Land Back vs Land Reclamation: The Illusion of Return

Two Clouds at Split Rock, Split Rock Mountain

Photo by Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams | Courtesy of Where the Clouds Are, Inc.

People are celebrating what is being called “Land Back”—and for good cause, to a degree. Recently, forty-seven thousand acres were returned to the Yurok Tribe in California. On the surface, it sounds like justice—like something long overdue finally being returned to its rightful owners. But when we look at the fine print, the question can’t help but be asked: is it really land back if there are still conditions attached? If the land can only be used within frameworks designed by outside entities—conservation groups, government structures, legal restrictions—then what exactly has been returned?

There is a pattern within the realm of “Land Back.” We’ve seen original land deeds returned with ceremony and applause, like when the Sloat family handed over an age-old document to New Jersey’s Ramapough people, while the land itself remained out of reach. We’ve seen the public rituals of acknowledgment, where institutions openly admit they are occupying Indigenous land—but stop short of giving any of it back. And we’ve heard tribal leadership say, plainly, that land was never even the goal—only recognition of historical contributions. So we have to be honest about what we’re looking at. This isn’t always Land Back. Sometimes it’s symbolic. Sometimes it’s conditional. And sometimes it’s something else entirely—something closer to managed permission than true return.

When land is truly reclaimed—when it is held by the people, protected from sale, and governed without outside conditions—that’s different. That is not performance. That is not acknowledgment. That is sovereignty—which is supposed to be the whole point.

What we are seeing more and more are symbolic gestures being mistaken for material change. Land acknowledgments have become standard practice—at universities, public events, corporate gatherings—where people recite, almost as ritual, that they are on Indigenous land. While that may have once carried weight, it now raises a more uncomfortable question: what does acknowledgment mean without action? To openly admit that land was taken, and then continue to occupy it without any effort to return it, does not move us closer to justice—it normalizes the very dispossession being acknowledged. It creates the appearance of awareness without requiring accountability.

The same can be said for highly publicized moments like the return of historical documents or deeds, where the symbolism is powerful, but the material reality remains unchanged. A document may be handed back, and the story attached may be recognized. A people may be thanked for their role in national history. But the land—the actual source of life, power, sovereignty, and even economic development— continues to remain elsewhere. And in some cases, even tribal leadership has echoed this shift away from land itself, framing recognition as the primary goal. But recognition without restoration does not restore anything. It simply repositions the narrative—creating the appearance of meaningful action while leaving the underlying structure intact, requiring little to no sacrifice, and offering no real return of equity to Indigenous peoples. 

There is also something else happening beneath all of this language—something that often goes unquestioned. We hear, over and over again, that the land is sacred. That it is where ancestors are buried. That there is a spiritual, even genetic connection between Indigenous people and the land. All of that is true, and deeply true. Yet increasingly, that truth is being used in ways that feel more like smoke and mirrors—something that softens the reality of what is actually happening. That is because while the sacredness of the land is emphasized, control over the land is still being negotiated, structured, and, in many cases, limited by outside entities.

Take, for example, the return of Split Rock Mountain to the Ramapough people. It was presented as a historic and meaningful moment—a sacred site returned after centuries. However, even within that process, the land was first purchased by the Land Conservancy of New Jersey, and then transferred through a nonprofit structure rather than directly restored as sovereign tribal land. And while that same conservancy played a role in returning those 54 acres, it also assembled approximately 92 acres of land in the very same area in a series of acquisitions—land that was not returned, but retained under the organization's own control. That contradiction cannot be ignored because it reinforces a pattern: land is returned in ways that are visible, ceremonial, and celebrated—but broader control of land remains firmly in the hands of outside institutions.

Split Rock, Split Rock Mountain

Photo by Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams | Courtesy of Where the Clouds Are, Inc.

