By Frank Hopper for Yes! Magazine.
Broadcast version by Eric Tegethoff for Washington News Service reporting for the Yes! Magazine-Public News Service Collaboration

This month marks four years since Manuel Ellis, a 33-year-old African American man, was killed by Tacoma police. Despite the all-too-familiar injustice of the killing, something happened in the aftermath that had never before occurred in Washington state: The police who killed him were put on trial for murder.

Although the officers were found not guilty, the trial itself would not have happened at all if not for the Puyallup tribe and their years-long struggle to change the law that protected police in Washington from being prosecuted for killing suspects in the line of duty.

The Puyallup tribe of Washington has always been a protector of Native rights, especially during the Red Power movement of the 1960s and 1970s. They fought back when the state of Washington tried to take away their treaty-protected fishing rights during the fishing wars of the 1970s.

They also fought back against federal termination and relocation policies with the 1969 takeover of Alcatraz and the 1970 takeover of Seattle's Fort Lawton. They fought alongside the Oglala Lakota against the federal support of a corrupt puppet tribal government at the 1973 occupation of Wounded Knee.

They never backed down at these and many other direct actions. So when one of their own, Puyallup tribal member Jacqueline Salyers, was brutally and senselessly gunned down by Tacoma police in 2016, they consulted with the elders who had organized and led many of the tribe's early direct actions.

The result was the passage of the nation's first police accountability bill, Washington state's Initiative 940, which removed the immunity the police once had that historically allowed them to murder citizens with impunity.

Jackie's Murder

On Jan. 3, 2016, Puyallup tribal member Lisa Earl got a call from a Tacoma police detective about her daughter, Jacqueline Salyers, who went by Jackie. Earl was at the Puyallup tribe's Little Wild Wolves Youth Center where she worked as a youth coordinator.

"He asked if I knew the whereabouts of my daughter," Earl recalls, "because she was known to be with Kenneth Wright, who had a warrant out for his arrest and they needed to get ahold of him."

Earl explained to the detective that she and her family were also looking for Salyers. Kenneth Wright, Salyers' abusive boyfriend, had been keeping her away from her family, according to Earl. He had even threatened Earl's life, telling Salyers if her mother didn't stop bothering him, he would kill her.

"I was afraid for my life. I told the detective, 'I want you to catch him!'" Earl explains. "'I want my daughter back! I want her to come home!'"

A few weeks later, on January 28, Salyers was shot four times by Officer Scott Campbell. He said she had tried to run him over while he and another officer were attempting to arrest her boyfriend. She died a few minutes later, just after midnight on January 29.

Later that day, James Rideout, Salyers' uncle and Earl's brother, heard about the shooting and found his sister at the medical examiner's office, hysterical. He drove to the crime scene in East Tacoma and found the entire area cordoned off. He couldn't get anywhere near where the shooting happened. A local news reporter offhandedly told him he thought the shooting was going to be deemed justified.

"Why would you say that?" Rideout remembers saying. "They haven't even investigated this case!"

The reporter knew the facts weren't important; police were protected from prosecution.

The Alleged Cover-Up

According to a 2021 story in the Tacoma News Tribune, official police reports state an informant had told Officer Campbell of Wright's whereabouts. Campbell and another officer located Wright's vehicle and pulled up in front of it. Salyers and Wright were inside. After seeing Wright, who was considered armed and dangerous, they drew their weapons and approached the vehicle, screaming at Wright to put his hands in the air.

Salyers, who was in the driver's seat, was startled, turned the ignition on, and began driving away. Campbell relates he felt sure Salyers was trying to run him over, although she was only "crawling" according to Wright.

Campbell fired seven rounds at Salyers. She was hit four times, two bullets penetrating her abdomen and head.

Right from the beginning, Rideout could tell the official story didn't add up. A bullet hole was present in the driver's door, indicating Campbell was not in front of the car when he fired.

