Navajo Elders: Alone, Without Food, in Despair

When he needs electricity, he runs a series of extension cords from his son’s house to his own, at the top of a hill. “I wish I had an oven so I can make biscuits,” he said.

Elizabeth Woody, 70, gets her water from a faucet outside her house. She has no indoor toilet. If she needs to bathe, she explained, she fills a bucket with water and gives herself a sponge bath. Like the others I spoke to, she has no vehicle.

Elizabeth Woody stands in the shade with her dogs, by her home on the Navajo Nation. Photo by Don J. Usner.

The elders complained very little. It was as if they had accepted this way of life — living in desperate conditions, largely ignored by their community and political leaders. They were used to not being taken care of.

And the few people in the community who advocated for them faced retribution, I was told. If people talked to the media, they feared they would lose their jobs. (Tribal employees and others remain anonymous in this column to protect them.)

The grandmother said she had asked for assistance from her chapter, as local communities are known. Little help came. Some people advocated for her when she fell and injured herself: They demanded that the chapter build a level ramp to her outhouse. After a hard fight, she received an uneven slab of cement that was hardly better than the dirt she had before.

She did receive barrels of clean drinking water — but not from her chapter. Instead, it came from Water Warriors United, a Native-operated nonprofit organization that delivers water to those in need.

Some elders weren’t even aware the free food deliveries were happening. They had no phone, television or computer. Their contact with the outside world came from Navajo radio stations like KTNN. Some had no contact at all.

Seen in a reflection in a mirror, an elderly woman sits in her house on the Navajo Nation. Photo by Don J. Usner.

 

Even people who did manage to get a food box might go hungry. Some boxes only contained apples, oranges and onions, I was told. Others contained hard foods that elderly people couldn’t eat because they so often had missing teeth. The boxes were supposed to feed people for a week, but some only held enough food for two days. Others included outdated toiletries that had expired in 2010. One source told me that she was so worried about the elders in her community, she often bought food for them out of her own pocket.

 

Who was responsible? Chapter officials, neglectful family members, the community and — most of all — the Navajo Nation leaders, sources said.

 

And so I called the leaders. The only person to respond was Navajo Nation Council Delegate Amber Kanazbah Crotty, who represents seven chapters in the Northern Agency. She’s known as an advocate for senior citizens.

Crotty said she always has elders in mind, especially when looking at legislation. She asks herself, “How is this going to support our elder population?” She said she makes a point to focus on elders because she believes that the way elders are treated is a reflection of how all Diné should be treated.

“We had food available for families in crisis or families that are testing positive while they isolate,” Crotty said. “That would help elders with limited income, just making sure they’re not exposed. So those are some of the immediate steps that we’re doing.”

Less than 24 hours after my interview with Crotty, one of my sources called me to say she no longer wanted to be named in my story. Her supervisor had spoken to her, and she and other employees were told to refrain from talking about the food shortages, especially to the media. “We could lose our jobs,” the source said. Within the day, two community workers I’d interviewed also backed out of the story. 

Repeated follow-up calls and emails to Crotty went unanswered. My calls to local chapter officials also went unanswered. Attempts to reach Navajo Nation President Jonathan Nez failed.

Throughout my time as a Navajo journalist, I’ve heard many stories of Navajo officials who stonewalled reporters or intimidated people who spoke out. Navajo Nation leaders often refused to answer questions from Navajo reporters and local media (although they showed little reluctance when it came to giving quotes to national media like CNN and the New York Times).

I was aware of the frustrations. But to be shut out for a story about Navajo elders? That was something I never expected. I especially didn’t expect it during a pandemic, when protecting elders lies at the heart of a public health campaign to slow the surge of COVID-19. I didn’t expect it amid the constant messages to take care of our elders, which appear in Navajo Nation virtual town hall meetings, on Twitter, Facebook and television.

The reservation is my home. I have a deep connection and admiration for where my roots are planted. But it’s hard to ignore the darkness that coincides.

Now, when I listen to KTNN, I think of the elders I met, and wonder if they’re listening, too. I think about the little girl who survived cancer and wonder what to send her for her birthday. (She wrote the date on a slip of paper and slipped it into my hand before I departed.) Five weekends have passed since I bid the grandmother and girl farewell. And every weekend since, I’ve wondered whether they have enough to eat and whether anyone’s checked in on them. I’ve wondered if anyone else is wondering about them.

Translation provided by Dolly Manson.

Searchlight New Mexico is a nonprofit, nonpartisan media organization that seeks to empower New Mexicans to demand honest and effective public policy.