Nativa

My name is Shenoa. I'm 16 years old. I'm an American native. Today, I'm going to say somet Stay until the end, because I'm going to sing ancestral song of my village. One that speaks of the Earth, of the Spirit and of our But first, I need you to listen to t I was born in these lands. My mother was born here. My people were born here long before a map existed, long before someone came to name somet My grandparents taught me that our steps are as old as rivers, as old as mountains. They always told me, Chenoa, we didn't come here. We are t Each rock, each tree, each dawn, carries our memory. And that's why, when I hear someone say that we are strangers, my soul burns. The story is already written, even if you want to When the Europeans arrived, they were lost, sick, hungry. We received them, fed them, taught them how to live here. And how did they pay our kindness? They stole our lands, burned our aldeas, killed our ancestors, banned our language, made us feel strange in our own house. W And now, centuries later, I hear people say that we must protect the land of invaders. Invaders? We defended t We are the original owners. I don't speak only for my nation. I speak for all the native peoples of America, from Alaska to the Argentine Pampa. I speak for the ancestors who walked from the north to the south when there were no borders. We are one, one root, one same memory. They want to divide us with papers, with walls, with borders, but that division never belonged to us. That's why it hurts to see how they deport Latin American families, Mexicans, Guatemalans, Peruvians, Venezuelans, as if they were strangers. They are not strangers, they are our brothers. We all descend from the first peoples of these lands. My generation sees the world burn. We see what happens in Palestine, where entire families lose their homes. We see injustices repeated one and another time. And yes, it hurts because we also live it. We know what they call you wild. We know what they take from you, the land, the language, the faith. We know what they call you, the streets, the But I don't allow our suffering to be compared only to minimise it. Each people has their own wounds. Our own blood. Our religion is not the same as the one they brought, but God is one alone, although each people have a different name. We believe in our own way, in the land, in the fire, in the spirit, in what is not seen but is not supported. We are not less for believing in each other, we are not less for speaking differently, we are not less for being native. And we are tired of minimising our pain, of saying that we are already mixed, as if that would erase our Don't erase anyt We have resisted for centuries. I am not just a 16-year-old girl. I am the voice of those who cannot speak anymore. I am the voice of my people. I am the voice of those who were silent. And today I ask you somet Help me to hear us. Help me to remember who we are. Share that the truth comes far, very far away. Now, I am going to sing ancestral song, a song that survived the fire, the silence and the A song that my mother taught me and her mother before her. A song that belongs to all native peoples of America. If t We did not ask for pity, we ask for respect, we ask for dignity, we ask for memory. I am Chenoa, I am 16 years old, and t Thank you. I am the daughter of the steps that walked before the pain. I am the blood that resists, I am the memory that never forgot. I am the voice of the land, I am the daughter of the river. Although they want to keep quiet, I have still been. I have been. I am a king who does not die, I am a poor man alive. Although they all tell us, I have still been. I have been. My name is ancient fire, my heart does not know the fear. I bring the story hurt, but I also bring the strength of love. I sing for my people, for my brothers, that the wind separated. From Alaska to the Pampa, we are one under the same sun. I am the voice of the land, I am the daughter of the river. Although they want to keep quiet, I have still been. I have been. I am the voice that does not die, I am a poor man alive. Although they all tell us, I have still been. I have been. Our steps are ancient, our spirit does not fall. They wanted to erase us, and here we are. They called us foreigners. And here we continue, the land does not forget its c I listen to my grandparents in the echo of the moon and the dr They tell me that it resists, that it always remembers where I am. I sing for the living, I sing for those who silence to pay. My voice is a path, my voice is strength, memory and love. I am the voice of the land, I am the daughter of the river. Although they want to keep quiet, I still continue. I am the voice that does not die, I am a poor man alive. Although they all tell us, I have still been. I continue. I am the voice of the land, I sing for those who silence to pay. And I sing for you. I still continue. Because I am the voice of those who never surrendered. Thank you.