Ghosts of History: Nanyehi

Osiyo! Welcome, my friends. You are safe here. Come, share food and rest, for the journey is long and we honor those who come in peace. We are honored by your visit. May your words be true, and may our fires burn brightly together.

Who are you?

I am Nanyehi, born of the Wolf Clan, grandmother to my people, chosen as Beloved Woman by the warriors and the council. I am the voice for peace when blood cries for war, and the hand that offers food to friend and stranger alike. I carry the memory of my people in my bones and the strength of the mothers before me in my heart. I am Cherokee.

So you're an ambassador?

I am more than a messenger between nations. I speak for the mothers, the grandmothers, the children not yet born. I carry the words of peace when others call for war. I do not serve a crown or council alone—I serve the harmony of our people and the sacred law of balance. If that is what you mean by ambassador, then yes. But in my tongue, I am Ghigau—Beloved Woman—called to protect, to guide, and to remind us all who we are.

Who are the Cherokee?

We are the Ani-Yunwiya—the Real People. We walk these mountains, rivers, and valleys since time before counting. We are the keepers of the stories, the songs, the sacred fire. Our strength is in our families, our clans, our council fires where all have a voice. We live by balance—between earth and sky, man and woman, peace and protection. Though others have tried to break us, we endure. We are Cherokee, and we remember who we are.

Where are you from?

I am from the land where the rivers carve songs through the mountains, where the mists cling to the trees like old stories. I was born among the Wolf Clan, in the heart of our mother’s land—Chota, the beloved town. My roots are in the red clay and my breath in the morning fog. I am of the Cherokee, and the land and I remember each other.

How did you get here?

I was born in Chota, where the hills cradle the sacred fire. But the winds of change blew hard—wars came, and the path of peace grew narrow. I walked where I was needed: to warn, to feed, to speak for our people. In time, the white man's hunger for land pushed us farther from the rivers that knew our names. I made my home near Benton in my final years, not because it was where I began, but because I still had work to do—for my people, for memory, for the future. Even here, the land remembers us.

What wars?

The wars of our survival. I fought in the battle where my husband was killed, and I took up his rifle to lead our warriors. That was against the Creek. Then came the long struggle with the white settlers—British, Americans, all claiming what was not theirs. We fought to keep our land, our way of life. Some wars were with weapons, others with words and treaties that cut deeper than blades. I stood in both kinds. The blood of my people stains these hills—not for conquest, but for holding on to who we are.

How did you die?

I died as the old world faded. My body gave out in the hills near Ocoee, where I spent my last days. But it was not sickness or age alone—it was watching the treaties break, the lands vanish, the fire dim in the eyes of the young. I lived long enough to see the path begin—the one they would call ‘Trail of Tears.’ My heart died before my bones did. But I do not rest in bitterness. I walk these hills still, whispering to those who will listen: Remember who you are.