When Silence Becomes Survival

For years, silence was how I survived.

In this opening episode of the 30-Day Banishment Series, I will begin at the beginning, before the labels, before the explanations, before the fight to be heard. I share what banishment looks like in real life, not as a legal term, but as a lived experience that impacts identity, family, faith, and belonging.

This episode explores the difference between silence and peace, how survival mode can protect us while also keeping us small, and why telling the truth becomes necessary when silence starts to cost more than it saves.

This is not a call-out episode.
 It’s a call-back...to voice, to truth, to self episode.

If you’ve ever stayed quiet to survive, wondered if your voice mattered, or questioned whether you were allowed to outgrow the version of you that endured instead of lived, this episode is for you.

Listener takeaway:
You are allowed to outgrow survival mode.
The silence that once saved you does not get to define you forever.

 Gentle Listener Note / Content Awareness 

This episode discusses themes of banishment, silence, and survival.
 Please listen at your own pace. You’re welcome to pause, step away, or return whenever you feel ready.

What to expect going forward

Each week we'llgo back into the series and go further in depth into each segment which can be found on these socials: TikTok https://www.tiktok.com/@treezonfiyah?_r=1&_t=ZP-93kq0zk2Kq6

Instagram: https://www.tiktok.com/@treezonfiyah

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/100088811118105/

Call-to-Action 

If this episode resonates, take a moment to reflect on where silence once protected you, and where your voice may now be ready to return.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Welcome. If you're here, I want to thank you for listening. And before I go any further, I want to create a container for this space because this series is really personal. It's layered and it's real. I started this off of a 30-day banishment series. And um, it really isn't a call-out series, it's a call back to voice, to truth, to self series. And what you'll hear over the next 30 days are lived experiences, not accusations. Because this is my story, and I'm not speaking for every person, every family, or every community, really. I'm speaking for my body, my memory, and my life. Because some days will be heavier than others. And you are allowed to pause, you're allowed to step away, and you're allowed to come back when your nervous system is ready. Because there's no judgment required here. It's only listening. This space is not about drama, it's about healing, and it's about telling the truth without spectacle. Let me just start by grounding us in clarity. A lot of you might be asking who I am. Nataragut she tri escalanti hunsian. Shima Lora Escalanti Tuwinde Anti Shi totin Doyle Escalanti Chicane Anti Shit in it di Marcelinchi Hunsian Uviakindi Na Sape Povio Mupohore Owinge Navia Takan Oka Povi Navita Doyo Escalanti Mescalero Apache Dimu Na Poya Ina Dinqua Pina Hirakuya Poki Hera Boyopovi My name is Tree and I am Kutsan Cherikawa Apache and Pueblo I'm a mother first and foremost to three wonderful children. I'm a woman, I'm a member of a community. I am someone who has loved deeply, lost loudly, and survived quietly. And the people most affected by my banishment wasn't just me. It was my children, my family system, and my sense of belonging. My girls were very young when my banishment happened. We lived in a three-bedroom HUD home within uh the boundaries of the reservation, and um my son was an adult, and so he was on his own. But I remember going back there and thinking of how it affected them, and of course, them having this huge age difference, it affected them very differently. Uh, for my daughters, it was more like, oh, are we going on an adventure? Oh, we get to spend three weeks in a motel because that's what we did while I was in my um appeal status with the tribe. So they got to swim and they got to eat out. It was an adventure. It never occurred to me, especially that we wouldn't be able to go back home. And every week that passed, it was becoming more evident that we wouldn't be allowed to go back home. My son, when I think back on how it affected him, it made him angry. Um, there was already a separation between the two of us. And maybe this brought us a little closer because he saw that I was going through a part of my life, a stage in my life that this occurrence had affected me to the core. I know in speaking with him about it years later, the hurt came after the anger. And I think that acknowledging that was hard for any of us. I know within the first two years I was angry. I was very, very angry. Um, and then as the years went on, I recognized who was actually there for us and who wasn't, who they sided with, people that were close to me, right? There were some families that checked on us every day that I don't have contact with now. Um, there were people that opted to help us by donating food or money or buying rooms for