According to an official investigation by Tacoma police, after the shooting Wright grabbed a rifle, crawled over Salyers' body, got out the driver's side door, and ran off. Campbell and his partner, Officer Aaron Joseph, chased Wright, but apparently lost him and broke off pursuit, supposedly afraid Wright would fire at them from a hidden position.

Mysteriously, a police surveillance camera mounted in the area that should have captured the entire event "malfunctioned" according to police reports.

The Community Response

Salyers had been active in the Puyallup tribe. Many had grown up with her and remembered her loving personality and concern for others.

Adding to the tragedy, the medical examiner determined she was pregnant at the time of the shooting. Earl and her family not only lost a beloved daughter, they also lost a new member of the next generation.

"You need to do something," Rideout remembers telling the tribal council. "And they did. They responded."

Council members Sylvia Miller and Tim Reynon, along with tribal elder Ramona Bennett and other influential members of the community, began meeting weekly at the Little Wild Wolves Youth Center to plan how the tribe would respond.

The elders had experience with activism going back to the 1960s. Over the years they had fought with police over many issues, including fishing and land rights. They had been beaten, tear-gassed, and incarcerated. They knew what they were facing, and they were not afraid.

Bennett, now 85, was a veteran of many battles, standoffs, and occupations, and she suspected a possible cover-up in Salyers' case, after the police realized what they'd done.

"'Now look what you did! You killed that stupid Indian girl!' That's what Ramona Bennett said [the police] would say," Earl recalls.

The Birth of Initiative 940

Bennett knew from experience that change would only come about through publicity, cooperation with other groups, and community support. So she recommended they stage a march. On March 16, 2016, Earl led a procession of nearly 300 people from the Puyallup tribe's administration building to the federal courthouse in downtown Tacoma.

To her surprise, many other families of police shooting victims joined them in support.

"We didn't have any clue until Jackie was killed that there were so many others out there going through the same thing as we were," Earl remembers.

Over time, attendance at the weekly community meetings at the tribe's youth center grew. Families of other police murder victims shared their stories and discussed what they could do to address the problem.

One supporter was Rick Williams, the older brother of John T. Williams, who had been shot by Seattle police officer Ian Birk on Aug. 30, 2010. According to Birk, Williams, 50, was carrying an open pocket knife and refused to drop it. Williams was a seventh-generation master carver of the Ditidaht tribe who was carving a board as he walked down the street.

Dashcam footage of the incident clearly indicated that after Birk exited his patrol car, he almost immediately fired at the nearly blind and partially deaf Williams.

King County prosecutor Dan Satterberg announced he could not charge Birk with murder due to a clause in state law, enacted in 1986 during the height of the crack cocaine epidemic, that said unless it can be proven a police officer acted with evil intent or malice, they cannot be prosecuted for killing suspects. Since malice is a mental state, it is nearly impossible to prove its presence in a court of law, giving police in Washington nearly complete immunity to kill suspects.

Rick Williams had since been working to change the law. He campaigned and collected signatures for Washington state Initiative 873, known as the John T. Williams Bill. It was written by police reform advocate Lisa Hayes after the unjustified Seattle police shooting of Che Taylor in February 2016.

The initiative failed to get enough signatures to be put on the ballot but later became the template the families at the Puyallup community meetings used to draft Initiative 940.

Along with the families of many other police shooting victims and the financial support of every federally recognized tribe in Washington state, the Puyallup tribe successfully gathered 360,000 signatures to get the initiative on the ballot. And in 2018 Washington voters passed Initiative 940 into law.

How the New Law Affected the Police Killing of Manuel Ellis

Manuel Ellis died in 2020 while Tacoma police held him face down on the ground, put a bag over his head, and kneeled on his neck, causing him to die of hypoxia, or lack of breath, just as in the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis. If his death had happened before the passage of Initiative 940, the three officers responsible for his death, Matthew Collins, Christopher Burbank, and Timothy Rankine, would never have been charged with a crime or put on trial.

Due to the new law, however, Collins and Burbank were charged with second-degree murder and manslaughter and Rankine was charged with manslaughter.

