Sitting in my bedroom, the lights dimmed, no one else in the house, I hear it. The roar of the falls fills my ears. I see the tumultuous river foaming over basalt stair-steps. I see the dip-netters of Celilo, bracing themselves on the slippery wooden scaffold, holding their poles over the froth, the fifty-plus pound fish falling into their nets as the salmon fight their way back toward their spawning grounds. The sights, the sounds, the smells, engulf me and, overcome by the majesty of what I see and feel, I rise, open my eyes, and shrivel with disappointment. I have not seen the falls. I will never see the falls.

I am still in my room, swallowing the rage at the helplessness I feel when I look upon this horrible travesty wrought upon nature. I feel sick with grief at the connection I have and the responsibility I feel for the drowning of a culture. I keep my guilt and anger tucked away, afraid of being seen hypocritical if I let it show. I was born too late to stop the event I loathe with my entirety now. Though I long to see the falls, I see nothing but cold, grey cement and the lake behind it.

I cannot remember, but I know. Fifty years ago, the ground trembled with the force of the dynamite as the center of the falls was blasted out of existence. The dam went up. The spill gates closed. The people of Celilo village stood weeping on the banks as the water rose, silencing the thunder of the falls. Their ancient village, along with homes, graves, memories, was buried beneath the mockingly placid pool of water. They were left with nowhere to live, squished between railroad and rock, in the deserted barracks of the people who built the concrete beast that destroyed their old homes.

Their children were taken, forced to attend boarding schools where they were not allowed to practice their religion or speak in their native tongues. They were force-fed English and Christianity, and verbally and physically abused.
The village of Celilo wilted. With barely enough salmon to support Celilo, the tribes that had once come from as far away as the Great Plains to fish and trade stayed away. The once booming economic hub became a sad recollection of grander days; the ghost of something once remarkable.

The native word for Celilo Falls, Wyam, means “sound of water upon rocks,” or “echo of falling water.” To me, Celilo means sorrow; irrational guilt; irrevocable destruction of a landmark, a people, a culture, a history. It is the most disgusting display of power, greed, and utter indifference that I have had the displeasure of encountering. It is a billboard of the white mans money lust; profit from progress for progress’ sake. I close my eyes and submerge myself in the magnificence of the falls, which I can only ever see and hear inside my head.