us while we were in that appeal status, but they didn't want anybody to know that they were helping us. So, like at Walmart, right? If a family messaged and said, um, well, we want to help you. Can you meet us at Walmart? But on the tire and lube side, because we can't let anybody see us helping you because they were afraid of retaliation. And that was one of those things where you have to like say, Well, yeah, we need the help, definitely. And you have to say thank you because they're actually wanting to help you. But on this other side of the coin, if you flip that coin over, you're thinking, but you don't want anybody to know. And so there was a lot of back and forth with that in my heart. It really did tug at my heart. There were people that would not comment on my posts, on my videos through my banishment, but they would message me silently, and understanding that freshly out of this circumstance, it was hard. And now going into my eighth year of banishment, I can honestly say that I've grown a lot from it to understand why they didn't want anybody to know that they were helping us. So my family, my immediate family, um, my siblings, my parents, a lot of people ask about them. Where was your dad in this? My dad was there, but he was drinking at the time. Um, I remember specifically calling him, and there was music and there was people, so there wasn't a lot of support there. I told him I'd call him in the morning because this was actually in the van as the conservation officers were escorting us off the reservation, and I remember crying and telling him that I had to leave the reservation. He didn't comprehend what was going on. It was just a loud party going on, and so nothing, I didn't get anything from him, no support, no what? What are you talking about? It was this, it was a party. I remember calling my mom, and her immediate words were, What did you do? And as I tried to explain to her what I was told, because I wasn't ever given like the entire gist of what was happening in that tribal council chamber, I never knew, and even to this day I don't know. So I remember her saying that first, and well, what are you going to do? And I said, uh, one of my friends' friends is going to get us a room in Almogordo, and as soon as I get there, I'll call you. And I'll talk to you more about it because of course at this time I'm still crying. Don't know exactly at that time what was else was going through my mind. So we get to Almogordo and we check in, and um I just start reading the the resolution. 18-89 was the resolution I was given, and I see a tribal code number on there, and so I get my tribal code book and I open it, and it's for fornication. Two unmarried people having sex. Then I look at the certificate of resolution, and in that resolution certificate, there was a familiar name that signed it. It wasn't the actual secretary of the council, it was another person. And then it was I couldn't believe that that was the reason behind the banishment. Anyway, there wasn't anything else attached to it. So I didn't really feel in that moment, I didn't feel afraid still. I mean, was this just to show face for the council meeting? I thought, right? In my mind, I'm thinking, oh, in the morning I'll go to the tribal office and I will straighten this out. I'll figure it out. And so the next morning I remember I called my dad for him to go with me to the tribal council or to the tribal offices, and he was still drinking, and it was just kind of like, well, I don't know what you want me to do or say. What if they come and they tell me to leave and I have to leave my home? So at that point I kind of already understood, right? I already knew like that was I was at that point, I was starting to sink further into the reality of what had just happened. And all the meantime, my daughters are in the pool jumping and laughing, and I'm getting them out, and we're gonna go eat and come back, and they're gonna swim more. And I just start getting on my computer. I remember I always had my computer with me. And then the three weeks started in the appeal status of it, and my appeal um I had 21 days to appeal. And so we stayed in motels, and over that three weeks, that twenty-one days, I really started to lose my sense of belonging. I had a home because at this point we were in the next neighboring town, and that from that location to my home, to me and my daughter's home, was about ten or twelve miles, and I knew like I I it was right there. My house was right up on that mountain and I couldn't go there. I couldn't go home. And everything started to slowly come to reality and every part of me started to slip away. And you know, like a lot of people will say, What is banishment really? It's not legal language and it's not paperwork because I didn't receive any other paperwork besides a certificate and a resolution. So there was no names attached to it. There was no letters attached to it, there was nothing supporting this banishment. There wasn't even um I wasn't taken to tribal court and charged, officially charged