“You’re under arrest.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“I don’t care.”
I laughed at the prospect of being arrested for covering a story.
May 21 started like any other for a local reporter: out in my community, Akwesasne, looking for news worth sharing.
Then, I got a call about a potential story on Barnhart Island in Massena, New York. The island is one of our ancestral Akwesasne lands, Mohawk Territory on the northern New York border with Canada, carved apart by colonial powers that decided for themselves how we could access our own Nation’s land.
It’s now home to a New York Power Authority dam that generates billions of dollars in revenue each year. My Nation receives no meaningful benefit, even though the island is rightfully ours. It was stolen.
The call came from my wife, Monica Garrow, who’s always been an excellent source of leads. She often joins me on stories, capturing photos from angles I might miss. Indian Time, the paper I report for, is small and hyperlocal — one of the oldest Native American newspapers in the U.S. Though we’re barely staying afloat, I’ve taken immense pride in writing for it.
“Something might be going on at Barnhart,” Monica said, which piqued my interest. Someone might be demonstrating to remind everyone that the island is ours.
Akwesasne has been in a land claims battle with New York state for over four decades, because by taking our land it violated the Nonintercourse Act, a series of congressional acts that by 1834 prohibited land transactions with Native Americans unless authorized by Congress. This isn’t just my perspective; it’s the 2022 ruling of U.S. District Judge Lawrence Kahn.
The Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe, the Mohawk Council of Akwesasne, and the Mohawk Nation Council of Chiefs are the lead plaintiffs in the case. They are ready to give away large portions of our treaty lands, including Barnhart Island, for next to nothing.
Many in Akwesasne don’t agree with settling the claims by giving away such large pieces of stolen land. I could go on about the Treaty of the Seven Nations of Canada and its validity, but the bottom line is that we should not give up on what is rightfully ours.
After all, our current land base is just a drop in a hundred-gallon drum compared to what it once was — all the land that now makes up the United States.
‘The cops are here’
As we drove down Barnhart Island Road, Monica and I looked for any signs of activity. Eventually, we spotted a couple of vehicles parked along the roadside. I pulled over and saw familiar faces — people I’d worked with to raise awareness about the bogus settlement.
I asked someone I knew what was happening. Even then, it wasn’t clear what their intentions were. I saw people milling around, taking photos. No one was willing to speak on the record. I had nothing I could publish — no interviews, no statements, and nothing corroborated.
I estimate I was there for no more than an hour, and was waiting for something worth documenting. Suddenly, I heard a woman say, “The cops are here.”
I made a mistake that day — I assumed that because I had press credentials, I wouldn’t be targeted.
At that moment, I had my back to the road. I had moved a few hundred feet from the vehicles, following the others closer to the tree line. I turned back and saw police cars.
There were more than I expected. But their arrival didn’t surprise me. The issue of Barnhart Island as Mohawk land has been contentious for decades. Time and again, Indigenous protests are met with force.
An officer shouted over a bullhorn, telling us to disperse or risk arrest for trespassing. I moved closer to get video footage and photographic evidence of the police actions. Monica and I took the photos and videos, which are still in my possession.
The police made at least two announcements to disperse, though it wasn’t clear where we should go. I stayed near the road, focused on getting good shots.
The threat facing others
I made a mistake that day — I assumed that because I had press credentials, I wouldn’t be targeted by the police.
While I hadn’t fully considered my potential danger, I was acutely aware of the threat facing the others. I knew I had to document what was happening to ensure any impropriety or violence was recorded. I knew things could escalate quickly.
The others held their ground and, soon enough, the police announced that everyone would be arrested. Because I was closest to the road, a state trooper approached me first.
The exchange between us — the words that opened this story — began then.
I found it absurd that the police would disregard the First Amendment’s protections for the press. The irony is that our Mohawk Constitution, Kaienerakowa, influenced the development of the U.S. Constitution, memorialized in U.S. House Resolution 331.
So here I was, a Mohawk reporter being arrested in violation of the constitutional ideals the police are sworn to uphold … that were inspired by my ancestors.
Credentials never checked
The cuffs went on, and I was led to the side of the road. I mentioned again that I was a reporter, and a trooper asked if I had my credentials. I told him that I kept them in the phone/wallet case around my neck — a habit I’ve developed to always have quick access to my phone for recording.
Even though he asked about my credentials, he never checked my case. I don’t think he cared. Maybe he preferred not to confirm that I was a reporter.
I understood fully that the police didn’t care about their supposed allegiance to the Constitution — I was going for a ride, journalist or not.
Meanwhile, I could see a line of police moving in, arresting the others. My main concern was their safety. With my hands cuffed, I couldn’t document anything.
Luckily, Monica was on top of it — she continued recording from outside our car, which was still parked at the roadside. I’m grateful she was there that day — not just for me, but for everyone else. Monica took on the role of a citizen journalist, even if she wouldn’t call herself that. Whether or not anyone else acknowledges it, I will.