All three officers were acquitted on Dec. 21, 2023, by a mostly white jury, and the city of Tacoma paid them $500,000 each to resign. This outcome is considered "perverse" by Ellis' family and supporters.

Chester Earl, Salyers' cousin, feels the issue of white privilege played a major role in the verdict. He thinks the white jurors had no experience dealing with police racism and violence. He feels they probably believe the police are always right.

"You got to remember, all's we been able to do with 940 is give the prosecutors the opportunity to charge and convict and take them to court. We can't make prosecutors argue it in a certain way," he explains.

The fight for true police reform will likely take years and will require a major shift in how the public feels about the role of law enforcement in our society. Salyers' tragic murder, however, caused a major step in that direction, according to her uncle, James Rideout.

"What makes me most proud," he says, "is she brought the best out in me to do something that has never been done in the history of the United States, and that's to change this law for the protection of our future generations. And I thank her, and it'll be a lifetime before I can tell her, 'You changed our entire tribe and community forever, and you will always, always be remembered. We will never forget you. Your life mattered.'"


Frank Hopper wrote this article for Yes! Magazine.


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Montana's Indigenous population is pushing back against efforts to limit ballot collection on tribal lands.

Many members of the state's seven tribes live several hours from the nearest polling place. The Montana Supreme Court has ruled two laws make it prohibitive for people living on reservations to reach a polling place or mail an absentee ballot before Election Day. The state is now asking the U.S. Supreme Court to review that ruling.

Ronnie Jo Horse, executive director of the group Western Native Voice, said they collect ballots from tribal residents who face transportation and other hurdles that keep them from getting to a physical polling place and added the service was very important during the pandemic.

"We had a novel virus going around," Horse pointed out. "A lot of people were afraid to leave their houses because Native Americans had a really high mortality rate than any other group in America."

The bills ended Election Day voter registration and third-party ballot collection services in Montana but the state's high court ruled them unconstitutional and stopped them from taking effect.

The American Civil Liberties Union said voters on tribal lands have "disproportionately relied on" Election Day voter registration and ballot collection services in Montana to cast ballots. Horse stressed the critical services need to be protected.

"If they did put (up) more barriers or even take away ballot collection, those will actually put up barriers for all of Montana, not only Native Americans, to make that decision and cast their vote," Horse contended.

Election Day registration has been the law in Montana for 15 years and efforts to end it were seen as measures to make voting for Indigenous people more difficult. Early voting in Montana starts Oct. 7.


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By Robert Bordeaux for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mike Moen for Wisconsin News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Language is the center-point of any culture. For Indigenous people, keeping and carrying forward their language becomes a decolonial act — a reclamation of space. 

This has been Laura C. Red Eagle’s journey. A writer and language enthusiast, Red Eagle is a member of the Ho-Chunk Nation, whose traditional territories include land in Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, and Illinois.

Red Eagle grew up in rural Wisconsin with her non-native mother, away from her Ho-chunk communities in the area. During this time, she had trouble navigating her identity, culture, and community. Her father’s family were fluent Ho-chunk speakers, but they spoke to her in English when they shared space. In high school, Red Eagle decided to start learning her traditional language. She joined a language camp offered by the Ho-chunk community in Black River Falls. This lit the fire to her language-learning journey.

Over the years, she noticed a deep yearning to create community around language learning. Post-secondary education didn’t offer what she was hoping for. Determined, she decided to gather her own resources. 

These resources were few and far between — common for many Indigenous languages. As oral languages, resources weren’t created until colonial contact. Made by non-speakers, non-native individuals and organizations, complications arose around the control of translations and learning methods, and access to these materials. 

A Space to Share

Red Eagle tracked down a tape that offered Ho-chunk for colors, numbers, and animals, but she craved to dive deeper.

Then, a timely interaction set the stage for her next chapter of language-learning. At her father’s funeral, she heard Jon Greendeer (current president of Ho-Chunk Nation) speak in Ho-Chunk. After a conversation, he offered resources and other community members to connect with around the language. The importance of community learning spaces kept surfacing for Red Eagle. 

