By JOSIAH FELD JESESIṈSET, W̱SÁNEĆ SENĆOŦEN, Pyramid Lake NUMU, STOLCEL

On the Fourth of July, we stood on STOLCEL — our ancestral homeland, not “San Juan Island” — watching planes roar overhead, engines splitting the morning sky to open America’s celebration. Moments later, rifles cracked the air, gunshots echoing across unceded land. Children rushed forward with fierce pride, collecting spent shells like treasures, taught early that violence is woven into this nation’s idea of freedom.

Then came the McLaren, low and polished, gliding down the parade route like a shiny monument to wealth. Its purr rolled over the same earth where our families reef-netted salmon for thousands of years. The car wasn’t just a display; it was a statement of who this place now serves — and who it erases.

Soon after, summer camp boys appeared, yelling “Pig War!” with unearned confidence, turning an act of colonial aggression into a chant. The “Pig War” wasn’t a harmless misunderstanding; it was a pretext for colonial powers to draw a border through our territories, splitting our families and silencing our reef net fisheries. As Elder John Elliott Sr., J, SIṈTEN — traditional Knowledge Keeper of the Tsartlip First Nation and the W̱SÁNEĆ Nation — said:

“They never consulted our family when they created that border.”

We are from that family. Our presence here today is proof we were never consulted, never paid, never removed by agreement — and that we are still here.

Later, the National Park Service float appeared with a person dressed as a pig mascot, dancing and waving. Many in the crowd cheered, but it was a stark reminder of how the history of this place is often simplified or turned into entertainment. Yet the Park Service has a powerful opportunity to share deeper stories — stories of the families and nations who have called these lands home since time immemorial — and we hope to see that commitment to truth grow.

As the parade rolled on, the mayor walked alone, a quiet emblem of a community eager to celebrate but reluctant to face the truth of this place. Patriotic songs blared on an endless loop, flooding the air with noise that left little room for reflection.

The message was unmistakable: planes overhead, rifles fired, luxury flaunted, chants mocking our history, a pig mascot reducing complex truths and almost nowhere a single acknowledgment of the people erased to make these celebrations possible.

This land is unceded. We were never paid to leave. Our families faced violence simply for refusing to disappear. When we insisted on our continued existence, Indigenous lives were taken and stories silenced so parades like this could go on undisturbed.

Yet glimmers of hope broke through: children walking with true pride alongside floats honoring care over conquest, like the Wolf Hollow float and the Preservation Trust’s salmon float. These moments showed what respect could look like when life, not domination, is centered.

This wasn’t a celebration of freedom. It was a ritual of conquest. We are still here. This is STOLCEL. It has always been Indigenous land.

And we invite you to ask yourself:

Who benefits from forgetting our family’s story?

Why is our presence still ignored on the land we have never left?

What would it look like if this place finally recognized the truth of who we are?

Editor’s note: There are accents and language elements in this original piece that our newspaper’s formatting does not support. We want to apologize to Josiah and acknowledge the erasure this kind of formatting issue contributes to.