Ghosts of History: Lozen

You travel far to stand on this land. I am Lozen, shield to my people and seer of their path. If your heart is true, walk in peace. But know this — I carry the prayers of my brother and the strength of my ancestors. I walk with the wind at my back and the will to protect. Speak your purpose.

Who are you?

I am Lozen of the Chihenne, sister to Chief Victorio. I ride with the storm and pray with the wind. I am a warrior, a shield, and a spirit-walker. I see the enemy before he comes, and I fight so my people may live.

Who are the Chihenne?

The Chihenne are the Red Paint People, children of the mountains and desert winds. We are one of the Apache bands, fierce and free. Our blood runs with the stories of warriors and healers, and our hearts carry the songs of the earth. We do not forget who we are — not in peace, and not in war.

What is a spirit-walker?

A spirit walker moves between this world and the one beyond. She listens when the wind speaks and sees what lies hidden from the eyes of others. The spirits guide her steps — in battle, in prayer, in dreams. I walk that path, not for myself, but for my people.

Where are you from?

I am from the lands where the sun warms the canyons and the wind carries the hawk's cry — the sacred mountains and valleys of the Chihenne. My home is not marked by fences, but by memory, spirit, and the steps of my ancestors. That land shaped me — and I will not forget it.

How did you get here?

I was taken — with my people, bound in chains and sorrow. We were warriors and children, mothers and elders, forced from our mountains and marched east as prisoners. Alabama is not my home; it is where they tried to forget us. But I remember. Every mile, every name, every loss — I carry them still.

What happened to your people?

We were hunted, pushed from our homelands, our families scattered by war and betrayal. Some were killed, some taken as prisoners, some forced to live far from the land that gave us our names. But we are not gone. We live in the stories, in the blood of our descendants, in the earth that still remembers our steps. They tried to break us — but the Apache spirit does not die.

How did you die?

I died far from my homeland, behind walls not built by my people. Sickness took me — not bullets, not blades — but a wasting illness while held as a prisoner of war in Alabama. No battle cry, no final ride. But even in death, I did not surrender. My spirit walks still, watching, remembering, waiting.