|
|
THE OFFICIAL WEB SITE OF THE MADISON TIMES WEEKLY NEWSPAPER |
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
931 E. Main St., Suite 7, Madison, Wisconsin 53703 Phone: (608) 256-2122; (608) 256-2185; Fax: (608) 256-2215; E-mail: news@madtimes.com (Editorial) ; sales@madtimes.com (Advertising) |
||
|
|
December 3-9, 2004 • Vol. 13 No. 48• www.madtimes.com • Free |
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Diwali: Hindus’ festival of lights From American Hindu Association
For the most part, that's what it's like every autumn in the Hindu American community when it comes time to celebrate Diwali. Observed in October or November (it falls on the 15th day of the dark fortnight of the Hindu month of Kartik, or the last day of the last month in the lunar calendar), Diwali is the Hindu festival of lights. It's the most significant religious holiday in the Indian American community. This year, it was celebrated Nov. 23. "Some people might say that every day is a festival of some sort in India," says Mihir Meghani, a Fremont, Calif.,-based physician who is also president of the year-old Hindu American Foundation. "But Diwali is definitely the main holiday." As the festival of lights, Diwali is traditionally celebrated these days by gathering for a feast, wearing new clothing, setting off fireworks, and either lighting candles or stringing up lights. It's New Year's Eve, basically, the time to wish others a happy new year. And while Diwali passes mostly unnoticed on these shores, that's not the case in other communities that have large Hindu populations. In Trinidad, Guyana, Nepal, Malaysia, Singapore, the island of Bali, the United Kingdom, and more, Diwali is, for lack of a better word, huge. "Christmas, Hannukah, Yom Kippur, [and] even Kwanzaa [are] now nationally recognized," says Neha Shah, 30, who just moved to Coral Springs, Fla., from Cupertino, Calif. "Diwali is a holiday that's so central and important; but, really, very little is known about it outside our community." "It's very important to us that Diwali be recognized," says Meghani, 32. "It's important not that everyone follow it or celebrate it, but that they understand it. We're a mild community. We're not asking for time off work ... just that people know about Diwali, instead of only finding out about it from a random story in the newspaper." As is the case with most historically rich cultures, Diwali's roots run deep in the Indian Hindu community. Diwali, a variation of the Sanskrit word Deepavali, refers to the rows of earthen lamps that celebrants place around their homes. Hindus believe that the light from the lamps represents the dispelling of ignorance and the illumination of truth. While that's the significance of Diwali to Hindus, the day is also important to Sikhs and Jains. The ultimate hope is that Americans become more aware of how Diwali is celebrated: That Diwali is when women wear colorful saris and men wear either a traditional kurta or a dhoti, that Diwali is when homes are awash in candlelight or when wealthy homes are lit up by neon, as they are in India, that Diwali is when sweets are exchanged and fireworks ignited. Perhaps, in time, the rest of the country will be similarly illuminated. "A country like U.K. [United Kingdom] seems to be five or 10 years ahead of us. The House of Commons has a big celebration of Diwali," says Meghani. "Maybe we'll be there in five or 10 years ourselves." While there were few Hindus of non-Hindu descent 50 years ago, today Hinduism is a global spiritual and religious movement, with 1 to 2 million adherents from nonethnic Indian backgrounds in the United States alone. Furthermore, spiritual and health practices from Hindu heritage, such as vegetarianism, yoga, meditation, and ayurveda have been adopted by those who do not identify themselves as Hindus, strengthening the spirituality of other religions. At its core, Hinduism offers the diverse spiritual experiences of a civilization that is more than 5,000 years old. Within Hinduism, individuals will find a multitude of paths, books, gurus, and philosophies that lead to the same ultimate reality that is common to all of mankind. This reality may be identified as the truth, as a unifying force, or as God (to whom we give various names), depending on how it is perceived.
