KNPA

On July 16, 1945, the first atomic bomb detonation took place in a test explosion near Socorro, New Mexico, setting into motion an arms race that needed one main raw ingredient: weapons-grade uranium. Land in the American Southwest that was made up of barren desert scrub brush and sandstone mesas was found to be incredibly rich in uranium ore. The people of the Navajo Nation sat on some of the largest uranium deposits in the world. Hundreds of mines were opened and a boom began. But as is so often the case with indigenous populations, the vast majority of Navajos did not benefit from their own natural resources and unemployment now rests above 40 percent. Decades of irresponsible mining, chemical dumping, and radioactive spills have left large swathes of the Navajo Nation with crystal clear, yet contaminated and undrinkable ground water. More than a decade has passed since the last uranium was mined on Navajo land, but the death and disease it brought is far less removed. Over 30,000 sick Navajo miners have been compensated under the Radiation Exposure Compensation Act that awards a cash sum to those who can prove that they are sick or dying from their time spent working in the mines. Many more will die in the coming years, but their legacy is lost on much of the country. The president has called for a second nuclear arms race as miners still die from the first. In Navajo tradition, four sacred mountains are said to mark the edges of the Navajo’s land and are believed to watch over the people. In one prayer, the four mountains speak to the Navajo saying: “My child I will feed you, give you good health, and I will give you strength and courage. My child I will give you clean air and clean water to drink. I am your Life.” But from beneath the mountains on the Navajo Nation Reservation have come some of the richest deposits of uranium in the world, and with them sickness, suffering, pain, and loss. Today, the Navajo know this bitter irony all too well. They live it.

“Do you want me to show you where I dreamed of the water running?” Desaire Gaddy muses. “All through here, just blue water and dolphins.” As dusk approaches, Desaire explores the dry scrubland that surrounds her rural home outside of Thoreau, NM. Gaddy was moved back onto the Navajo Nation Reservation from her life in Florida to stay with relatives who live without running water due to the ongoing water crisis. Most children grow up on the reservation knowing nothing of another life, but not she.

A young Navajo boy plays with water spilled from one of his family's water barrels. The average American uses between 80 and 100 gallons of water each day. According to international water charity Dig Deep, many Navajo people use less than ten gallons each day in order to make it last and Navajo people are 67 times more likely than other Americans to live without running water. “We’re the forgotten ones, were the forgotten Americans,” explained a struggling father who wished not to be named.

A young Navajo boy plays with water spilled from one of his family's water barrels. The average American uses between 80 and 100 gallons of water each day. According to international water charity Dig Deep, many Navajo people use less than ten gallons each day in order to make it last and Navajo people are 67 times more likely than other Americans to live without running water. “We’re the forgotten ones, were the forgotten Americans,” explained a struggling father who wished not to be named.

Emery Yazzie, 9, plays with the door to the makeshift outhouse behind his family’s home with no toilet, shower, or running water. “Where do you guys get your water at?” Emery asks a friend, Quindencia Begay, 8. “I don't know, the sink, I guess,” she responds. “No really, where do you get water from?” he asks again, frustrated. The ownership of land and the homes with and without access to water make up a vast checkerboard of haves and have-nots, especially along the eastern edge of the Navajo Nation. Neighbors watch as neighbors are connected to the water lines, sometimes with pipes running through their property that they cannot tap. The water flows just below their feet, but cannot be touched. Such is the case for Quindencia.

Larry Gordy struggles to explain the pain of raising a family on what he calls "a Native American prisoner of war camp." Living on poisoned land has killed his family members and affected his livestock, but he cannot imagine leaving the land of his Navajo people.

“Any time I think about it, I speak about it, I get angry.” A retired uranium worker of over two decades reacts in frustration and anger as he explains the harmful practices he took part in during his years as an employee of the United Nuclear Corporation at their Church Rock Mill. His name is withheld for the safety of himself and his family. While working at the Church Rock Mill, he remembers taking part in chemical dumping, burning of official medical documents, and he vividly remembers the faulty practices that led up to the Church Rock Spill, the largest spilling of radioactive material in North American history. "I’ve got stories about what we did, about what was done by the companies, about how they don’t care about the people... A lot of times I shed a tear. I think about the elderly, I think about the kids." Now he is suffering from COPD associated with his elevated radiation exposure, but has still not received any benefits or compensation.

Esther Atene began working as a RECA advocate after several of her family members passed away from cancer and respiratory diseases linked to their work in the mines. She holds a chest X-ray of one of the 50-plus Navajos for whom she has helped obtain compensation. This man has since died.

David Neztsosie and his wife Helen at their home near Tuba City, AZ. Sick from his time in the mines, David now breathes off bottled oxygen. He recalls his many friends who passed away before him and the two young daughters that he buried before they reached high school. Both died of "Navajo Neuropathy," a deforming disease linked to the uranium he brought home on his clothes after his shifts in the mines.

In her home in Monument Valley, UT, Elsie May Begay shows two of the sons she buried after their struggles with diseases she believes are linked to their exposure to uranium. Begay has lost count of the families members (at least one dozen) who have died. She wishes that uranium had never come to her family and her people.

David Neztsosie rarely visits the gravesite of his two young daughters as visiting the dead is taboo in Navajo culture. He can no longer remember the names of his daughters who were confined to wheelchairs in middle school before passing away from what is believed to be exposure to uranium he brought back from the mines he worked in decades ago. Their condition was known as Navajo Neuropathy, and was likely contracted in utero as their mother was exposed to radiation.