There is also the question of how these returns are being financed. In some of the most widely celebrated cases, land is not simply given back—it is purchased through multimillion-dollar deals funded by private capital, loans, and even emerging markets like carbon credits. That alone raises an important question: what does it mean when land return is structured as an investment? Investments, by nature, are not made without expectation. And when land is returned through financial mechanisms, it does not necessarily exit those systems—it may instead become part of new ones. At the same time, much of this land has already been subjected to decades, if not centuries, of extraction—logging, depletion, ecological disruption—before it is ever returned. So we are left to ask: is this restoration, or is it the transfer of responsibility after the damage has already been done? And if the land is now tied, even indirectly, to financial markets or external valuation systems, then the deeper question remains—who truly holds power over it?

The argument will be made, as it often is, that this does not matter—that both the conservancies and Indigenous communities share the same goal of protecting the land. Yet that is not the point. Indigenous people have always known how to care for their land. They do not need external structures to validate or govern that relationship. When land is returned with conditions—whether spoken or unspoken—it becomes something else. It becomes conditional access. Conditional control. That is not the same as sovereignty.

Which is precisely why what some leaders and land defenders have fought for stands in such sharp contrast. There is a difference between land that is returned under agreement and land that is reclaimed and held by the people, without the possibility of being sold, negotiated away, or controlled from the outside. That difference matters. And it is not just political—it is foundational.

This is why those like Afro-Indigenous land defender Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams are so dangerous. There are many who see these patterns for what they are—who understand the difference between symbolic return and true reclamation—and who have risked, and in some cases lost, their lives because of it. Two Clouds was one of the latter. He was successful in what can only be described as true Land Back—not the kind that is negotiated through outside institutions, filtered through nonprofit structures, or bound by conditions, but land that is reclaimed and held by the people themselves. The land he fought for was not symbolic. It was not returned through ceremony while control remained elsewhere. It was fought for, protected, and understood as something that could not be sold, transferred, or managed away from the community it belonged to.

Ramapough religious grounds, Split Rock Sweet Water Prayer Camp-the first

parcel of land that Two Clouds was instrumental in securing for the tribe.

Photo by Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams | Courtesy of Where the Clouds Are, Inc.

And that distinction matters because when land is truly reclaimed, it is no longer subject to permission. It is not dependent on approval from conservancies, donors, or government frameworks. It exists outside of those conditions. By Two Clouds' own account, when there were attempts to treat that land as something that could be sold or negotiated away, he made it clear that no one had the authority to do so—that Ramapough ancestral land belongs to the people, not to individuals, not to leadership, and certainly not to outside entities. That is sovereignty in practice, not theory.

That is precisely what makes this conversation uncomfortable. It exposes the difference between land that is returned under terms—and land that is actually taken back. One can be managed. The other cannot. One can be conditioned. The other is held. And when that line is crossed—when land is no longer something that can be negotiated, restricted, or quietly controlled—that is when it becomes a threat.

This is why, again, land defenders like Two Clouds are so dangerous. What they represent is not just resistance, but clarity—the kind that refuses to confuse access with authority, or recognition with return.

Two Clouds, unrelenting protector of the land

Photo by Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams | Courtesy of Where the Clouds Are, Inc.

Because in the end, this is not just about land. It is about who has the right to decide what happens to it. If that right is still shaped, limited, or conditioned—whether by outside institutions or internal structures operating within those same frameworks—then we have to be honest about what we are calling “Land Back.” Are we witnessing the return of land, or simply the repositioning of power in a way that feels more acceptable? And if sovereignty is still out of reach, then the question remains: what, in reality, is being acquired—and what does that mean for the generations to come?

