We Have Always Defended This Place:
A Native Reflection on July 4th
I don’t speak for all Native people.
We’re not a monolith. We come from hundreds of Nations, each with our own languages, teachings, governance systems, and relationships to this land. So when I talk about what July 4th means, I’m not speaking for all of us. I’m speaking from my own lived experience: as an Ojibway woman, a daughter, a granddaughter, and a citizen of Batchewana First Nation.
And like most things in Indian Country, it’s complicated.
People often assume that Native folks hate the Fourth of July. But the truth is: there is no single “Native take” on this holiday. Some of us grieve. Some of us celebrate our warriors. Some go into ceremony. Some don’t acknowledge the day at all. And all of that is okay.
Because for many of us, July 4th doesn’t mark freedom, it marks the beginning of something else entirely.
Let’s remember: the Declaration of Independence, the document Americans love to quote each year, referred to us as “merciless Indian savages.” That line wasn’t just offensive. It was a green light for violence. It gave moral cover to the military campaigns, land theft, and genocide that followed.
After 1776, Native Nations were not “freed.” We were hunted, dispossessed, and targeted by policies meant to destroy us:
The Indian Removal Act of 1830.
The Trail of Tears.
Boarding schools that tore children from their families.
The Dawes Act that sliced our territories into parcels and sold what remained to settlers.
By 1900, Native people had 98% of our original land base taken.
And yet, here we are.
Still here.
Still singing our songs.
Still speaking our languages.
Still fighting for our land, our people, our future.
This country loves to flatten Indigenous people into mascots, stereotypes, noble warriors, or symbols of the past. But we are not relics. We are living, breathing, evolving communities. And we are not all the same.
So yes, when I say the Fourth of July is complicated, I mean it.
I feel grief for what was stolen.
Pride in our survival.
And a deep love for this land—not because it belongs to the U.S., but because it has always been our homeland.
We were here long before 1776.
Long before borders.
Long before anyone signed a document declaring independence on paper while taking it from others in practice.
This is our homeland.
Our ancestors’ stories are carried in the rivers, the trees, the winds.
And when we say We’re Still Here, we don’t just mean we survived. We mean we are in relationship to the land, to each other, to the teachings our ancestors protected at great cost.
With all that’s going on in the U.S. right now— the fear, the division, the injustice— we need everyone to remember: we’re all in this together, and none of us makes it through alone.
As a Native person, I will not give up hope.
Because my ancestors didn’t.
If they had, I wouldn’t be standing here.
Nor would my mother.
Nor my grandmother.
Nor the chiefs of my Nation.
They held the line through genocide, starvation, relocation, and attempted erasure. And because they didn’t let go, we’re still here to carry their prayers forward.
So please, with all that’s going on in the US today, don’t give up hope.
Because evil doesn’t win in the end.
It doesn’t.
We all will make sure of that.
A Word About Warriors
Let me share something that surprises a lot of people:
Native Americans serve in the U.S. military at a higher rate per capita than any other ethnic group.
That’s not new; it’s been true since the birth of this nation.
We’ve fought in every major U.S. conflict—
Even when we weren’t considered citizens.
Even while our ceremonies were banned.
Even while our children were being taken from us.
We’ve served as code talkers, medics, scouts, and warriors—not just for this country, but for our people, our families, our land.
Today, Native people are still enlisting at five times the national average.
Because for many of us, military service isn’t about loyalty to a flag.
It’s about loyalty to our homeland.
We’ve never needed a flag to tell us where we belong.
We have mountains, waters, star stories, and blood memory older than the United States itself.
Here are a few things you might not know:
Since 9/11, about 19% of Native Americans have served in the military, compared to about 14% of all other groups.
During WWII, 25,000 Indigenous people served—nearly one-third of all able-bodied Native men between 18 and 50. Some tribes saw enlistment rates as high as 70%.
Today, more than 24,000 Native people serve actively, and over 183,000 are veterans.
People often ask: Why would Native people fight for a country that has done so much harm to them?
The answer isn’t simple.
Some enlist for opportunities like education, healthcare, and a stable income.
Some because their uncles, aunties, or grandparents served before them.
And some because in our cultures, being a warrior is not a job. It’s a sacred role.
For many of us, it’s not about allegiance to the U.S. flag.
It’s about responsibility to our homeland.
To the land our ancestors protected.
To the waters that still carry their memory.
To the teachings that remind us we belong here, not because of a government, but because of our relationship to this place.
So yes, being a warrior doesn’t mean fighting for an empire.
It means standing for something bigger than yourself.
For your people.
For the land.
For the generations still coming.
So, What Do We Celebrate?
If July 4th marks a painful history for many of us, what is there to celebrate?
For me, the answer is: interdependence.
Not independence.
Not rugged individualism or “I did it all myself.”
But the Indigenous understanding that we are all connected—to each other, to the land, to the waters, to spirit, and to future generations.
In many of our teachings, interdependence is sacred.
It’s about community. Reciprocity. Accountability. Relationship.
It’s about understanding that our actions ripple outward.
And that healing doesn’t happen in isolation, it happens in community.
So this July 4th, my invitation is this:
Celebrate interdependence.
Celebrate responsibility to each other.
Celebrate truth—even the hard parts.
Ask yourself:
How do my freedoms affect others?
Who had to lose something for me to gain what I have?
How can we build a future where justice, rights, and safety aren’t reserved for the privileged few?
We don’t get to the promise of this country—the good parts—by skipping over the pain.
We get there by remembering.
By listening.
By choosing relationship over individualism.
And maybe, the most patriotic thing you can do this 4th of July is to learn the stories this country tried not to teach you.
📚 Read an Indigenous author
🌎 Learn whose land you’re on
💬 Talk with your kids about what “freedom” really means for everyone
🪶 Support Native-led movements
🔥 Honor the ancestors who kept going so we could be here today
📣 What You Can Do
If this piece resonated with you, here are a few ways to take action, not just on the 4th of July, but every day:
✅ Share this post with someone who’s never heard this side of the story. Let’s make sure these truths reach beyond the usual circles.
✅ Support Native-led organizations doing the work on the ground: whether it’s language revitalization, land defense, or protecting sacred sites.
✅ Learn whose land you live on and take the time to learn that Nation’s history: not just what was done to them, but what they’ve built.
✅ Talk to your kids about the real history of this country, about responsibility, and about what freedom should mean for everyone.
✅ Hold space for the complexity. Let grief, truth, and hope live side by side.
We don’t need performative patriotism.
We need courageous remembering.
And we need each other.
If you’d like to support my work—whether it’s through subscribing, sharing, or just showing up in the comments—thank you. I write from the heart, and I’m grateful to walk alongside so many of you who are doing the same.
Keep teaching us, Julie Francella! Thank you.