Yuyun Lusiyani
In the pre-dawn hours of August 25, 2026, a profound sense of foreboding descended upon the Tohono O’odham Nation in Southern Arizona. At precisely 4:59 a.m., Verlon Jose, the Nation’s 59-year-old chairman, received an email that served not as a consultation, but as a stark declaration. Henry N. Laxdal, the acting chief patrol agent for the U.S. Border Patrol’s Tucson Sector, informed Jose that government contractors were already en route to commence soil testing for a planned 62-mile border wall along the Nation’s southern boundary. The message offered a chilling 60-second notice: the work would begin in one minute. While tribal cultural monitors were "welcome" to observe, they were explicitly cautioned against interfering with the government’s operations. This abrupt communication marked a new, aggressive chapter in the long-standing dispute over tribal sovereignty and border security, transforming a simmering legal battle into a palpable on-the-ground confrontation described by tribal members as a "government siege."
The Dawn of a New Conflict
Chairman Jose was already privy to the imminent incursion. An hour prior to Laxdal’s email, a tribal member had reported a caravan of vehicles heading south through the reservation, a sighting rapidly corroborated by social media alerts. The convoy was not merely comprised of work trucks and drilling rigs; it was heavily escorted by U.S. Border Patrol vehicles, signaling the federal government’s unwavering resolve. As daylight broke, the full extent of the federal presence became chillingly clear: contractors were guarded by federal agents clad in masks and tactical gear, drawn from a special operations cadre previously deployed in citywide sweeps in Minneapolis and Chicago that had, tragically, resulted in three fatalities, including two U.S. citizens. When the Tohono O’odham Nation’s own chief of police attempted to access the worksite, he was met with a federal roadblock, effectively barring tribal authorities from their own lands.
Jose swiftly issued a formal statement via the Nation’s website, unequivocally declaring the federal incursion illegal. He further revealed that the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) had deployed a surveillance blimp and enlisted Mexican security forces to protect the work crews, painting a picture of coordinated, overwhelming force. For months, the O’odham had pursued every legal avenue to prevent such a scenario. Their ancestral lands straddle the U.S.-Mexico border, with thousands of tribal members residing in Mexico. A wall, they argued, would shatter millennia-old cultural connections, disrupt vital cross-border ceremonies and family visits, and irrevocably damage sacred landscapes they are obligated to protect. Their federal lawsuit asserted that the Trump administration’s determination to build the wall despite tribal opposition constituted an unprecedented assault on tribal sovereignty. Yet, despite assurances from administration attorneys that the government was engaging in "good faith," a Washington D.C. judge denied the tribe’s request for a preliminary injunction, effectively greenlighting the federal operations.
A History of Uneasy Cooperation
For a quarter-century, the Tohono O’odham leadership had successfully fended off a full-scale border wall by cooperating with DHS, allowing their 2.8 million-acre reservation – the largest on the southern border – to serve as a testing ground for some of the government’s most advanced homeland security measures. This included vehicle barriers, state-of-the-art surveillance towers developed by companies like Israel’s Elbit Systems, and robust law enforcement partnerships with Border Patrol and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), including the famed "Shadow Wolves" unit.
However, ProPublica’s investigation, based on extensive documentation including photos, videos, court filings, interviews with tribal leadership, firsthand observations, and over 1,000 contemporaneously written observations by tribal members, revealed a stark betrayal of this cooperation. DHS, it found, had turned its sophisticated apparatus on tribal members, subjecting an ongoing border prayer ceremony to 24-hour surveillance and questioning tribal members outside the reservation about their ceremonial activities.
Deshane Gregg, a tribal member whose vehicle was forcibly run off the road by a convoy of contractors and federal agents, articulated the feeling of helplessness and aggression. "You just feel helpless. You see these people, and they’re just so aggressive. They want you to react. They want you to show them that we could be ugly too," she recounted. "We’re just here doing prayer. We’re just here, not trying to bother them, but it gets to you when it’s constantly being like that. The drones flying over us all day, it’s a lot."