Sources:

Yurok Tribe Secures Largest Land Back Transfer in California History

Yurok Tribe reclaims sacred land (interview)

Ramapough land deed returned by Sloat family descendants

Sloat descendants return deed to Ramapo-Munsee Lunaape Nation (former Chief Dwaine Perry stating the Ramapough not wanting the land returned 0:40)

Sloatsburg Land Deed, 1738 (museum description showing the deeded land encompassed presented-day Ramapo and Sloatsburg [NY] and Mahwah and Ringwood [NJ])

Analysis: How well-meaning land acknowledgements can erase Indigenous people and sanitize history

Ramapo College of NJ Land Acknowledge (*Ramapo College is unaffiliated with the Ramapough Tribe)

Ramapo Nation Reclaims Split Rock Mountain

NJ Land Conservancy Adds 40 Acres To Ramapo Mountain Reserve

NJ group wins excellence award for establishing first Indigenous land trust

Split Rock Access Secured

M. 2026

Two Clouds: Afro-Indigenous Leadership and the Power They Could Not Contain

Two Clouds addressing a large audience of students. (Credit: Brooke Aileen)

Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams represented a form of leadership that institutions have historically struggled to understand—and tolerate. As an Afro-Indigenous land defender shaped by both Black American traditions of resistance and Indigenous commitments to land, sovereignty, and community, his presence carried a kind of influence that did not depend on wealth, title, or formal authority. It was relational, strategic, and deeply rooted. He moved across cultures, communities, and languages with ease, building connections that were rare. That ability is often praised in theory. In practice, it can become something else entirely—difficult to predict, difficult to manage, and ultimately, difficult to contain.

In July 2022, that leadership was met with an institutional response that raises serious and unresolved questions. After days of missing, Two Clouds’ dead body was reportedly found in water that was central to his work. From the outset, decisions were made before any forensic assessment had taken place. A mandatory formal investigation was squashed at the scene. Standard procedures were not followed in sequence. Key steps were delayed, bypassed, or not documented at all. Despite the involvement of multiple agencies, there is no evidence that even the most basic investigative measures were taken—no true canvassing of the area, no recorded review of surveillance despite known vantage points, and no comprehensive reporting beyond a minimal, contradictory operations summary.

The official determination further deepens concern. The cause of death was ruled as drowning, yet the autopsy record does not reflect a single indicator typically associated with such a conclusion. Witness accounts, environmental context, and the physical condition of the body introduce contradictions that were never addressed. In any standard case, such inconsistencies would prompt further inquiry. Here, they did not. The conclusion remained fixed, even as questions accumulated. The result is not simply an incomplete investigation, but the appearance of a process that prioritized closure over clarity.

Operations report time-stamped 10:34 am, listing the incident type as "unattended death"-

a classification indicating the cause of death was not yet determined which would typically

require an investigation, especially in water-related cases.

Dispatch records show the first call at 11:52 am (from law enforcement), a drowning

classification by 11:54 am, and case closure (with "no report required") at 1:39 pm-

without forensic examination.

After the autopsy cited drowning as the cause of death despite no signs of such, the Chief State Medical Examiner overturned that finding.

When viewed within a broader historical context, this response becomes more significant. The United States has a documented history of institutional actions taken against individuals whose leadership or organizing capacity was perceived as disruptive to existing power structures. During the era of counterintelligence operations, efforts were made to monitor, discredit, and neutralize leaders rooted in Black liberation movements, Indigenous resistance, and community-based organizing. While the form of such efforts may evolve, the patterns—premature conclusions, narrative control, gaps in documentation, and the dismissal of contradictory evidence—remain difficult to ignore.

The question, then, is not whether past programs can be directly overlaid onto present circumstances, but whether the observable elements reflect a continuity of institutional behavior. When a leader emerges who can move between communities, mobilize across cultural and political lines, and operate outside traditional systems of control, the response to that leadership can become as telling as the leadership itself. In such cases, what is absent—transparency, documentation, accountability—can be just as revealing as what is present.

In 1967, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover began the CoIntelPro to "expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit. or otherwise neutralize" Black organizations throughout America. (Credit: Wikipedia)

The FBI and local police were found to have been directly involved in the downfall and assassinations

of multiple Black leaders including Malcom X and Fred Hampton. (Credit: Democracy Now!)

To understand why this matters, it is necessary to define what is meant by Afro-Indigenous leadership. Identity alone does not determine leadership. Visibility does not determine leadership. True leadership is measured by responsibility to the people and by

tangible outcomes. There is a distinction between representation and action—between those who occupy space and those who produce actual change.

Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams exemplified the latter. His work was not symbolic. It was lived, practiced, and effective. What distinguished his leadership was not only what he did, but how he was formed. He was intentionally raised within traditions that emphasized responsibility, political awareness, and service. His foundation was shaped within the Black Muslim community, within circles where the expectation was not passive existence, but active contribution.

From an early age, he was taught that his life had purpose. That the work of those before him—within his family and community—was not complete. That he held a responsibility to continue it. This was not presented as optional. It was a baton passed forward. His upbringing reinforced that understanding through direct teaching, lived example, and years of intentional education.

Members of the Black Panther Party outside NY City Courthouse 1969 (Photo David Fenton/Getty)

Two Clouds outside Mahwah Municipal Courthouse during a land fight he led against

the Town of Mahwah, circa 2018 (SRSWPC, Youtube)

This context reflects a broader reality. Many Afro-Indigenous individuals raised within Black American communities are shaped by traditions that center resistance, collective responsibility, and an understanding of how systems operate in practice. When that consciousness intersects with Indigenous commitments to land and sovereignty, it produces a form of leadership that is both adaptive and prepared—prepared to act without permission, without institutional backing, and with full awareness of the risks involved.

This kind of leadership does not emerge randomly. It is cultivated. It is taught. It is carried.

And it is not without tension.

Afro-Indigenous leadership—particularly when it is grounded in action—often encounters resistance from multiple directions. Within Indigenous spaces, questions of belonging and legitimacy can arise. Within Black communities, similar questions may emerge from a different lens. The result is that individuals at this intersection are frequently scrutinized from all sides, expected to prove who they are, while continuing to serve beyond those expectations.

True Afro-Indigenous leaders are not always fully embraced by any one group, yet they remain accountable to all. They move between spaces, carrying responsibilities that are not confined to a single identity, but shaped by the totality of who they are. That position requires resilience, clarity, and an understanding that recognition may not accompany the work. At times, it is not merely withheld, it is actively minimized or erased—even as the results of that work continue to stand.  

At its core, this leadership is grounded in conviction. It is driven not by convenience, but by purpose. It is the understanding that one’s life is under the authority of the Creator, and that the work one is called to do is not optional. It must be carried—whether with ease or with difficulty.

Leadership grounded in that level of belief is not easily discouraged, redirected, or contained. It does not depend on institutional approval to exist. It adapts. It learns. It moves. It finds a way forward, even in unfamiliar terrain.

For systems accustomed to managing leadership through hierarchy, negotiation, or pressure, this presents a challenge. Leadership that cannot be persuaded, intimidated, or absorbed into existing structures does not fit within them. It cannot be easily controlled.

History has also shown that such leadership does not only face pressure from outside systems. At times, disruption can emerge from within proximity—within shared spaces, affiliations, or movements. Those who are trusted, familiar, or closely connected to a leader do not always act in alignment with that leader’s purpose, and in many cases, have played roles in efforts that disrupt, weaken, or bring harm to that leadership. This is not unique to any one case, but part of a broader pattern: proximity does not always guarantee alignment. Trust does not always equate to shared intent.

Malcom X's body guard was an undercover police officer present during his assassination (above);

two former Nation of Islam members responsible for the assassination (below). (Google)

Fred Hampton's bodyguard and head of security was an FBI informant who was directly

involved in his assassination. (Google)

Letter from Ramapough chief to medical examiner the day after Two Clouds' body was found,

proposing causes of death, including foul play, and asserting maternal agreement- despite no

contact or authorization; signed by Two Clouds' former second-in-command,

What remains clear is that leadership of this kind does not end with the individual. It continues. It teaches. It expands. It lives.

Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams was not at the beginning of his work—he was in the process of extending it. As his focus turned toward education and the development of others, what was emerging was not only leadership in one person, but the transmission of leadership across generations. This next step was not incidental. It reflected the traditions in which he had been raised–-traditions rooted in Black radical thought, community responsibility, and Islaamic teaching, where knowledge is not only acquired, but shared, and where those who learn are expected to teach.