“Learning the language in a judgment-free zone opens doors into learning about history, the ways of thinking, and being, and what is important, and so much more,” she says.

Her perseverance led to the Indigenous Language Table at the Wisconsin Institute for Discovery (WID) in Madison. It’s a space for active language practice beyond the classroom. The Indigenous Language Table is a communal gathering that meets once a week. It emphasizes the importance of using the language in everyday conversations.

To young Indigenous people and new language learners, Red Eagle says: find a class, build a community, and create spaces for language use. 

Red Eagle remains steadfast in creating a supportive community for language learners, even with the struggles of language revitalization work. “Language is ultimately about connecting as human beings and creating a sense of belonging,” she says. She envisions more Indigenous Language Tables across Wisconsin and beyond. Her story is a testament to the resilience and dedication required to revive and sustain Indigenous languages. Her efforts with the Indigenous Language Table offer a blueprint for creating vibrant language communities.


Robert Bordeaux wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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By Arielle Zionts and Katheryn Houghton for KFF Health News.
Broadcast version by Kathleen Shannon for Greater Dakota News Service reporting for the KFF Health News-Public News Service Collaboration

When the Indian Health Service can't provide medical care to Native Americans, the federal agency can refer them elsewhere. But each year, it rejects tens of thousands of requests to fund those appointments, forcing patients to go without treatment or pay daunting medical bills out of their own pockets.

In theory, Native Americans are entitled to free health care when the Indian Health Service foots the bill at its facilities or sites managed by tribes. In reality, the agency is chronically underfunded and understaffed, leading to limited medical services and leaving vast swaths of the country without easy access to care.

Its Purchased/Referred Care program aims to fill gaps by paying outside providers for services patients might be unable to get through an agency-funded clinic or hospital, such as cancer treatment or pregnancy care. But resource shortages, complex rules, and administrative fumbles severely impede access to the referral program, according to patients, elected officials, and people who work with the agency.

The Indian Health Service, part of the Department of Health and Human Services, serves about 2.6 million Native Americans and Alaska Natives.

Native Americans qualify for the referred-care program if they live on tribal land - only 13% do - or within their nation's "delivery area," which usually includes surrounding counties. Those who live in another tribe's delivery area are eligible in limited cases, while Native Americans who live beyond such borders are excluded.

Eligible patients aren't guaranteed funding or timely help, however. Some of the Indian Health Service's 170 service units exhaust their annual pool of money or reserve it for the most serious medical concerns.

Referred-care programs denied or deferred nearly $552 million in spending for about 120,000 requests from eligible patients in fiscal year 2022.

As a result, Native Americans might forgo care, increasing the risk of death or serious illness for people with preventable or treatable medical conditions.

The problem isn't new. Federal watchdog agencies have reported concerns with the program for decades.

Connie Brushbreaker, a member of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe, has been denied or waitlisted for funding at least 14 times since 2018. She said it doesn't make sense that the agency sometimes refuses to pay for treatment that will later be approved once a health problem becomes more serious and expensive.

"We try to do this preventative stuff before something gets to the point where you need surgery," said Brushbreaker, who lives on her tribe's reservation in South Dakota.

Many Native Americans say the U.S. government is violating its treaties with tribal nations, which often promised to provide for the health and welfare of tribes in return for their land.

"I keep having my elders here saying, 'There's treaty rights that say they're supposed to be able to provide these services to us,'" said Lyle Rutherford, a council member for the Blackfeet Nation in northwestern Montana who said he also worked at the Indian Health Service for 11 years.

Native Americans have high rates of diseases compared with the general population, and a median age of death that's 14 years younger than that of white people. Researchers who have studied the issue say many problems stem from colonization and government policies such as forcing Indigenous people into boarding schools and isolated reservations and making them give up healthy traditions, including bison hunting and religious ceremonies. They also cite an ongoing lack of health funding.

Congress budgeted nearly $7 billion for the Indian Health Service this year, of which roughly $1 billion is set aside for the referred-care program. A committee of tribal health and government leaders has long made funding recommendations that far exceed the agency's budget. Its latest report says the Indian Health Service needs $63 billion to cover patients' needs for fiscal year 2026, including $10 billion for referred care.

