The following interview is a historian-informed reconstruction based on extensive research into Indigenous fire management practices in California, the 1850 Act for the Government and Protection of Indians, and documented accounts of cultural suppression in the mid-19th century. Tsen-tainte is a composite figure representing the experiences of Miwok fire keepers during this period. While she did not exist as a specific individual, her decisions and circumstances reflect the documented reality faced by Indigenous women who maintained cultural burning practices through generations—until the practice was criminalized overnight.

I should start by explaining what I do. Or what I did.

I'm not sure which words to use anymore.

For thirty years, I've been the one who burns at dawn in my community. My grandmother taught me, and her grandmother taught her. We burn to make the meadows healthy, to bring back the deer, to make the hazel grow straight for baskets. To make the forest breathe.

Two summers ago, the new government—the one that calls this California now—made it illegal. They said we're destroying timber.

Timber they took from us.

How did you first learn you were breaking a law?

A man came to our village. Not a soldier, but he had papers. He spoke through someone who knew our language, though not well. He said there's a new law about fire. No more burning. He said it's for our protection.

I remember thinking: protection from what?

We've been burning since before memory. The forests are healthy because we burn them. The meadows feed the deer because we burn them. My mother's mother's mother burned these same slopes.

He said if we light fires now, they can take us. Put us to work somewhere. Take our children to their schools.

I didn't understand all of it—the words didn't make sense in our language. How do you protect someone by taking away what keeps them alive?

But you kept burning.

(long pause)

Not at first. That first year, 1851, I didn't burn. None of us did. We were afraid.

And I thought... maybe it will be fine? Maybe one year without burning won't hurt.

By late summer, I knew I was wrong.

The hazel was growing wrong—tangled, unusable. The meadow was filling with brush. I couldn't find the plants I needed for medicine. The young women who were learning basket-making from me kept asking: when will the hazel be ready? When can we gather?

I had to tell them: maybe never. Not if we can't burn.

What made you decide to burn again?

My daughter came to me with her first basket. She'd been working on it for months, trying to use old hazel, hazel that hadn't been burned. It kept breaking.

She was crying. Not because of the basket—she's not a child, she knows things break. She was crying because she understood what it meant.

She said: "How will I make a basket for my baby?"

She was pregnant then.

And I realized: if we stop burning, we stop being who we are. The baskets aren't just baskets. They're how we carry water, how we gather food, how we hold our children. They're how we teach our daughters who they are.

So I burned. Just a small patch, before dawn, when the smoke wouldn't be seen. I burned the hazel grove.

Were you afraid?

(laughs bitterly)

Every moment. I kept thinking: what if they see the smoke? What if someone reports us? There are people now—not our people—living close enough to see. Some of them are... not friendly.

But I was more afraid of not burning. Of watching everything we know disappear. Of my granddaughter growing up not knowing how to make fire do what we need it to do.

When I burn, I'm talking to the land. I'm saying: I see you, I care for you, we're in this together.

When they made burning illegal, they made it illegal for us to speak our own language to our own home.

You mentioned burning at dawn specifically. Why then?

Dawn is when the air is still. The fire moves where you want it to move. You can control it, guide it, make it do what needs to be done. By midday, the wind picks up—fire becomes dangerous then, unpredictable.

But now there's another reason.

Dawn is when they're not watching. The settlers, the government men, they're not out at dawn. So I burn when they can't see me. I burn in secret, like I'm doing something shameful, something wrong.

My grandmother burned in daylight. She burned and sang while she burned. She taught me the songs.

I still sing them, but quietly now, so no one hears.

How do you decide what to burn?

(becomes animated)

Oh, this is... they think we just light fires everywhere, carelessly. They think we're destroying things.

I know every plant in these hills. I know which ones need fire and which ones don't. Hazel needs to burn every three years, but oak trees need different timing. I know the patches where the deer like to graze, and I burn those in late summer so the new growth comes up before winter. I know where the basket sedge grows, and I burn around it, not through it, so the fire clears the competition but doesn't hurt the sedge itself.

This knowledge took me twenty years to learn. My grandmother spent twenty years teaching me.

And now?

I can't teach the young women properly. I can only burn in secret, small patches, hoping no one sees. They're learning fragments of what they should know.

What happens if you stop burning entirely?

We're already seeing it.

The forest is getting dense, choked. Too many small trees, too much brush. It's dark in there now—not the open, parklike forest my grandmother showed me. The deer are leaving because they can't find food. The acorns are fewer because the oaks are crowded.

And the baskets...

(voice breaks)

I have three baskets left that were made with properly burned hazel. Good, strong hazel that bends without breaking. When these are gone, I don't know what we'll do. The new hazel is brittle. The baskets fall apart.

But it's more than that. When we stop burning, we stop being able to feed ourselves from this land. The plants we gather, the animals we hunt—they need the mosaic we create with fire. Different patches at different stages. Some burned last year, some five years ago, some ten. That's what makes the land rich.

Do you think you'll be caught?

(quiet)

Probably. Eventually.

There are more of them every year. More settlers, more government men, more people watching. And they're taking our land—every year, more of it becomes theirs. Soon there won't be anywhere I can burn without someone seeing.

I think about what happens then. Do they take me away? Do they take my daughter, my granddaughter? The man with the papers said they can make us work, send us to live somewhere else. I've heard stories from other villages. People disappearing. Children taken to schools where they're not allowed to speak our language.

So yes, I'm probably going to be caught.

But what's my choice? Stop burning and watch everything die slowly? Or keep burning and risk everything quickly?

Which feels worse?

(long pause)

The slow death. Definitely the slow death.

If they catch me, at least I'll know I tried. I'll know I didn't just give up, didn't just let everything my grandmother taught me disappear without fighting for it.

But the slow death... watching the forest get sick, watching my people forget how to talk to the land, watching my granddaughter grow up not knowing how to make fire do what it should do...

That's worse. That's like dying while you're still alive.

What do you want people to understand about fire?

That it's not destruction.

Fire is a tool, like a digging stick or a basket. We use it carefully, with knowledge, with respect. The land needs fire. Without it, everything becomes tangled and sick.

The settlers see fire and think: danger, destruction, waste. They don't see that we're making the land healthy. They don't see that the "wilderness" they're trying to protect was made by us, by generations of careful burning.

They want to protect the timber. But the timber is only here because we burned. The big trees, the straight trees—those grew in the open forests we created.

Now they're making the forest dense, and eventually, it will burn anyway. But it will burn wrong. Too hot, too fast, destroying everything.

They're so afraid of fire that they're creating the conditions for the fire they fear most.

Do you think you'll still be burning ten years from now?

(laughs sadly)

I don't know if I'll be alive ten years from now. I don't know if any of us will be here. They're taking everything—our land, our practices, our children. Maybe in ten years, there won't be anyone left who remembers how to burn.

But if I'm still here?

Yes. I'll still be burning. At dawn, in secret, in small patches, teaching whoever will learn. Because someone has to remember. Someone has to keep speaking to the land in the language it understands.

Even if they make it illegal. Even if they call it protection. Even if I'm the last one doing it.