What we are witnessing in this moment is not simply the appointment of Markwayne Mullin (Cherokee Nation) to the position of Secretary of Homeland Security. It is a deeper test, one that reaches into the heart of what sovereignty truly means in this era following the McGirt v. Oklahoma decision.
Beneath the political language, beneath the ceremony and the symbolism, lies a question that Indigenous peoples have carried for generations: will the United States finally honor what it has already agreed to, or will it continue to reinterpret those agreements in ways that diminish their original meaning?
The truth is not hidden. The treaties made between the United States and Indigenous nations were not symbolic gestures. They were nation-to-nation agreements, entered into with full recognition that Indigenous peoples were—and remain—independent political entities.
These treaties did not erase sovereignty. These treaties defined the terms under which coexistence would occur. Sovereignty was never surrendered wholesale. It was negotiated, piece by piece, under specific conditions. To now treat that sovereignty as something “managed,” conditional, or subject to federal convenience is not only a legal distortion, it is a moral failure.
We have seen how this distortion plays out on the ground. At places like Fort Snelling, where Indigenous relatives have recently been detained, history is not past. It is present. Fort Snelling is not just a federal site; it is a place marked by the suffering of Dakota people during the 1862 removal.
When Indigenous citizens are detained there again, and when tribes must negotiate or even concede authority just to obtain information about their own people, we are not witnessing isolated incidents. We are witnessing a continuation of a long pattern: the use of federal power to pressure, extract, and control, while framing those actions as administrative necessity.
In this context, the appointment of an Indigenous individual to a high federal office becomes complicated. Representation, in itself, is not sovereignty. Identity, in itself, is not power. When the President remarks that he might have made a “quicker decision” had he known more about Mullin’s heritage, it reveals something deeper: Indigenous identity can be used as a shield, a way to soften criticism while continuing the same underlying policies.
It becomes harder to challenge actions when they are carried out by someone who shares ancestry with those affected. But shared ancestry does not automatically translate into shared accountability to the people.
This is the tension that leaders like Chuck Hoskin Jr. must navigate. Their responsibilities are immense. They must secure resources, protect services, and ensure the survival of their communities within a system that still controls much of the economic and political landscape.
Seeking a “seat at the table” can feel necessary. Yet we must ask, with clarity and courage: when does that seat become a constraint? When does participation in the system begin to erode the very sovereignty it is meant to protect?
Since McGirt, we have seen a subtle but powerful shift. Sovereignty is increasingly framed not as an inherent right but as a logistical challenge, something to be coordinated, negotiated, or streamlined. Language like “collaboration” is often used, but it too often masks a deeper reality: tribes are being asked to give up authority to maintain stability.
This is not a true partnership. It is pressure. And when sovereignty must be traded for safety, what remains is not sovereignty at all. It is survival under constraint.
We must be absolutely clear. The sovereignty of Indigenous nations does not come from federal recognition. It predates the United States itself. It is rooted in the original laws, governance systems, and relationships with the land that existed long before colonial governments arrived.
Treaties did not create that sovereignty. They acknowledged it. And unless a treaty explicitly states otherwise, that sovereignty has never been relinquished.
Anything that attempts to dilute this truth—whether through policy, rhetoric, or the strategic use of Indigenous identity—is unacceptable. It does not matter who is appointed or how they are presented.
No individual, no administration, and no institution has the authority to redefine the fundamental nationhood of Indigenous peoples. That authority was never given away.
So this moment calls for vigilance and clarity. We cannot confuse representation with transformation. We cannot mistake access for justice. And we cannot allow the language of inclusion to obscure the reality of control.
The path forward requires that we stand firmly in what is already known: Indigenous nations are sovereign. They have always been sovereign. And any future that seeks to be just must begin, not by managing that sovereignty, but by fully honoring it.
This is the unbreakable line that my Deksi, Vine Deloria Jr. stood for: Sovereignty is not something that has ever been given to us, and it is not something that can be taken away by convenience, policy, or political appointment. It is inherent. It lives within our nations, our laws, our relationship to the land, and our responsibilities to our people. It must be lived, practiced, and defended—not spoken of as theory, but carried as truth in every generation.
The treaties our ancestors entered into were not acts of surrender. They were agreements between nations, made with the clear understanding that only certain rights were shared, and everything not explicitly given up was retained. Our power was not erased—it was preserved. And to reinterpret those treaties now as tools of limitation is to violate both their spirit and their legal meaning.
Each generation carries the sacred responsibility to protect what was never relinquished. Sovereignty does not survive on recognition alone—it survives through vigilance, through courage, and through the refusal to allow it to be diminished, negotiated away, or quietly absorbed into systems that were never meant to honor it fully.
We must also be clear that representation is not the same as power. When identity is placed in positions of authority without true independence, it can become a mask—one that gives the appearance of progress while allowing the same structures of control to continue underneath. We cannot mistake visibility for sovereignty, nor access for freedom.
True nationhood is not granted by any federal government. It is rooted in our lands, our responsibilities, our relationships, and our original laws. It is carried in action, in governance, and in the way we uphold our obligations to one another and to Mother Earth. It does not depend on permission.
And because of this, there is a line that cannot be crossed. Our sovereignty cannot be surrendered, under pressure, under negotiation, or under the illusion of inclusion. It remains what it has always been: inherent, enduring, and beyond the authority of any system to redefine.