Silence is a Weapon 

Kirbie Bennett - 01/30/2025

Dear friends, I come to you today with a confession. I confess that once upon a time, I was a teenage anarchist, and today I still remain a teenage anarchist. Which is to say that right now I’m looking at the world, witnessing ongoing fascist threats on beautiful diverse peoples and ecosystems, and that unquenchable outrage I felt at 16 years old toward the status quo still feels justified. And if you knew me as a teen, and if I recognized you as a comrade in crime, I would have made a mix CD for you. It would have been a playlist full of punk rock; a visceral soundtrack in opposition to a world offering endless war and heartbreak. 

On that CD, you might notice a song called “What Do You See?” by the band Blackfire. When you arrive at that track, you’ll hear electric guitars mixed with the voice of a Diné man singing a traditional song in the Diné language. And then you’ll hear Joey Ramone, the legendary frontman for The Ramones, singing the chorus in his signature croon. I have to mention that this is one of the last recordings Joey Ramone did before passing away. But beyond that, Blackfire is a powerful and singular rock band: staunchly and loudly Indigenous; they’re a reminder that Natives are the original punk rockers of this land. 

Blackfire formed in 1989 by three Diné siblings – Clayson, Jeneda and Klee Benally – out in Black Mesa, Ariz., which is a few hours southwest of where I grew up in Shiprock, N.M. By the time I came around to the band in the early 2000s, they had just released their first proper studio album, “One Nation Under.” I was craving more voices of color in the punk scene, and Blackfire went beyond answering that call. Being from the Navajo Nation like myself, they showed me it was possible to embrace the music while also embracing our Indigenous culture and identity. Blackfire refused to be silent about themselves and what they stood for. 

The band would double down on this position with their second and final album in 2007, a two-disc release titled “[Silence] is a Weapon.” The album is an ambitious fusion of gritty punk, blues and rock, layered with traditional Diné songs throughout. In fact, the second disc exclusively contains traditional songs handed down from the trio’s great-great-great grandfather; they are songs for social gatherings and training warriors. I’ve been revisiting this double album lately for a few reasons. One, the album title comes from a statement made by Indigenous political prisoner Leonard Peltier in his memoir, “Prison Writings: My Life is My Sundance.” Within those pages, Peltier writes, “Silence, they say, is the voice of complicity. But silence is impossible. Silence screams. Silence is the message, just as doing nothing is an act.”

After nearly 50 years behind bars, Peltier was granted clemency by former President Biden. While not a full pardon, at least Peltier can return home, no longer relegated to the silence of a cage. For me, returning to this Blackfire album is a celebration of sorts for Peltier’s release. Also, “[Silence] is a Weapon” was recorded in Durango by veteran producer Ed Stasium (the engineer behind many albums by The Ramones, Talking Heads and Living Colour, to name a few). When I walk around town with this music in my headphones, and when I hear those traditional songs that pre-date reservations, knowing they will outlive empires and borders, I feel rooted again to this land.  

And of course, there’s an urgency that drew me back to this band. As soon as Trump was inaugurated for a second term, he wasted no time issuing mass deportations and calling for an end to birthright citizenship. The former has resulted in Indigenous people being targeted and questioned by ICE, and the latter also applies to Natives, undermining Indigenous sovereignty. There has never been a time when silence has been acceptable. To remain silent means adding more blood to the history books. Blackfire’s music is a loud middle finger to the settler state. Their music renews in me the radical desire for Indigenous liberation that has been burning since youth. 

Dear friends, the next few years ahead will be unfavorable to the weary kind. More war and heartbreak are on the way. And I know music alone will not save us, but I find reassurance in the archive of resistance left behind in music, art and poetry. Whether it’s traditional songs from my ancestors or the modern full-throttle punk of Blackfire, I hear a message that says, “We’re here fighting for the next generation, our lives are a dedication to the next world.” Since I was young, that infinite spirit of resistance has carried me through an uncertain world. May it guide us forward in the unknown years ahead.

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