On tribal land at Pala Reservation, Indigenous and independent media makers gathered to resist erasure, share strategies, and build a united front for independent journalism rooted in community truth-telling.
Magazine, The Immigrant Experience, By Pamela Anchang, Managing Editor
At a gathering on the ancestral lands of the Pala Band of Mission Indians, journalists and ethnic media leaders from across Southern California came together—not just to report, but to reconnect. As immigrant and Indigenous communities face mounting political and social pressures, the day was a call to solidarity, story, and strategy.
The day opened at Rez Radio 91.3 FM, where Eric Ortega, host of Pala Life Past and Present, welcomed attendees with a clear intent: to create meaningful networks across underrepresented media. “We’re all small,” he said. “But what we cover matters—especially when larger media ignore it.”
Ortega outlined the urgent need for tribal emergency communication systems, particularly in remote areas prone to being cut off during crises. He described a vision where translators across reservations could amplify radio signals, sharing news and alerts across tribal nations. “Right now, we’re too disconnected,” he said. “We need infrastructure that keeps our communities informed.”
The gathering, co-hosted by Indian Voices and supported by ACoM, American Community Media, ensured independent outlets—including Filipino Press, FNX, El Informador, Nguoi Viet Daily, and Myanmar Gazette—were represented. The day quickly transitioned from networking to collective strategy as attendees moved from the station to a nearby camp area, where the discussion turned personal and political, often shaped by the tension surrounding ongoing immigration raids.
Gerardo Garcia Coda, a Kumeyaay tribal member, shared his traumatic encounter with ICE agents who detained him despite his legal residence on tribal land. He was hospitalized after being held in a van with the heat turned dangerously high. “They told me this wasn’t my land,” he said. “But my people have been here since before borders. We can’t let them divide us.”
That trauma resonated throughout the circle. Many journalists admitted they, too, had faced intimidation—not for breaking laws, but for doing their jobs. “We carry press passes,” one reporter said, “but are still treated like threats.”
This fear is not abstract. Several participants cited the recent killings of two U.S. citizens, Alex Pretti and Renée Good, by federal immigration agents in Minneapolis. The incidents have become flashpoints, fueling protest and renewed debate about overreach by immigration enforcement.
“These killings prove what we already know,” said a Southeast Asian journalist. “Citizenship doesn’t protect you if you look like an outsider. That’s why we need to control our narratives.”
For Pamela Anchang, editor of The Immigrant Magazine, the gathering affirmed her mission: to humanize the immigrant experience. “Even those of us here legally walk in fear,” she said. “That should tell you everything. Journalism is not a crime. And no one is illegal.”
Anchang emphasized the need to integrate Indigenous voices into broader immigrant coverage, referencing past campaigns like Stop the Hate, where her team worked with Native communities in Los Angeles. “Our issues intersect,” she said. “We are all fighting dehumanization.”
Rose Davis, founder of Indian Voices, whose initiative brought the gathering to life, echoed the need for solidarity. She grounded the gathering in its deeper purpose. “We’re here not just to network, but to remember our power,” she said. “The media we create must push back against oligarchs trying to control the narrative. We planted seeds today. Let’s grow them.”
The forum closed with an Ancestral Talking Circle around a bonfire. Attendees were invited to speak not as reporters, but as members of a shared media ecosystem. A Native singer concluded the night with songs in an Indigenous language, paying tribute to the land and ancestors.
For many, it felt more like a retreat than a conference. And in the space between stories, a commitment was made: to protect independent media, not as branding, but as survival.
A Reflection from Pamela Anchang
As an African immigrant, standing on the Pala Reservation stirred in me a familiar and unexpected sense of belonging. The calm of the land, the reverence for ancestors, and the spirit of community mirrored so many spaces I’ve known across the African continent. Eric Ortega shared that the reservation is rich in flora and fauna, a sanctuary where people live in harmony with all living beings. It reminded me of the hills of Bamenda or the forests outside Douala—places where life, land, and spirit are inextricably linked.
For many Black immigrants in San Diego—including those from Somalia, Eritrea, Cameroon, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Ghana, Congo, and Haiti—this gathering at Pala felt like home. We come as refugees, asylees, lawful permanent residents, and undocumented strivers. Some of us fled war, others poverty or political repression. But what we carry with us, beyond the trauma, is the memory of gathering—around fires, under trees, in village courtyards—to tell stories, to mourn, to dream, and to decide our next steps together.
The Ancestral Talking Circle was not just a ceremony—it was counsel. It reminded me of village meetings back in Cameroon, where elders guide, and everyone, even the youngest, has a voice. The singer’s voice that rose in tribute to the ancestors was a spiritual call familiar to any African ear: a lament, a memory, a blessing.
What moved me most was how every community present—from AAPI and Latino to Black and Native—brought stories of resilience. I sat beside social justice advocates, radio hosts, print journalists, and digital storytellers who have faced surveillance, displacement, and even death threats, simply for amplifying truth. I listened to white allies who now feel fear in a way they never imagined—who admitted they carry passports within U.S. borders, just in case.
We, as African immigrants, often find ourselves navigating liminal spaces—told we are welcome but treated with suspicion. This is a truth we share with Indigenous peoples, whose very presence is still contested on the land of their ancestors. And yet, in places like Pala, we are reminded that the land remembers. The land holds.
This gathering was not a networking event. It was a spiritual restoration. It affirmed the dignity of storytelling, the necessity of independent media, and the sacred responsibility we have to each other. We are not just communities in struggle. We are communities in communion.
Around that fire, for one night, the lines between immigrant and Indigenous, documented and undocumented, and journalist and subject blurred. We were just people, holding space for one another. And in that space, something ancient was restored.
That, to me, is what healing looks like. And that is why we must protect independent media—not as a brand, but as a lifeline.
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