I’m fortunate to be married to her — throughout this ordeal, she never wavered in her support for me or my refusal to bend to the will of the state. She’s a true warrior for our people, and I’m proud to share that.
I watched as the other Akwesasronon were taken into custody, relieved that no one was hurt. With my hands cuffed behind my back, I found myself back in a state of comic disbelief.
By then, I understood fully that the police didn’t care about their supposed allegiance to the Constitution — I was going for a ride, journalist or not.
My disbelief turned to disgust when I looked to my left and saw a young Mohawk boy handcuffed beside me. He said he was fourteen. He posed no threat and to put a child in handcuffs like that was simply wrong.
Later, I learned that neither he nor his father had been involved in the day’s actions. But the boy remained calm under pressure, showing no fear — remarkably Mohawk and incredibly impressive.
Coping through gallows humor
I judged that arguing with the cops about the boy’s handcuffs wouldn’t help him. So, I turned to my usual coping mechanism: humor. Gallows humor can defuse situations that might break others. I think it’s part of our DNA — something we all connect on.
“So I guess you’re not going to give me a quote for my story?” I asked. The trooper didn’t look pleased, but I figured if I was going for a ride, I might as well have some fun.
Most other Indigenous people I’ve met from different nations use the same tactic when facing injustice. We aren’t surprised when we’re targeted. In Akwesasne, we’re warriors. We know precisely how the government and some police regard us.
A Mohawk Warrior Society sign at the site on Barnhart Island where Isaac White was arrested.
Courtesy of Garrow Kahnekenhawi
Eventually, we were to be moved to the state police outpost in Massena. The trooper escorting me was polite, quite different from the others. However, I knew there would be a problem when we reached the car.
I’m what you might call large — 6’4” in my shoes and far from slim. I knew they’d need to put me in something other than what they called a “cage car.”
When he opened the door, I immediately told him there was no way I’d fit. He insisted I try. I attempted to sit, legs sticking out, trying to swing them in, but it wasn’t happening.
The trooper finally realized I wouldn’t fit and told me to get out. At that point, I had to tell him I was stuck. My left leg was wedged against the barrier separating the front of the car from the back seat. I rocked back and forth to build momentum, and the trooper pulled my arm to help me out.
I swear I heard a Looney Toons-like “pop” when I finally emerged from the car.
‘It felt surreal’
They moved me to another car, and to my surprise, they put the 14-year-old boy in the back seat with me while his father was seated in the front. My anger flared — not only were they still holding the boy, but they were treating him like an adult in custody. It was disgusting.
They could — no, they should — have let him go with Monica or one of the other adults on the scene.
We rode to the station, and I made jokes to lighten the mood. I knew the penalties for trespassing were minor. I didn’t see any serious threat to our freedom at that moment.
When we arrived, we were led into the station. Eight of us were arrested, but we were informed the boy wouldn’t be processed with us; he’d be released to another adult.
I was held in a room with three Akwesasronon women and the boy's father. We were chained to the bench. Still, we kept the mood light, joking and discussing current events on the rez.
No one handcuffed to those benches showed any fear of the state's heavy-handed actions. Naturally, they asked what the police thought they were doing, especially since everyone knew I was there as a journalist. I told them honestly: I wasn’t surprised.
I was fully aware of the significance of a reporter being arrested for doing their job. It was wrong — wrong of the police, wrong of those who decided to prosecute me — and it felt surreal.
Silencing a journalist?
I’ve read about journalists being arrested, but why would I — a Mohawk reporter for Indian Time, a small local paper — be targeted? I’m proud of my work, and I know our paper is vital to the Akwesasne community.
I have my suspicions about why I was targeted and why the charges weren’t dropped, even after it was clear I was a credentialed journalist.
Land claims are a hot-button issue in Akwesasne and in New York State. They have significant implications, potentially reshaping the areas that were illegally taken from us.
It was inspiring to hear, “You’re a reporter; it’s bullshit they did that; they’re violating their law.”
It’s not unrealistic that the billions in revenue generated by the power dam on Barnhart Island might be a motive for silencing a journalist. The idea that our councils and traditional government could be selling out our people is a serious accusation, but a reasonable one.
I suspected that some elected council members approved of our arrests, pandering to those eager to see “the duly recognized governing body of the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe” give away our future for money. I was told the council didn’t know, and I genuinely hope that’s true.
Massena, Fort Covington, St. Lawrence County, Franklin County, New York State, and the New York Power Authority would love nothing more than for this four-decade litigation to disappear — our stolen land forgotten, forgiven for a pittance, and laughed about behind closed doors.
Over the last 20 years, I’ve learned enough about our people’s history and the struggles of other Onkwehonwe Nations to know that those who took our land will do whatever they can to keep it. They will go to great lengths to ensure we never reclaim the land that was ours for thousands of years before their theft.