He stood within a lineage of individuals who understood leadership must reproduce itself in order to endure. From Black revolutionary figures to community-based scholars, imams, and shaykhs that he grew up around and studied closely, the model was clear: the work does not stop with action—it continues through instruction. He had learned this directly, and he embraced it fully. His decision to step into teaching was not only personal—it was purposeful. As he neared the completion of his degree, opportunities were already beginning to reflect that direction, including consideration for a formal role in higher education.

What was developing, then, was not simply continued leadership, but expanded influence—the ability to guide, shape, and prepare others to do the same work. In that sense, the trajectory of his life was moving forward something more consequential: not only leadership, but the multiplication of leadership.

Two Clouds teaching students about Lenape history (above) and the importance of being

good stewards of the land (below), circa 2020-21 (Credits: Brooke Aileen; SPSWPC Facebook)

History shows that when leadership begins to reproduce itself—when it can be taught, shared, and sustained—it is often met with heightened resistance. Not only because of what has been done, but because of what is likely to come next.

And yet, history shows something else as well.

The removal of an individual does not end what has already been set in motion.

It expands it.

What was seen as something that could be contained becomes something that is anything but that. It continues moving through others, growing beyond its original form, and reaching further than it ever would have before.

Muriyd “Two Clouds” Williams’ life and work did not end.

They continue.

They continue in those who recognize the responsibility to carry forward what has been started. They continue in those who understand that the work is not optional. They continue in those who are willing to learn, to build, and to act.

They did not stop him.

They gave him wings.

And this is what they fear in true Afro-Indigenous leadership: the convergence of Black radical thought into Indigenous sovereignty action.

M. Ansari 2026

Grief is an Heirloom That I Treasure Dearly

The moment I read the text, I knew it was my son.

I rushed from my house to the car and began the three-hour drive to New Jersey where a man’s dead body had been pulled from a waterway familiar to my family. Days had passed without my son, Muriyd, calling me or answering my calls so already I knew something was wrong. But death was not an expectation.

As I sped down I-78, the medical examiner investigator confirmed over the phone words I had feared hearing since I learned I was pregnant three decades before. The fluvial corpse indeed belonged to my beloved child.

Not fully understanding if I was awake or asleep, alive or dead, I unraveled at lightning speed. Between sobs and horrendous screams that escaped from somewhere I did not know existed, I alternated, thanking Allah for having given me such a beautiful son and begging for Mercy on his soul.

I made calls to select family and friends who were also dumbfounded by the sudden news, and a few promised they would be at my destination awaiting me. Since Muriyd was so popular and had been found on sovereign tribal land, I assumed some tribesmates would also be congregated. I remember wondering how I would handle seeing everyone. Being on that land without my son, and knowing he would never be there again, was unthinkable.

What would I say to the people?

Would I even be able to speak?

Up until that day I made it a point to always keep control of myself publicly. I behave conservatively for the most part, so when I would see grief-stricken mothers in news reels screeching uncontrollably, fainting, being carried or pulled away from crime scenes as their children — usually sons — lie dead on the street, casualties of car crashes, domestic abuse, gang drive-bys, or police slaughters, I took mental memos. Never lose myself as they, if ever a terrible incident such as one of those found my family.

I decided that when I arrived on the land I would greet everyone with my usual smile and niceties then figure it out from there. I turned into the entrance and parked. A small group of solemn, nervous faces was in the parking area. I stepped from my car acknowledging everyone as planned then without warning, something I did not see or feel shoved me hard into the side of my vehicle. A friend quickly grabbed me and hugged me to himself, and I was in a whirl, unsure of what vortex I had been knocked into.

We all walked the land near the shoreline, talking, questioning, and hypothesizing about what possibly could have caused a skilled canoeist to turn up dead in water he was so familiar with. It seemed that he had drowned, but from the onset that made no sense to anyone, given he had spent years canoeing in that very water — a generous yet shallow and calm overflow from the attached Ramapo River — without incident.