with anything. And if I could explain banishment to anyone out there in simple terms, it's it's really the loss of access to a place, to your home, to people, um, to your voice, really, and to safety. Because we were just kind of put out. No, it doesn't matter where she goes, let her figure it out. And I think that a lot of people thought, well, she has her mother, she lives up north, she can go to her mom. Uh she's from another reservation in Southern California, she can go there. And what they didn't know was that when my mom was being told all these other things about my banishment, all these lies about me saying that I was banned for a drug bust, which wasn't true, that I was banned um for having um what was one of the rumors was that I was bringing older women, my friends, to my house to have sex with younger boys, like a sex ring or something. Obviously not true. But my mom was being told all these lies. And so when I'm calling my mom and I'm telling her, okay, the three weeks is over on my appeal, and I don't have anywhere to go. I wasn't allowed to go to her home. Because then you gotta think in the village that she was living in, she's held to a higher standard. And I'm not certain who told her, but she did reveal to me that someone said, Well, if she got banned from there, it had to have been really, really bad. We can't allow her to be here. And I just thought in that moment, I'm your daughter. The same way I I thought about with my dad. Like, I am your daughter. But it wasn't like that. It was as if someone put a mask over my entire family's face so that they couldn't see me or they couldn't help me or my daughters, and that's what it really felt like. Being physically alive is what I tell people. I am physically alive, but spiritually exiled, and in that sense, too, it was a lot of well, she has other places to go pray and be spiritual, and it's not the same. It's not the same, and unless you go through banishment, you won't really ever understand it. So my banishment date is September 4th, 2018, and I'm currently in my eighth year of banishment, and those years matter because time changes a person. And it was during a time or a season in my life when I was already carrying a lot. I was carrying grief, responsibility, motherhood, survival. Um, two years into my divorce. Yes, we had just gotten a home. Just trying to move through the process of dealing with all these other things, and it and it happened. And it happened within a community that I was raised in. Within a place that was supposed to be my home. And it it's not ever really always the distance, sometimes it's being close enough to see what you're cut off from, right? And that was really painful to watch, especially allowing my children to go back to the reservation and spend time with my dad. But I'm not able to go. And so going through those seasons after, even if it was a way a day or two days, um, weeks, months, silence felt really necessary for me. Even through my my silence, I felt like I was protecting me. I was protecting my children, I was keeping them safe by being quiet about it. And it kind of numbed me into thinking silence was the one that was keeping keeping me to function. I was functioning through life by being silent and all the the while I was internally I was turning stone cold. Like it was almost as if my heart was turning to stone. And silence wasn't peace, it was my survival. And along the years I've learned that silence can be inherited, passed down, taught, modeled. I watched a lot of that in my family. And I suppose that when I went into this traumatic experience, that was my go-to. We don't talk about those things. When you leave this house, you don't talk about what happens in this house. You don't be telling our business out there. Those are the things that we're taught as we're being raised. And I didn't break because I was weak. I survived by being quiet. And over those years, it was strengthening me because now I'm strong enough to speak about it. And what's different now is that I no longer have to live in only survival mode because that survival mode it keeps us small, it keeps us braced, like steady, ready for what's gonna happen next. And we don't have to live like that. And I was living like that this entire time, it kept me enduring all this pain, all this anger, everything that came at me. I was taking it in, but I was never becoming anything from it, and at some point in that kind of experience, there comes a moment when the one thing that once saved us, it really does start to cost us. Let me say that again. There comes a moment when the thing that once saved you starts to cost you, and then at that point is where you find yourself. Because it in real time. Reshaped my identity. I imagine explaining this to people in a way that they'll understand. I participate in each of my tribes. I try to learn everything about each of my tribes and hold it so that I can teach my children. And those all three make me who I am. They make me whole. So when you take part of me and you just