The Political and Legal Battleground
The conflict over the border wall on the Tohono O’odham Nation has predictably cleaved along partisan lines in Arizona. While Republican legislative leaders have filed legal briefs in support of the wall project, Democratic Governor Katie Hobbs has publicly backed the tribe. Progressive U.S. Representative Adelita Grijalva, whose district encompasses the reservation, has announced plans to draft legislation aimed at curbing the Department of Homeland Security’s expansive powers to waive federal laws for expedited wall construction. The Trump administration had invoked these authorities on over 60 occasions across its two terms, bypassing critical environmental and cultural preservation statutes.
The explicit goal of walling off the 62-mile section of the Tohono O’odham Nation’s southern boundary was confirmed in February 2026, when CBP informed the tribe of its intent to utilize funds from Trump’s "One Big Beautiful Bill Act," a legislative package potentially allocating billions for border infrastructure. This marked a significant departure from Trump’s first term, during which 226 miles of border wall were built in Arizona, but the Nation remained the state’s longest unwalled section.
Tribal leaders, including Chairman Jose, met with DHS Secretary Markwayne Mullin, an enrolled citizen of the Cherokee Nation and the first Native American to head the department, hoping for a more understanding approach. Jose recalled thinking, "Maybe we can work with this guy." However, Mullin’s message was unequivocal: the wall would be built, and Justice Department attorneys were prepared to defend the project all the way to the Supreme Court. O’odham council member Vivian Juan-Saunders, also present at the April 21 meeting, recalled Mullin explicitly stating, "Don’t mess with me." Mullin’s office declined to comment on the exchange.
The pressure escalated further when tribal leaders met with CBP Commissioner Rodney Scott. According to Jose, Scott threatened that if the Nation pursued a lawsuit, they risked losing access to three crucial border gates used by tribal members to travel between the U.S. and Mexico—gates maintained at CBP’s discretion. Juan-Saunders and another council member, Jesse Navarro, corroborated this alleged threat, which CBP also declined to comment on.
The Lawsuit and Contested Claims
On June 16, 2026, the Tohono O’odham Nation filed a lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia to halt the "Tucson 5" project, a $1.3 billion contract awarded to Sullivan Land Services Co. (SLS and SLSCO), a Texas firm with a history of Republican political donations and significant border wall contracts during the Trump administration. The tribe argued that the wall would illegally reduce the size of their reservation—an act permissible only by Congress—and constitute an enduring trespass, destroying sacred cultural sites.
The Nation’s lawyers highlighted decades of tribal cooperation with DHS and pointed to record-low border crossings as evidence of the wall’s redundancy. CBP reported border apprehensions were 94% lower than during the Biden presidency, and Border Patrol "encounters" had hit their lowest levels in over 50 years. James Cook, the tribe’s interim chief of police, submitted a sworn declaration detailing a 90% drop in illegal entry reports over the preceding year, stating that smuggling and other border-related crimes had "almost disappeared."
Conversely, Benjamin S. Hollinder, a senior Border Patrol official, argued in his sworn declaration opposing the lawsuit that the absence of a wall on the Nation created a "funneling effect," channeling smugglers onto the reservation, a dynamic he claimed would intensify once other sections of Arizona were walled off. "Not having a border barrier system in this particular area makes it a vulnerable and a desirable area for [transnational criminal organizations] to operate," Hollinder wrote, asserting that increased illegal entries would render the area "particularly problematic."
The Illusion of Consultation
The Nation sought a preliminary injunction to halt border wall activities until the litigation concluded. On the eve of a July 22 hearing, DHS filed a notice affirming its decision to waive over 30 laws, including several mandating tribal consultation, to accelerate the project. In court, government attorneys acknowledged a "cooperative" history with the tribal government but asserted the Nation lacked "veto power over the United States’ sovereign duty to secure its borders." They also claimed an injunction was premature, as planning was ongoing, and tribal concerns could still be addressed, insisting construction would be confined to the 60-foot-wide "Roosevelt Reservation" on the U.S. side of the border.