I examined the shoreline where his unprotected canoe sat, and once again that silent intruder attacked me. My knees collapsed hard onto the green grass. Audibly, I demanded my body behave. “Stand up!” I hissed under my breath, but it did not heed. It took two of my male relatives to lift me from the ground.

Little did I know, that would not be the last time I would lose complete control of my faculties. For months to come, the enormity of losing my son, in the way that I had lost him (betrayal and murder by so-called friends), and the coverup and attempted silencing by law enforcement and other institutions caused me to suffer with anxiety and horrific panic attacks. For a while, I believed the sorrow would surely stop my broken heart as it had done my father a little more than a week after my son’s funeral.

My youngest daughter took to my bed for a full year, staying near to comfort me in the night. During the day I was actively pursuing justice — obtaining documents, archiving, writing, driving back and forth to institutions in New Jersey from Pennsylvania — and running solo the organization I started in Muriyd’s honor while also caring for my family and working as a nurse. But in the evening when there was nothing to distract me or vie for my attention, I wept. Every night I sobbed myself to sleep then awakened in the same manner. I found no solace even in my dreams as I called out my son’s name into the darkness, and involuntarily sought escape through voiced prayers. Yet there was no relief.

The more evidence I found to prove Muriyd’s death was orchestrated, the more justice was denied to me by law enforcement, medical boards, journalists, and self-proclaimed allies and Indigenous rights advocates. With each piece of the puzzle, my rage increased, balancing the pain and elevating my moral clarity.

Those early days were particularly excruciating. Nasty rumors were circulating about my son by foes who swore they loved him, and lies were being told on me by people claiming to be by my side. My spiritual conviction was regularly questioned by Muslims and other vilomas who believed my tawwakul was doing too much. I was constantly dismissed by opinionated, uninformed naysayers as a “grieving mother” when I exposed verifiable facts. And my racial integrity was scrutinized by people who seemed to only want justice for Indigenous and Blacks when the culprits were white.

There were innumerable times when I was uncertain whether I could muster the patience and decorum necessary for navigating this mission that was placed upon me. I wanted retribution — in this world first — and knew I would get it, but that it would be through fighting many systems virtually alone. I reached out for the strength of women who I knew had suffered my plight long before me:

Enslaved African American and Indigenous mothers who witnessed their young children’s slow deaths due to disease, malnutrition, and other societal disparities;

My great-grandmother who had to contend with erasure when her son drowned in the Passaic River, and the local news made no mention of it when they praised the river’s majesty three days later;

My mother who lost two separate newborns due to not having the money and resources to obtain better healthcare;

Mamie Till-Mobley who fought an aggressively racist system and won by sparking in her son’s honor, a movement that has benefited billions and will continue to do so;

Sybrina Fulton who fought that same system decades later, demanding accountability for her own son’s murder, and refusing erasure of his existence;

And the many mothers whose screaming, fainting, and needing to be carried away nearly lifeless from devastating scenes that I now understand intimately.

What had these women endured, in their hearts and minds as well as from the people around them?

How had they sustained with even more obstacles in their paths, if they had paths at all?

What sorrow and fury had plagued the enslaved?

Nestled in my mothers’ calm?

How many had nudged Mamie and Sybrina towards silence and cowardice, urging them to sit quietly in corners suckling their heartache in lieu of standing unmoved in America’s face, demanding their own retribution?

And how many — including myself at one time — had scorned numbers of unnamed mothers for boldly and unapologetically loving and grieving their fallen children who were violently snatched from their arms, very often without fair consequence.

I have learned to harness the energy of love, calm, sorrow, rage, refusal of silence, boldness, and activism from these mothers and others globally to generate power and force that sustains me. I consciously stand upon their shoulders holding a shield and wielding a sword that has an acquired taste for injustice.

Because of the past I learned to strategize in the present for the future.

I am powerful in ways I have never been before, and I know what is possible. That makes many, many people — friend and foe — very uncomfortable.

M.