that continue to fail our young people.

I will share updates only when they are confirmed and necessary. Until then, let us move with care, truth, and compassion.

Kisâkihitinawâw.
I love you all.

—Kanipawit Maskwa





That morning, Waffles didn’t hurry.He found a quiet patch of grass, turned his back to the noise of the world, and did w...
12/13/2025

That morning, Waffles didn’t hurry.

He found a quiet patch of grass, turned his back to the noise of the world, and did what all good relatives eventually learn to do — he let go.

No shame.
No apology.
No explanation.

Just trust.

In our teachings, êkwa means “and then” — the moment after a choice is made.
The pause between holding and releasing.
The breath where we stop carrying what was never ours to begin with.

Waffles doesn’t overthink these things.
He doesn’t negotiate with discomfort.
He doesn’t carry yesterday into today.

He listens to his body.
He honors the moment.
And then… he moves on lighter than before.

There is medicine in that.

Sometimes healing isn’t loud or dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like knowing when to set something down — an old story, a burden, an expectation — and trusting the land to take care of the rest.

Êkwa.
Sometimes you just have to release what no longer serves you.

— Kanipawit Maskwa
(according to Waffles 🐾)








❄️

12/11/2025

When the smoke rises, it carries more than scent —
it carries the parts of us that are ready to be released.

êkwa… may this evening bring you softness, peace, and good relations.
— Kanipawit Maskwa







Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives…I want to speak to this in a good way — not to fight, not to shame, but to bring clarity wher...
12/10/2025

Kisâkihitinawâw, relatives…
I want to speak to this in a good way — not to fight, not to shame, but to bring clarity where the world prefers noise.

I see many strong words being shared about “pretendians.”
Some of it is true.
Some of it is medicine.
And some of it… carries a sharpness that can wound the very people we are trying to protect.

In our old laws — wâhkôhtowin, miyo-wîcêhtowin — identity was never proven through aggression, nor through public spectacle.
Identity was lived.
It was relational.
It was known through the footsteps a person left on the land, and the way their relatives spoke their name.

Asking someone, “Who are your people?” is our governance.
We have always done that.

But the moment we begin speaking from anger, from ego, or from performance, we stop protecting the circle and start feeding the very colonial wounds we say we are fighting.

I have lived long enough to see many kinds of voices rise — some loud, some soft, some carrying truth, some carrying pain disguised as authority.

Relatives…
Be careful when someone builds their platform on calling people out, on shaming, on stirring fires they never learned to tend in ceremony.
That is its own kind of identity politics — one that can hurt as deeply as the harm it claims to expose.

We must hold two truths at the same time:

1. Yes — Pretendians cause real harm.

They take resources, positions, trust, and space meant for our people.
Communities have the right — and the responsibility — to verify who belongs.

But also:

2. We must not become colonial in how we protect ourselves.

If our defense becomes dehumanization, humiliation, or cruelty, then we are walking the same road we warn others about.

Our ancestors taught us to be firm…
but they never taught us to be vicious.
They taught us to protect the lodge…
not to turn it into an arena.

Identity is sacred.
Identity is relational.
Identity is lived.

If someone is a fraud, communities will know.
They always have.
Our aunties, our Elders, our Nations — we have been vetting people long before Facebook, long before hashtags.

We don’t need to imitate the colonial courts of public opinion.
We have our own systems.
We have our own ways.

And I will say this gently:

When someone speaks with such aggression, such contempt, such eagerness to tear down — whether they are Indigenous, famous, or unknown — we must discern whether their words come from spirit or from ego.

Because true Indigenous leadership, real Nationhood, does not need to degrade anyone to protect itself.
It stands on truth, not hostility.
It stands on kinship, not spectacle.

êkwa — that is all I will say.
May we speak with the sharpness of clarity,
but also with the softness of responsibility.
May we walk the line between truth and compassion,
holding both like two sacred medicines in one hand.

That is the old way.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
ᑲᓂᐸᐏᐟ ᒪᐢᑿ


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