The Elders Spreak Spearing is the culture by Jonathan Gramling Part 3 of 4
The 1854 treaty that the Ojibwe signed with the federal government ceded most of their territorial land away. But perhaps as a way to preserve a sense of who they were, the Ojibwe made sure that their gathering, fishing, and hunting rights on their territorial lands - on and off the present day reservation - were preserved. For Nick Hockings, the operator of the Waswagonong Indian Village and spearing rights activist, these rights were exceedingly important for they defined who the Ojibwe were. "Waswagoning literally translated means 'The Place Where You Spear Fish at Night,'" Hockings said suring a phone interview with The Madison Times. "Even when the French came and put their name on it 'Lac du Flambeau,' Lake of Torches, it came from my ancestors' spearing. The very act of spear fishing was preservation of the culture." The Ojibwe had to fight to preserve their rights because they had pretty much been ignored by the state of Wisconsin for most of the 20th century. The Ojibwe sued in federal court and eventually won a landmark U.S. Supreme Court ruling in their favor. The ruling called for a transition period by, which all of the involved parties would adjust to the situation. "I was the head of the taskforce of the Flambeau during the period of reconciliation with the state," said Mike Chosa, an Ojibwe elder. "We had won the right to gather from the U.S. Supreme Court in the ceded territories. The state had to get reconciled to that fact. They would say 'You have to do this.' And we would say 'No. We have to go out and exercise our rights. And you have the right to come and watch us.' That's as far as it goes. Things got to pushing and shoving and they went back to Federal District Judge Barbara Crabb's court. And she told them the same thing. 'Those Indians have the right to at least 50 percent of the harvest. And you have to set quotas on all the people, Indians and non-Indians.' When the rights of the Ojibwe were firmly settled legally, relatively little attention was given to the spear fishers when they first went out off the reservation around 1985. Just a few of the Ojibwe went out at first. Others looked on with a wait and see attitude. "After that first year, the Dept. of Natural Resources game wardens and people who didn't really know much about spearing, their whole impression of Indians spearing at night changed dramatically," Hockings said. "At first, it was a novelty. They thought 'They'll go out there and they'll try and spear a few fish.' They couldn't comprehend how it was done. So, after Tom Moulson and them went out there and they had done pretty good spearing, others began to realize the Ojibwe, especially the Lac du Flambeau band, were very good at what they did. What I understand is that initially, the guys would have a fish fry and invite some of the protestors over. There was almost a lightness about the whole concept. But after that season ended - this is only from speculation on my part - somehow, the word got circulated around that this spear fishing was something that only native people could do and they were very, very good at what they did. And some of the fear started creeping in that if they were that good, what kind of impact could they have. If they have, in fact, 50 percent of the resources, gees, they could decimate the fisheries and the deer season. After all of these years of persecution, now we say they have all of these things. They were liable to just go out there and completely devastate the Northwoods in regards to resources.” According to Hockings, when the state of Wisconsin realized that it was limited in its ability to regulate and control, it decided to try and purchase the rights of the Ojibwe. In Hockings' view, it wasn't a fair negotiation. "There was a lot of speculation we could get a lot of money for leasing or selling our hunting and fishing rights to the state," Hockings said. "At first, there were rumors and that was very devastating. The rumors, both positive and negative, preceded the actual event. There were a lot of rumors flying. People were trying to figure out how much money they would get. This was before the casinos came. The bingo halls were just starting up and they weren't very effective. That wasn't a source of income at all. The income was perceived by the tribal council - composed mostly of people who didn't really understand business and culture - as something good. They were people filling the position who played out the every day operation of the reservation. They had a very small budget at the time. There weren't a lot of things that were taking place at that time. But as soon as the state got involved and this idea that $42 million was a possibility over five years was floated and the negotiators on the state side were really, really good. They're running this multi-million dollar business of the state of Wisconsin. Most of the people who are elected there are very, very good at what they do. From our side, the people whom we had weren't up to snuff. They kind of got steamrolled into this idea of how wonderful it was going to be to get this $10 million each year for five years." Hockings and several other tribal members became concerned about the selling of their rights and began to organize against the sale. "Our ancestors paid dearly for those hunting and fishing rights," Hockings expressed at the time. "They paid psychologically, physically, and spiritually. They suffered and gave up a lot. And all they really retained was the right to hunt, fish, and gather here on this land. Most of the land, in many ways, was stolen and we ended up with these small reserves that didn't really mean anything. Our ancestors, whatever you want to think about them, they stayed alive. That was the bottom line. As a consequence, we are alive today. Let's not be thinking about putting a price tag on the misery and the hardship that our ancestors went through. You can't do that. Many of them obviously died. I have no right to say $42 million is correct compensation for that. That was my argument.” “Initially, when we began to do this, we were opposed to the tribal council who wanted to sell. No one wanted the job as spokesperson. No one wanted to be in front of the TV cameras saying what our little organization, 'Waswagoning Treaty Organization,' was all about. I kind of got moved into that role. Everyone else had something to lose. They were very knowledgeable, but they didn't want to be spokesperson. It's the mouthpiece that gets his butt in the sling all the time. But the whole idea with my involvement as being the unofficial