Brendan White, an agency spokesperson, said improving the referred-care program is a top goal of the Indian Health Service. He said about 83% of the health units it manages have been able to approve all eligible funding requests this year.

White said the agency recently improved how referred-care programs prioritize such requests and it is tackling staff shortages that can slow down the process. An estimated third of positions within the referred-care program were unfilled as of June, he said.

The Indian Health Service also recently expanded some delivery areas to include more people and is studying whether it can afford to create statewide eligibility in the Dakotas.

Jonni Kroll of the Little Shell Tribe of Chippewa Indians of Montana doesn't qualify for the referred-care program because she lives in Deer Park, Washington, nearly 400 miles from her tribe's headquarters.

She said tying eligibility to tribal lands echoes old government policies meant to keep Indigenous people in one place, even if it means less access to jobs, education, and health care.

Kroll, 58, said she sometimes worries about the medical costs of aging. Moving to qualify for the program is unrealistic.

"We have people that live all across the nation," she said. "What do we do? Sell our homes, leave our families and our jobs?"

People applying for funding face a system so complicated that the Indian Health Service created flowcharts outlining the process.

Misty and Adam Heiden, of Mandan, North Dakota, experienced that firsthand. Their nearest Indian Health Service hospital no longer offers birthing services. So, late last year, Misty Heiden asked the referred-care program to pay for the delivery of their baby at an outside facility.

Heiden, 40, is a member of the Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate, a South Dakota-based tribe, but lives within the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe's delivery area. Native Americans who live in another tribe's area, as she does, are eligible if they have close ties. Even though she is married to a Standing Rock tribal member, Heiden was deemed ineligible by hospital staff.

Now, the family has had to cut into its grocery budget to help pay off more than $1,000 in medical debt.

"It was kind of a slap in the face," Adam Heiden said.

White, the Indian Health Service spokesperson, said many providers offer educational materials to help patients understand eligibility. But the Standing Rock rules, for example, aren't fully explained in its brochure.

When patients are eligible, their needs are ranked using a medical priority list.

Connie Brushbreaker's doctor at the Indian Health Service hospital in Rosebud, South Dakota, said she needed to see an orthopedic surgeon. But hospital staffers said the unit covers only patients at imminent risk of dying.

She said that, at one point, a worker at the referred-care program told her she could handle her pain, which was so intense she had to limit work duties and rely on her husband to put her hair in a ponytail.

"I feel like I am being tossed aside, like I do not matter," Brushbreaker wrote in an appeal letter. "I am begging you to reconsider."

The 55-year-old was eventually approved for funding and had surgery this July, two years after injuring her shoulder and four months after her referral.

Patients said they sometimes have trouble reaching referred-care departments due to staffing problems.

Patti Conica, a member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, needed emergency care after developing a serious infection in June 2023. She said she applied for funding to cover the cost but has yet to receive a decision on her case despite repeated phone calls to referred-care staffers and in-person visits.

"I've been given the runaround," said Conica, 58, who lives in Fort Yates, North Dakota, her tribe's headquarters.

She now faces more than $1,500 in medical bills, some of which have been turned over to a collection agency.

Tyler Tordsen, a Republican state lawmaker and member of the Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate in South Dakota, says the referred-care program needs more funding but officials could also do a "better job managing their finances."

Some service units have large amounts of leftover funding. But it's unclear how much of this money is unspent dollars versus earmarked for approved cases going through billing.

Meanwhile, more tribes are managing their health care facilities - an arrangement that still uses agency money - to try new ways to improve services.

Many also try to help patients receive outside care in other ways. That can include offering free transportation to appointments, arranging for specialists to visit reservations, or creating tribal health insurance programs.

For Brushbreaker, begging for funding "felt like I had to sell my soul to the IHS gods."

"I'm just tired of fighting the system," she said.


Arielle Zionts and Katheryn Houghton wrote this story for KFF Health News.


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