Riyaz Kanji, the tribe’s lead attorney, countered that the Roosevelt Reservation did not extend onto tribal land, and even if it did, the rugged terrain would force construction far beyond the 60-foot limit. He argued that DHS, despite its broad powers, could not override a sovereign government, deeming the administration’s plans a "blatant and unprecedented disregard for the tribe’s rights." Justice Department attorney Adam R.F. Gustafson contended that the tribe had previously approved barriers on its land, making the current debate about the type of barrier, which he claimed was DHS’s prerogative. He insisted the department was "committed" to consultation and took "very seriously the tribe’s views." The judge, appearing swayed by DHS’s assurances, reserved judgment, stating, "I don’t think the government is trying to go outside of that 60-foot strip."
Betrayal and Resistance at Ko:li Ki:jig
The Tohono O’odham suspected the government’s claims of mindfulness were disingenuous. Just two days after the meeting with Secretary Mullin, a border wall contractor had "inadvertently disturbed a cultural site" west of the reservation. A 70-foot swath had been bulldozed through the Las Playas Intaglio, a 200-foot-long earthen etching of a fish, estimated to be at least 6,500 years old, a site well-known to archaeologists. Wynona P. Larson Yazzie, an O’odham tribal elder, Marine Corps veteran, and former tribal police officer, had visited the intaglio the day before its destruction. On August 6, she read a disturbing court filing from the tribe’s attorneys: contractors would enter the reservation in four days to conduct tests. DHS, the tribe argued, was "exploiting" the judge’s reflection period.
In response, tribal leaders erected dozens of 8-foot-wide "no trespassing" signs along the main access roads. Larson Yazzie, meanwhile, began making her own plans, joining forces with Amy Juan, a 40-year-old O’odham activist. Juan had witnessed firsthand the creeping militarization of the borderlands since 9/11, with locking gates replacing traditional crossings, Border Patrol forward operating bases expanding, and checkpoints proliferating. She lamented that the Nation’s collaboration with DHS had sacrificed safety and civil liberties for elusive gains, citing instances of tribal members being arrested and deported, and abuses by Border Patrol agents documented by human rights groups.
Concerned the Nation would succumb to DHS pressure, Larson Yazzie initiated a traditional prayer fire, a sacred O’odham tradition convened in times of communal struggle. The symbolic site chosen was the border gate at Ko:li Ki:jig, a traditional crossing. The camp, named Tadai Me:i ("roadrunner on fire"), was established on August 9, just as contractors prepared to enter. A continuous fire, fueled by fragrant creosote bush (sugai), was kept burning, observed 24/7.
Escalating Surveillance and Intimidation
The first drone sighting over Tadai Me:i was recorded at 11:43 p.m. on August 10, marking the beginning of constant surveillance. Hand-kept spiral notebooks, shared with ProPublica, chronicled a minute-by-minute account of escalating DHS activity. Over 13 days, these logs documented a steady increase in federal presence, culminating in an elite tactical team blocking tribal authorities from issuing trespassing citations.
The camp was not a protest in the conventional sense; participants focused on prayer and ceremony, an atmosphere of family gathering amidst crisis. Yet, fear was palpable. Some tribal council members worried the camp could attract outsiders seeking to physically block wall construction, echoing the Standing Rock Sioux protests, a dangerous prospect in the unforgiving desert. Young camp visitor Collin Quasule expressed a chilling fear: "My fear is that they gonna start shooting us." He shared videos of federal agents trailing him, stopping him without cause, and refusing to accept his legal name and birthdate.
Within the first seven days, the activity log recorded nearly 665 observations, mostly federal agents circling the camp. Agents parked and watched, some snapping photos of campers. Mexican security forces were observed conversing with Border Patrol agents across the international boundary. Amy Juan noted, "Surveillance has heightened. Drones, helicopters, a lot of air activity." These included marked CBP choppers and what appeared to be military Black Hawks, alongside handheld quadcopters hovering directly over prayer ceremonies.
On the fourth night, an elder couple returning home from a gathering at Tadai Me:i was stopped at a checkpoint a half-mile outside the reservation. Agents, who rarely staffed the checkpoint, demanded tribal IDs and inquired about the "ceremony going on down south." This unusual encounter, shared with the gathering, prompted many to leave, fearing late-night interactions with Border Patrol.