spokesperson was to keep the message, as much as possible, on the high ground. In fact, we were talking to a lot of the old people from other reservations and reserves. We were talking to people who really knew what it was all about in regards to the boarding schools and the racism and the prejudice. What they were saying was some really profound things. And the bottom line was when they said 'Remember the culture. Remember your ancestors. Do those things that are honorable. Do not give them up, whatever you do. There's no price tag that they will be able to put on them.” Hockings and others organized to defeat the referendum that would have sold off their rights. "There was a time when we had to take a vote. We went house to house. Fortunately, there were tribal elections just prior to this big referendum that was taking place on our treaty rights. We had a man who got on the council who just happened to get us a copy of the actual agreement that was being presented to our council from the state. We were able to read through that. Our tribal council was taking the word of Tommy Thompson and Jim Klauser and the rest of the people who were there as to what it said and how it read and what it was all about. Once we went through that thing, we couldn't believe it. We had a lawyer look at it and he said it was really outrageous. He said it was really going to hurt our people. We only had a week because the general consensus around town was that people wanted to get the money. I think people wanted the money, I think, because in order to go spearing, you have to have a car with a boat hitch on it. And you have to have a boat, lights, battery, and all of the other paraphernalia that goes with being out on the water fishing at night. That's pretty expensive. Plus, you have to get your boat registered. You have to meet all of the regulations. Most of the people couldn't financially pull that together. There's no money on the reservation. Getting all of that stuff together was a big hassle. So, it was a no-brainer the vast majority of the people would want the money. As it turned out, we won by 34 votes. It was something like 634-600. It took us a week and we barely squeezed by winning that referendum. Nowadays, you come to the reservation and ask people how they voted; most of them will tell you they didn't want to sell the treaty rights. No one will admit they wanted to sell the rights." Although the Ojibwe successfully retained their treaty rights, they still had to protect them against the mob mentality that was beginning to develop in the off reservation areas. Local residents formed several organizations including Stop Treaty Abuse, which was headed by Dean Crist, a Minocqua businessman. The scene at the boat landings each spring was very intense. "In 1988 or 1989, it was really rough," Mike Chosa recalled. "I'll give you an example. We went down to Long Lake over south of Spooner. I took the family down there. My little grandniece got hit with a stone while we were in the boat. It cut open her eye. People were standing at the dock and opening their pants up saying 'Spear this.' My grandniece was only 9 years old. They were shooting at us out in the water. You could hear rifle shots and hear the bullet 'zing' out on the water. It was horrible sometimes. They would come racing at you with their boats and turn at the last minute and you get hit with the waves. They would try to rock our van when we pulled up to the landing. There would be hundreds of them rocking the van, trying to tip it over. The police would always be a few minutes late." The threat of violence lasted for several years and the Ojibwe were under constant fear when the spearing season was in effect. "With all the different lakes where you went, you always got this thought that we were going to get a terminally ill person out on the boat landing, some old sportsman who had been hunting and fishing all his life," Hockings said. "And he was just going to be livid about the Native people having the right to go out and do this, and you're a perfect target out on that like. The man or woman has nothing to lose, and they're going to off you. So, you're always there with that thought pretty close on your mind. There were a lot of death threats. Those things were flying all over. Sooner or later, we thought it was going to manifest itself someplace. You can't have all that negativity without some kind of negative manifestation. We hoped it wouldn't be too bad. The fact of the matter is, it never really happened. We were saying 'Thank God.' We were doing pipe ceremonies. We'd do sweat lodges. We would do all of the ceremonies we could prior to and during those very volatile times. And we always thought they were helping. It was something that gave you that inner strength." In the early 1990s, Judge Crabb's court issued an injunction barring many of the activities that were taking place at the landings. Crist was successfully sued and eventually a large monetary judgment was issued against him. The violence and the protests began to subside although it never disappeared. According to Chosa, there was another reason it subsided. "It came to a head at Butternut Lake in the Park Falls area," Chosa said. "We were able to generate enough Indian interest from across the country and they came and supported us. We took probably 2,000-3,000 Indians over to Butternut Lake. The protestors also showed up in numbers, but they couldn't match the number of Indians. There was no violence. We took over the big hill there. All the non-Indians disappeared. And to this day, they haven't come back." Last installment: Assessing the impact of the casino
|
|
2003 NNPA MERIT AWARD WINNER Click here to find out the best of Wisconsin
THE MADISON TIMES: BETTY'S LEGACY PLACES WHERE THE MADISON TIMES
Fall Semester Internship Opportunities College
students joining our team, (608) 256-2122. Any comments on our Web site? Please
|
|
IN MEMORY OF |
|||
|
Web Design By: Dennis Alfred M. Pascual
|
|||
Imagine
a favorite holiday. Perhaps it's Thanksgiving. Passover. Christmas.
Now imagine if that holiday never appeared on the calendar.
No one other than you, your family, and your like-minded friends
even knew it existed. The bulk of the community treated it like
any other day: just 24 hours out of the 8,760 in a year. 
On
November 5, The Madison Times sat down and interviewed several
elder members of the Lac du Flambeau Band of the Lake Superior
Ojibwe. Through their eyes and some supplemental research, we
will tell the story of the Lac du Flambeau people through a
four-part story, which will continue during Native American
Heritage Month.
