HISTORY & CULTURE

Honoring the sacred places they were forced to leave behind

After the U.S. seized their lands more than 150 years ago, the Diné (Navajo) people embarked on the Long Walk—a 300-mile trek to exile. Photographer Dakota Mace shares their stories.

In 1864, the U.S. government exiled the Diné (Navajo) people from their land and forced them on a 300-mile trek to an internment camp in New Mexico. Photographer Dakota Mace preserves the memories of her ancestors with these small-scale prints of sacred locations along the trail.

Photographs byDakota Mace

Text byAmy McKeever

July 18, 2023

9 min read

This is one of eight stories from The Past Is Present project, a collaboration between National Geographic and For Freedoms.

It happened more than 150 years ago. But the memory of the Long Walk—the forced exile of the Diné (Navajo) people—still lingers on the landscape of the American Southwest.

Beginning in 1864, more than 8,500 men, women, and children took the arduous wintertime trek across more than 300 miles from their lands in northeastern Arizona and northwestern New Mexico to an internment camp in eastern New Mexico. Some 200 people died along the way, from starvation, exposure, and violence at the hands of the U.S. military personnel who had evicted them from their homelands.

Those who survived endured miserable conditions at the Bosque Redondo Reservation, where they were ravaged by disease, hunger, and cold, and prohibited from singing or praying in their native language.

The Long Walk may be part of our past—but “it is still with us, and we must remember what happened,” writes Diné photographer Dakota Mace in a presentation of this photo essay. “This moment in our history defined a new era of sovereignty, one of resilience and survival, and reminds us of the struggles for the rights of our land, natural resources, and freedom.”

Seldom mentioned in U.S. history books, few stories of the Long Walk remain, passed down through Diné elders. Through the lens of her camera, Mace seeks to take back the memories of her ancestors and explore the narratives of this sacred land.

The final stop on the Long Walk was Bosque Redondo, an internment camp at Fort Sumner, known to the Diné as Hwéeldi. Here, Mace juxtaposes an image from Hwéeldi with a cyanotype made on the same sacred grounds.

This traditional photographic printing process produces a greenish-blue photocopy of natural objects like flowers and leaves pressed onto paper that's been brushed with a solution of iron salt then exposed to the sun’s UV rays.

“I allow the landscape to create the photograph, letting the earth and its materials create abstract forms of the memories that it holds,” she writes. “Each cyanotype is made to remember my ancestors, who went unnamed or unrecognized, and their identity embedded within the land itself.”

Mace asked each person she interviewed to select a memory, object, or landscape that has become a place of healing—a sacred place. Mace’s great uncle Chester Otero chose as his sacred memory this photograph—the only one he has of his mother. Within the Diné culture, Mace explains, identity and kinship are passed down through Diné women. “They are the center of the family; they are the keepers of our ancestral teachings,” she writes.

Joe Mace, a Diné elder from Ojo Encino, New Mexico, is Dakota Mace’s grandfather and the main Diné translator for her project. This is the only photograph that remains of Joe as a young man, taken in front of Fort Wingate, the residential boarding school he attended for four years—and the starting point of the Long Walk to Bosque Redondo.

“This piece represents my grandfather's childhood, one of hardship and continued survival,” Mace writes. The spoon on the right is a remnant of his childhood home, which today is controlled by the Bureau of Land Management.

Like many Native Americans, Joe Mace served in the U.S. Army, and is pictured here while stationed at Fort Polk, Louisiana, in 1972.

The U.S. flag flies at Fort Sumner. Today, the fort is a tourist destination, though it remains a place of deep sorrow for the Diné. Its exhibits tell the story of how the U.S. Army used scorched-earth policies to forcibly remove the Diné people from their homelands. The oppression her ancestors faced during their internment “forever changed the way we would live and reshaped our culture,” Mace writes.

Elsa Otero was born in 1948 in Torreon, New Mexico. This photograph of Otero at a residential boarding school is a scan of a scan with her name written on it with a ballpoint pen. The quality of the image contradicts how precious it is—the only photo she has of herself as a child.

