Cadiz project would drain our lifeblood from the desert
Guest commentary
By Jay Cravath
San Bernardino County Sun
Newspapers recently reported that Congressman Paul Cook, representing the northern Mojave Desert, called for a federal review of the Cadiz Water Project. The proposal to take groundwater from an aquifer that includes the Mojave National Preserve prompted his action. Numerous environmental groups, including the National Parks Conservation Association, the Great Basin Water District, farmers and ranchers, all have been vocal in their stringent opposition. The San Bernardino County Board of Supervisors’ approval of the project last October ignited a fire storm.
Yet with all the opposition and vitriol — articles, editorials and lawsuits — the interests of an important constituency are missing. Certainly the project will draw more water than the aquifer can replace; it will pose a threat to the ranchers, rural communities and East Mojave landowners; and yes, it will do long-term harm to the springs of the precious Mojave National Preserve. However, concern for this sweeping landscape’s first citizens is conspicuously missing.
We, the Chemehuevi, along with our neighboring tribes, have traveled Mojave’s trails for a thousand years. For us, the New York Mountains are akin to the Hebrews’ Mount of Olives; the forests of the Ship Mountains, our Cedars of Lebanon. Nuwü, The People, consider those springs as important for reasons other than physical survival. Anthropologist Catherine Fowler describes our springs and streams as “highly symbolic sacred places, part of a living landscape, a storied land peopled with animals, plants and other beings that brought it life and gave it meaning.” We have stories, sung and told, exalting the names of this lifeblood. These tales celebrate our travels, hunts and gatherings. They were woven into the fabric of our own “Old Testament” and give us our belonging to the place.
The trails that cross and intersect this vast and compelling space are also honored through the Salt Songs. These songs are still sung today, and they traverse the landscape, describing symbolic and actual journeys. They are recited in cycles, often of four — a sacred number for us. They guide us on the trails through the geography of their text. Perhaps the lyrics will instruct: “By the three circled peaks with the bloom of mesquite between. Shade and a quiet pond, the tender shoots.”
The Creator, Ocean Woman, “sprinkled particles of her skin upon the sea to create a patch of earth, which she stretched to present size,” reminds Dr. Fowler. What could be a more powerful metaphor for our connection to the land than this from our origin story?
In a recent keynote address to the National Clean Energy Summit, Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell touted the Desert Renewable Energy Conservation Plan (DRECP) as a long-term approach to planning for public spaces, yet giving stronger voice to the land and new sensitivity to its original stewards. “Landscape-level conservation objectives” are said to embrace a comprehensive approach that considers the overall health, sustainability and even aesthetics of the landscape. But this is not the case. Instead, the DRECP offers a method to commercialize discrete bits of real estate to private contractors and owners. Dividing our sacred lands into pieces is nothing new to us. Alongside conservation groups, we call for a more far-reaching vision of this earth and water.
Since ancient times, we have seen the land as connected, not to be divided into disparate chunks. Whether the Interior Department’s commitment to a paradigm shift is real or a semantic glitch remains to be seen in the implementation.
On Cadiz, however, we stand firm in rejecting the greed and narcissism of those who would put their corporate bottom line above the rest of us. As this process moves forward, any decision must also weigh the sacred nature of these lands to the Chemehuevi and our fellow nations.
Jay Cravath is cultural director of the Chemehuevi Tribe.
By Jay Cravath
San Bernardino County Sun
Newspapers recently reported that Congressman Paul Cook, representing the northern Mojave Desert, called for a federal review of the Cadiz Water Project. The proposal to take groundwater from an aquifer that includes the Mojave National Preserve prompted his action. Numerous environmental groups, including the National Parks Conservation Association, the Great Basin Water District, farmers and ranchers, all have been vocal in their stringent opposition. The San Bernardino County Board of Supervisors’ approval of the project last October ignited a fire storm.
Yet with all the opposition and vitriol — articles, editorials and lawsuits — the interests of an important constituency are missing. Certainly the project will draw more water than the aquifer can replace; it will pose a threat to the ranchers, rural communities and East Mojave landowners; and yes, it will do long-term harm to the springs of the precious Mojave National Preserve. However, concern for this sweeping landscape’s first citizens is conspicuously missing.
We, the Chemehuevi, along with our neighboring tribes, have traveled Mojave’s trails for a thousand years. For us, the New York Mountains are akin to the Hebrews’ Mount of Olives; the forests of the Ship Mountains, our Cedars of Lebanon. Nuwü, The People, consider those springs as important for reasons other than physical survival. Anthropologist Catherine Fowler describes our springs and streams as “highly symbolic sacred places, part of a living landscape, a storied land peopled with animals, plants and other beings that brought it life and gave it meaning.” We have stories, sung and told, exalting the names of this lifeblood. These tales celebrate our travels, hunts and gatherings. They were woven into the fabric of our own “Old Testament” and give us our belonging to the place.
The trails that cross and intersect this vast and compelling space are also honored through the Salt Songs. These songs are still sung today, and they traverse the landscape, describing symbolic and actual journeys. They are recited in cycles, often of four — a sacred number for us. They guide us on the trails through the geography of their text. Perhaps the lyrics will instruct: “By the three circled peaks with the bloom of mesquite between. Shade and a quiet pond, the tender shoots.”
The Creator, Ocean Woman, “sprinkled particles of her skin upon the sea to create a patch of earth, which she stretched to present size,” reminds Dr. Fowler. What could be a more powerful metaphor for our connection to the land than this from our origin story?
In a recent keynote address to the National Clean Energy Summit, Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell touted the Desert Renewable Energy Conservation Plan (DRECP) as a long-term approach to planning for public spaces, yet giving stronger voice to the land and new sensitivity to its original stewards. “Landscape-level conservation objectives” are said to embrace a comprehensive approach that considers the overall health, sustainability and even aesthetics of the landscape. But this is not the case. Instead, the DRECP offers a method to commercialize discrete bits of real estate to private contractors and owners. Dividing our sacred lands into pieces is nothing new to us. Alongside conservation groups, we call for a more far-reaching vision of this earth and water.
Since ancient times, we have seen the land as connected, not to be divided into disparate chunks. Whether the Interior Department’s commitment to a paradigm shift is real or a semantic glitch remains to be seen in the implementation.
On Cadiz, however, we stand firm in rejecting the greed and narcissism of those who would put their corporate bottom line above the rest of us. As this process moves forward, any decision must also weigh the sacred nature of these lands to the Chemehuevi and our fellow nations.
Jay Cravath is cultural director of the Chemehuevi Tribe.