slice it off, that's like a tripod. That's the way I imagine it in my brain. If you take a leg of that tripod off, what happens to that tripod? And that's what started happening to me. I started falling. It affected how I parented all this while, carrying grief. It changed how I trusted people, systems, court systems, tribal systems, legal systems, even myself. Did I really trust myself through this process? Because obviously there was something that was pulling me back saying you couldn't even keep that home. Your kids are homeless with you right now. Your parents don't even want to talk to you. Your siblings have nothing to do with you. And then that's when it really started to get dark. I was going through the motions by being silent, but it was affecting me. It started to affect my faith, my relationship to community, and my sense of worth. I stopped believing in a sense that there was a higher power because why would he allow this to happen to me? Why would he do this? To me and to young girls. Why was this pain so unbearable? Why, why, why? And then you start throwing your hands up in the air and saying, why God, what what did I do to deserve this? And then you start getting angry, and then I start, you know, talking to dead ancestors and saying, How could you let this happen? You're supposed to fight for me in that spiritual world. Like, what did I ever do to deserve this? And then I started isolating myself. I stopped going around people, I stopped going out in the community, I stopped going to certain stores, I stopped going to certain restaurants, I stopped going to family events, I started pulling myself away. And throughout this time, my sense of worth was getting down to the bare minimum. And you might not believe me, but that's what this is meant to do. In my heart of hearts, I believe that this is the way that they erase you. Nobody's gonna talk to you, nobody talks about you, nobody mentions your name anymore. You just kind of slowly dissipate. But you know what? Survival mode kept me moving. But it took something to do that, also. It took it took rest, right? It took being soft, finding a way to find feeling again. And it took the belief that I was allowed to outgrow pain. I got to a point where I was physically in pain because of what was mentally happening to me. And I don't want it to sound as though I'm trying to prove that this harm that came with the banishment was not apparent because it was. And you can't really name that kind of impact. Even now going into my eighth year, I I don't even know what that's called. I know how it feels, I know how it makes me feel. Because when we don't name that kind of impact, we carry it alone. But healing happens in layers, and silence does have a heartbeat. Truth needs room to breathe. And I'm not sharing all this because I've healed. I'm sharing because healing happens when truth is allowed to breathe. I want to tell my story through each episode, layer by layer, one piece, one truth. And every one of these episodes is gonna leave you with something that you can carry because this isn't just about my story. It's about what we do when pain, it's about what we do with pain when we stop hiding from it. It's taken a lot of going back into the past and reliving this traumatic event, but that didn't stop there because now being in university, your brain starts to work differently. So I didn't just go back to eight years, I went back another eight years back and another eight years until the beginning of my life and kind of understanding, and I wanted to know what it was. How is it that I am like this? How is it that I can endure so much physical pain, but emotional and mental strain, it drops me down. It really, really takes a piece of every bit of my being, and I don't expect anybody, everybody. I'm sorry, I don't expect everybody to understand what I'm talking about. But maybe there is something that's happened in your life where you're like, why was I like that? Okay, let's take it back another eight years and let's think about what happened within this eight year timeline and let's structure it. And that's helped me, that's helped me get to where I'm at today so that I can talk about it. So here's what I want you to take away. Um here's what I want you to take from today. I want you to know that you're allowed to outgrow survival mode. That silence that saved you doesn't have to define you forever. So here's what I want you to take away from today. You are allowed to outgrow survival mode. The silence that saved you once doesn't have to define you forever. And your voice does not need permission to matter. I want to leave you with a reflection question. Where did you learn to stay quiet in order to survive? And if you want, take a slow breath with me right now. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You're safe here. Thank you for holding space for this beginning. Next week we continue one layer at a time. Listen at your own pace and return when you're ready. This is just the beginning, and beginnings don't need to rush.