In the background are cyanotypes created near Otero’s home, where details, like those in her photo, have been layered and obscured. The deterioration of this piece represents the U.S. government's repeated attempts to eliminate Diné ways of life through residential boarding schools, Christian missionaries, and forced assimilation.

Herbert Lewis was born in 1935—but a lack of record-keeping means he can only trace his birthplace to McKinley County, New Mexico. As a result, the U.S. government treated Lewis as if he was an immigrant on his ancestral land for much of his life.

As his sacred object, Lewis chose the story of his early life—writing in English, with the hopes that his children, who don’t speak Navajo, could read it. He recalls a hard childhood, herding sheep for his paternal grandmother from November to June at a camp in the desert. He often didn't have enough to eat and would either sneak food or take game hunted by the sheepdogs until he finally ran away to his maternal grandfather's home. From there, he was sent to a residential boarding school to learn how to write, read, and understand English. This would benefit him in the future, he was told.

Herbert Lewis and his wife, Ruth, were married for 59 years before her death in 2018. She often looked out the window at this tree in their yard in New Mexico. The cyanotype was made from the nearby earth; the deep red signifies the importance that scarlet dye played for the Diné people—as an ingredient in medicines and protection for travelers.

During the Long Walk, many Diné sought shelter under juniper trees, like the one pictured here, and shared stories—usually prayers offered to lives lost.

Mace took this photograph of her brother, Chionte, who is also pictured in an archival photo as a baby with his father. The siblings lost their father, Mace’s stepfather, earlier this year. Mace says this project has given Chionte an opportunity to learn about his culture and language—and also a chance to heal.

In Diné culture, it’s important to spend time with the land in order to find Hózhó, or balance. Throughout this project, the siblings talked about the generational trauma that stems from toxic masculinity, which itself stems from centuries of colonialism, Mace writes. “For Diné people to heal we need to find a way back to who we are, our beliefs and culture and our beliefs in our Diné women.”

This cyanotype features the wildflowers that grow near the home of Helen Nez, an elder from Blue Gap, Arizona, near the center of Navajo Nation. This is one of the few native plants to survive in the area, which has been mined for uranium since 1944. Each of the flowers represents one of Nez’s children who died from exposure to uranium.

Helen Nez was born in 1938 and is related to Mace by her maternal clan, Redhouse. Much like the wildflowers in the cyanotype, Mace writes, Nez perseveres. With her hands, she carries her children, picks traditional plants, tends to livestock, and practices ceremonies. “You can see her history etched within her hands and her silver jewelry—a true matriarch preserving her culture and homeland, and protecting her family.”

Louise Badoni sits in her yard, where she is often surrounded by her children and grandchildren, who listen to her stories about the creation of their people, the importance of family, and the continuation of their traditions. “For Louise, it is a special time because very few Navajo children gather this way anymore,” Mace writes.

Born in 1943 in Blue Gap, Arizona, Badoni and Mace are also related through the Redhouse clan. The cyanotypes surrounding the photograph were created near her home, with the wind shaping the abstracted images. “For us, the land is our record keeper, giving us the knowledge and strength to carry on our traditions. If you listen carefully, you can hear the stories of our ancestors being carried across the land,” Mace writes.

A selection of plants and flowers from the route of the Long Walk represent the unrecorded stories of Diné ancestors. Many elders chose not to share their memories with Mace, believing that they could create further harm.

Despite cultural taboos, Mace argues there is a need to carry forward these stories of resilience. “Through the camera, traditionally seen as an oppressive weapon, I challenge the documentation of Indigenous people by decolonizing the violent visual history of colonialism,” she writes. “Through my photography, I provide the opportunity to heal and allow the land and its natural materials to tell our stories."

Dakota Mace is member of the Diné (Navajo) people working as an interdisciplinary artist who focuses on translating the language of Diné history and beliefs. Her work draws from the history of her Diné heritage, exploring the themes of family lineage, community, and identity. In addition, her work pushes the viewer's understanding of Diné culture through alternative photography techniques, weaving, beadwork, and papermaking. Follow her on Instagram @dmaceart.

This is one of eight stories from The Past Is Present project, a collaboration between National Geographic and For Freedoms.