Alleged video evidence never produced
After a few hours, we were processed and released with appearance tickets for Massena Town Court. My charges? Not just trespassing but also conspiracy. Conspiracy to what? That’s a good question and one I asked myself. Repeatedly.
Apparently, they believed I was involved in furthering a felony. How they reached that conclusion remains a mystery, especially after reading the partial discovery I received from the St. Lawrence County District Attorney's office.
In those documents, no witness statements mentioned a 6'4", 300-plus pound man in a green polo shirt. There was allegedly video evidence, but the prosecution never produced it despite my repeated requests. Yes, that’s right — I couldn’t even obtain the full evidence they intended to use against me.
Over the next six months, there were multiple court appearances for me and the others. I requested a dismissal at my first appearance, citing the state’s violation of the First Amendment. Unsurprisingly, the request was denied.
But I witnessed something beautiful that day: a large turnout of supporters for what some began to call the “Akwesasne 8.” I wasn’t a huge fan of the term, but my pride swelled seeing Akwesasronon lined up to support us.
The people arrested that day are at the forefront of the movement against the settlement. They’ve done incredible work educating the community about the relinquishment of our land.
It was inspiring to hear, “You’re a reporter; it’s bullshit they did that; they’re violating their law.”
Delays seemed intentional
For a while after the arrest, I felt disheartened. I wanted to write about what I’d seen, but with the criminal case hanging over me, I knew it was wiser to hold off. Part of me suspected that was precisely what they wanted.
As time passed, the push for settlement continued from the state, the elected councils, and the Mohawk Nation Council of Chiefs. We were losing time, strengthening my belief that the delay was intentional.
During this process, I contacted several journalist advocacy and protection organizations. I was overwhelmed by how quickly offers to help came in. I sent those emails to see if anyone would provide advice, but I never expected the enthusiastic support I received.
Angel Ellis of the Muscogee Nation, and a member of the board of the Indigenous Journalists Association, was among the first to respond. We spoke on the phone and exchanged texts and emails, and her support was incredibly comforting. Angel had faced her own battles with government overreach, and our shared experiences helped me understand what I was dealing with.
While the thought of spending a year in county jail wasn’t appealing, there was no way I would bend to the state’s bullying.
Angel also connected me with Seth Stern, director of advocacy for Freedom of the Press Foundation (FPF). Seth provided valuable insights and a different perspective on my situation. He and his organization were a force to be reckoned with.
At Seth’s urging, FPF drafted a letter, signed by more than 20 press advocacy and rights groups, and sent it directly to St. Lawrence County District Attorney Gary Pasqua.
At some point, one of the others who were arrested mentioned they were offered a deal: The charges would be dropped if they stayed out of trouble for a certain period. They refused, and I would have refused, too, as I was set on taking this case to trial.
My original plan was to represent myself. After all, I have paralegal experience and was trained by an attorney I deeply admire. When I mentioned this to him, he reminded me of the saying, “The man who represents himself has a fool for a client, right big guy?”
After that, I told Seth I wanted to get an attorney, and he suggested contacting the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press. It contacted attorneys on my behalf. Finding someone in northern New York was difficult, but I’m forever thankful for their efforts.
Refusing to bend to the state’s bullying
I was ready to see this through and so were the others. My case had an added dimension — press freedom. A journalist friend told me not to downplay my situation — my being targeted was a threat to all of us. He was right.
While the thought of spending a year in county jail wasn’t appealing, there was no way I would bend to the state’s bullying. That they threatened the others only fueled my justifiable anger.
More importantly, I had my 18-year-old son to think about. My wife and I have always taught him to stand up for his rights, to defend our people in Akwesasne, and to fight for justice. There was no way I would let him see his father fold under government pressure.
Monica, the woman I’ve always known and loved, stayed strong. When I told her I’d take this to trial, no deals, she looked at me and said, “I know. I love you.”
Then, at my last court appearance, I was informed that my case was being dismissed. When I asked the assistant district attorney why, he rudely told me they didn’t have to disclose their reasons for dropping the case against me and all but two others.
Was this entire half-year ordeal just a smoke screen for the state to push through an unjust deal with the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe, the Mohawk Council of Akwesasne, and the Mohawk Nation Council of Chiefs, while sidelining their most vocal “agitators”? It seems a reasonable conclusion.
After all, my record as a journalist in Akwesasne has involved shedding light on what I’ll charitably call questionable decisions by the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe.
The others arrested that day also have been thorns in the side of those pushing the settlement, and that resistance continues to grow as I write this.
The New York Power Authority and New York state believe they have their checkmate because our councils are willing to settle. But this colonial grab won’t be accepted.
The nonsense prosecution I faced is nothing compared to the pain and anger Akwesasne will hold if this settlement is signed. I’d gladly take that year in jail if it meant our land would be returned to us, its rightful stewards. Akwesasne, stand up.
stLouIST