In the Mojave Desert, periodic windstorms scour the landscape and polish the stars in the night sky. Outside the Avi Hotel and Casino on the banks of the Colorado River the wind is blowing with ferocity. Huge flags of the United States of America, the State of California and the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe strain at their tether. Long ropes whip their poles in a furious cadence. Tumble weeds dance helplessly across the sand, and a raven, buffeted by gusts, takes refuge in a thicket of mesquite trees.

Inside the hotel, a meeting between representatives of the lower Colorado River Indian Tribes and the federal government is coming to a close. Tribal leaders take turns expressing their adamant opposition to the proposal for a radioactive waste dump at Ward Valley in an area next to their reservations and on land considered sacred aboriginal territory. The Tribal leaders speak with a dignified and urgent eloquence and explain that they will not and cannot move from a place they have inhabited "since time immemorial."

They speak of their profound and solemn relationship with the natural landscape, the plants, animals, and water. They explain that the dump would threaten the desert tortoise and the Colorado River and endanger their health and economic future. They describe how the dump proposal would violate their sovereignty and environmental justice mandates. They demand that the government stop the ill-conceived dump project.

A Mohave elder rises to speak. As she sings a traditional song describing her people's tie to the land, even the most disaffected bureaucrats take notice and listen. But do they hear? I look around the room, across a great cultural chasm and wonder how these government representatives, influenced by political pressure and cultural bias, will be able to understand the elder's vital relationship with the land and the depth of commitment and resistance by those who oppose the dump.