The women of Wounded Knee Story-Date: 01:39 a.m. PST Wednesday, October 21, 1998 ------------------------------------------------------------ The women of Wounded Knee Twenty-five years after an American Indian Movement siege turned deadly, two who were there continue to work toward better lives for their people. DUANE NORIYUKI LOS ANGELES TIMES WOUNDED KNEE, S.D. Ribbons representing the four directions dance on a timeless September wind above the graves. Madonna Thunder Hawk scratches the hard, dry ground with the toe of her right shoe. Thunder Hawk does not return to the memorial to remember those who died here and those buried in this small cemetery. She comes here for herself, to awaken what is buried within. Wounded Knee is a place of death -- the 1890 massacre of more than 200 Sioux by the 7th Cavalry, the 71-day siege in 1973 by the American Indian Movement in which two more were killed. Yet, to Thunder Hawk, it is a symbol of life, of seasons and time and people moving forward. "Our people are survivors, you know? This is just another page in the ongoing history of our people," she says. "The struggle never ends. With each changing of the season, we're still here." It has been 25 years since Thunder Hawk, 58, walked upon these hills through darkness and steep ravines -- avoiding roadblocks and arrest, her backpack heavy with ammunition for the AIM cause. She was one of a small group hiking 12 miles in from Porcupine. Among those with her was Lorelei DeCora, then still a teen-ager, who, three years earlier at age 16, became one of the youngest members of the AIM board of directors. They were distant relatives, but it wasn't until they became involved in AIM, a civil rights movement born in 1968, that they drew close. The two of them traveled together, protested together, were arrested together. And just as the sky was turning pale one winter morning in 1973, they walked together down into this valley and into the siege that would change their lives. The conflict started as a result of turmoil between two factions on the Pine Ridge reservation. AIM had been called in by a group of traditional Oglala elders who said they were under attack by Richard Wilson, the elected tribal chairman, and his "goon squad." The conflict came to symbolize the disparity between those adhering to traditional Indian cultures and those living nontraditional lives. But when the shooting started and federal agents became involved, the conflict pitted AIM against the U.S. government. And as negotiations took place, the issues shifted to the rights of American Indians. About half of those involved in the occupation were women, Thunder Hawk says. And after Wounded Knee, when many of the male leaders, including her cousin Russell Means, with whom she grew up and whom she considers a brother, were arrested or on the run, women took on greater responsibilities in the movement. Thunder Hawk and DeCora helped form Women of All Red Nations when it became dangerous to declare affiliation with AIM. They fought to save the sacred Black Hills from developers and did a water study on Pine Ridge that indicated dangerous levels of radiation, eventually resulting in a new water system. Thunder Hawk, who earned a bachelor's degree in human services, started a group home/survival school in Rapid City during the Wounded Knee trials. The school was moved to Pine Ridge, where she also helped start an independent radio station. DeCora, 44, earned a bachelor's degree in nursing. She helped establish the Porcupine Clinic. Both remain activists on their home reservations, Thunder Hawk at Cheyenne River in South Dakota, DeCora at the Winnebago reservation in Nebraska. DeCora's life as an activist began at age 15, while she was attending high school in Sioux City, Iowa, 20 miles away from the Winnebago reservation. A book titled "Hawkeye Tales" was being used in public schools. It described American Indians as savages and referred to women as "squaws." DeCora led a successful drive to remove the book from schools. A year later, she helped found a youth center for American Indians and led an effort to stop a construction project on a burial ground. It was in Sioux City that she met Thunder Hawk and became involved in AIM. At Wounded Knee, they became medics, working with volunteer physicians who would fly in for brief stints. For DeCora, Wounded Knee was a spiritual awakening that shaped her work in the field of health care. In the beginning, Wounded Knee was exciting, even fun, she says. Ironically, there was a sense of freedom. "We were surrounded by the military might of the United States, but we were a community that had no police, no monetary system, no laws other than what we wanted to make. We were a community that was given a taste of freedom." All that changed the day Frank Clearwater died in the fighting with federal agents. "The whole top of his head was blown off," DeCora says. "I had my hands on top of his head trying to hold the pieces together. Everything up to that point was fun, but when I saw that, I thought, `This man just gave his life, so this better be worth it.' My whole perception of Wounded Knee changed at that moment, and I wondered, `What are we accomplishing here?' " The second person killed in the shootout was Buddy LaMonte, and his death led to the end of the siege. LaMonte had told his family that if he was killed, he wanted to be buried at Wounded Knee. "The feds agreed to let Mrs. LaMonte bury her son there if we agreed to give up the day after the funeral. We had a meeting, and an elder, a medicine man, stood up with tears in his eyes and said it was time to end this. I stood up and said, `Our chief has spoken to us. We said we would follow the direction of the chiefs.' " Even as a teen-ager, people listened to her, DeCora says. During Wounded Knee, even though it was men like Russell Means and Dennis Banks who represented AIM in front of the cameras, they valued the words of DeCora and the other women. "I never felt resentment that they didn't have women right up there with the men," she says. "I spoke at a NOW (National Organization for Women) conference about the role of women in the struggle of American Indians, and I told them that we don't have the luxury as a people to address issues of equality." Still, she says, it is important that women share their stories, pass them to the next generation. "The stories that women have to contribute are important. It's a part of history that needs to come out, or it will be lost. If you read the book `Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee,' it's all these stories of all these men. They're not the stories of Crazy Horse's wife. Who was she? What did she do?" ------------------------------------------------------------