The Aftermath of the Injunction Denial
On August 14, Judge Richard J. Leon denied the Nation’s injunction request, writing, "I fully expect the government in the months ahead to follow through on its guarantees of consultation and cooperation with the Nation to address the Nation’s concerns regarding border wall construction!" Eleven days later, the Border Patrol’s one-minute notice arrived. Larson Yazzie rushed to document the contractors, only to be stopped by an agent who had laid a spike strip ahead. The tribal police chief was also blocked by a Border Patrol roadblock, encountering BORTAC agents in desert camo and masks—special operations forces. He was allowed to record only after promising not to interfere, observing drilling rigs and heavy vehicles operating beyond the 60-foot "Roosevelt Reservation" boundary the government had assured the judge they would respect. Bureau of Indian Affairs agents were also present, claiming orders from Washington D.C. to "preserve the peace and monitor activities."
The prayer camp participants immediately reignited their ceremonial fire. On August 26, Davy Cross, tending the fire at 4:33 a.m., reported seeing five drones, initially with red lights, then going dark, their rotors felt against his skin before they "disappeared." An airplane and helicopter followed. By 9 a.m., a convoy of Border Patrol and construction vehicles arrived, with Border Patrol units forming a semicircle around the camp, complemented by Mexican state police on the other side of the border. "We got surround[ed] by over 30 vehicles," Cross wrote in the activity log, a video of which quickly spread on social media.
The tribe’s attorneys appealed the judge’s order, pleading for a halt to the federal activities and arguing that the Trump administration was making "a mockery" of the court’s expectation of "consultation and cooperation."
Disparate Treatment and Broader Implications
The situation was starkly contrasted by events in Texas. There, the Trump administration’s plans for a wall through Big Bend National Park had galvanized an unusual coalition of environmental nonprofits, river guides, hunters, ranchers, and local sheriffs. Just one week before the armed convoy entered the Tohono O’odham reservation, Republican Governor Greg Abbott announced a pause on the controversial Big Bend project after discussions with the DHS Secretary. Abbott stated, "There are technology tools that don’t include barriers. Think of drones, think of fiber optics." A judge later granted a preliminary injunction halting construction in Big Bend.
To Amy Juan, this presented a "darkly ironic" disparity. For two and a half decades, the Tohono O’odham Nation had been the very "laboratory" for the surveillance technology Abbott now lauded as an alternative to physical barriers. Yet, when the tribe made this case, they were dismissed, told the wall was coming regardless. "What makes Texas the exception to us is very clear," Juan asserted. "It’s good old boy conversations that are happening between the politicians and the CBP commissioners and Markwayne Mullin." This highlights a profound concern among tribal nations: that their sovereignty and unique historical relationship with the U.S. government are often subordinated to political expediency and perceived border security imperatives, especially when compared to the influence wielded by other constituencies.
The early morning fire watch on September 26 fell to Nate Sosa, a young Pascua Yaqui member. At 3:28 a.m., he heard a weapon being chambered as a Border Patrol agent approached the sleeping campers. Drones and helicopters followed, then a convoy of dozens of vehicles. While Larson Yazzie led morning prayers, a helicopter passed overhead, and an hour later, a drone ascended above the fire. Liz Quiroga, a 28-year-old tribal member, documented 379 observations over the next five days: nearly two-thirds involved Border Patrol near the fire, six entries referenced Mexican authorities, and 39 noted unmarked vehicles and suspected "undercovers." A dozen aircraft sightings, including four helicopters, three planes, and five drones, were cataloged. "Nobody has any idea what’s actually happening out here," Quiroga stated, describing the scene as "true dystopia."
As its legal challenge grinds forward, the Tohono O’odham Nation has ceased attempts to physically remove border wall contractors from its lands. The Tadai Me:i prayer camp, a beacon of spiritual resistance, endures, as does the relentless federal surveillance that shadows it, a potent symbol of an ongoing struggle for self-determination and cultural preservation against the formidable might of the U.S. government. The confrontation on the Tohono O’odham Nation represents a critical test of federal-tribal relations, highlighting the enduring tension between national security imperatives and the sacred rights of Indigenous peoples.
Joko Widodo
Jia Lissa
Pevita Pearce
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