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- By Elyse Wild
Today, that list has grown into Data for Indigenous Justice, a nonprofit founded and led by Apok that stewards data around Alaska’s MMIP to drive change in the systems that allow the crisis to flourish.
Apok talked to Native News Online about data sovereignty, decentralizing power through advocacy, and how she takes care of herself amid the emotional toll of her work.
Charlene Aqpik Apok
How did you first become involved in MMIP work?
I’ve witnessed and experienced violence for most of my life. I studied Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies and American Ethnic Studies, which are very activist-based. I didn’t always know how education would translate into action, but it gave me the language to name systems and the tools to organize. For me, it all came back to gender-based violence.
In 2018, after the Urban Indian Health Institute released its MMIP report, we held a rally at the Alaska Federation of Natives conference. We wanted to read the names of missing and murdered Indigenous people—but there was no list. There was no database. So, we asked people to write their names down and share their stories. That list became our foundation.
And that became Data for Indigenous Justice?
Yes. I was working in research at the time and realized I had a responsibility to care for that list. I protected it, added to it, and eventually—when it was clear people were trusting us with this information for a reason—I created the nonprofit. I literally Googled how to start a nonprofit.
In 2021, we published the first MMIP report for Alaska. That report is still cited today. We’ve since grown our database to more than 1,000 names.
What role does data sovereignty play in this work?
It’s everything. We have to reclaim our data. We have to own it, protect it, and use it for the benefit of our people. Our systems—law enforcement databases and federal registries—were not built for us. In fact, many were built to erase us. The census, for example, was designed to eliminate Indigenous identity.
But when we collect and steward our own data, we control how it’s used. We decide what healing and justice look like. That’s why we consult with tribes and communities to create community-led data systems tailored to their needs—whether it’s for federal grants, healing events, or policy reform.
Have you had success engaging with government agencies on this?
We’ve chosen to build relationships, even with law enforcement. It’s slow, hard, and not guaranteed, but it’s cultural. We believe in starting with human connection. We ask, “Who are you? Where are you from? Do you have kids?” Then we get to the work.
That said, not every tribal nation chooses to work with law enforcement, and I understand that. I’m an abolitionist at heart. But here in Alaska, our coalition decided that building relationships was our best path forward.
What kinds of resistance have you faced?
One former police chief told me that if he acknowledged the data we presented—that Indigenous people were being treated differently—it would mean admitting they weren’t treating all people the same. He said, “If we start collecting this data, then we’re treating this group differently.” They pride themselves on neutrality, even though we know that’s not the reality.
I told him, “This is the story of your agency, not just my community. I’m going to keep asking questions until these numbers change.” Because that’s what data does—it creates a shared truth. You and I might have different backgrounds, but the numbers are real. They give us common ground to act.
What are some of your recent victories?
Last year, we passed Alaska’s first MMIP bill. It mandates trauma-informed, culturally competent training for law enforcement—renewed regularly. It requires the entry of MMIP cases into federal databases. And it codifies two MMIP investigators into law, which the state has already expanded to four because the need is so great.
We got that bill passed by showing up. We brought 25 Indigenous people to the Capitol, drummed up the steps of the legislature, met with lawmakers, and educated them face-to-face. No one could say they didn’t know about the issue.
That’s incredible. What’s next?
We’re launching a webinar series for families and community members. The first training is on how to file Freedom of Information Act requests—so families can access their own police and court records. We have one on how to navigate NamUs, the missing persons system, and another with the state crime lab to explain DNA processing.
People come to us all the time with questions—survivors, family members, even statisticians and journalists wanting to help. We’re making those connections direct and accessible. Our goal is to decentralize power and equip families to advocate for themselves.
You mentioned the emotional toll of this work. How do you sustain it?
I took a six-month sabbatical last year. It was the hardest and most necessary thing I’ve ever done. I worked with a rest coach and committed to daily meditation. I built a rest program for my team and created a yearlong collective rest circle called Inua, which means “spirit” in our language. It’s a commitment to returning to our highest selves—together.
Rest is resistance. Healing is part of the work. You can’t sustain advocacy, especially in something as devastating as MMIP, without making space for recovery and community care.
What do you want people to know about this issue?
That we will not be erased. Not by underfunded systems. Not by failed data collection. Not by changes in political administration. This work doesn’t stop. Families don’t give up on their loved ones—and we don’t give up on the families.
This crisis didn’t start yesterday. We’ve always been doing this work—before funding, before visibility. And we’ll keep doing it. Real change comes when everyday people step up in their communities. This isn’t just our burden. It’s everyone’s.
Thank you for your time and for everything you do.
Thank you. We need each other. That’s how we make it through.
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