The Archives of Erasure: How a Bureaucratic Decision Threatens Tribal History and Healing
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The Facts of the Matter: An Abrupt Announcement and a Lawsuit
In late September 2024, the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) announced the impending closure of two of its facilities: the National Archives at San Francisco (located in San Bruno) and the Chicago National Archives. The announcement was made without prior consultation with tribal governments, the state of California, or local authorities. In response, the State of California, led by Attorney General Rob Bonta, filed a federal lawsuit on October 14th in the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of California to halt the San Francisco closure. The lawsuit argues that closing the facility “would irreparably harm California and its interests,” citing the risk of damage or loss to fragile, aged records and the certainty of making them inaccessible for an unknown period, potentially years.
For the 109 federally recognized tribes in California and many others across the country, these archives are not merely storage rooms. They are repositories of critical identity. The San Francisco facility holds records from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, including enrollment documents, land records and deeds, and—most poignantly—records from the federal Indian boarding school era. These documents are essential for tribal governance, cultural preservation, land rights, and, for countless individuals and families, personal and intergenerational healing from profound trauma.
The Context: A Pattern of Exclusion and a Carrot on a Stick
The core grievance, repeatedly expressed by tribal leaders and historic preservation officers, is the complete lack of meaningful consultation. Michael LaRonge, Tribal Historic Preservation Officer for the Sokaogon Chippewa Community, characterized two hastily arranged virtual meetings in mid-October not as consultations but as “listening sessions.” He and others, including Fallon Carey, Digital Archives Director for the National Native American Boarding School Healing Coalition and a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, felt the decisions were already final. Carey described receiving “a lot of non-answers” and said the process “feels a lot like lip service.”
This failure to consult is not a procedural oversight; it is a fundamental breach of the government’s trust responsibilities to tribes. The practical implications are severe. As Carey notes, many boarding school survivors are elders who may not have the time to wait for records to be relocated and re-cataloged or the resources to travel to distant archives. LaRonge highlighted the economic disparity, noting that suggestions to simply visit a reading room in another state are meaningless for tribes without the funds for such travel: “They just kept dangling that carrot… It doesn’t feel like a good victory.”
Furthermore, the problem extends beyond California. The Chicago archives hold records vital for tribes like the Brothertown Nation of Wisconsin, which, as Chairwoman Phylis Tousey explained, is fighting for the restoration of federal recognition terminated in 1839. LaRonge pointed out that with no federally recognized tribes in Illinois, tribes relying on the Chicago archives feel “kind of left behind.” Compounding the issue, leaders were told that digitizing sensitive BIA records is “not a priority” due to privacy concerns—a statement LaRonge forcefully rejected as an abdication of fiduciary duty under treaty law.
Opinion: A Betrayal of Trust and an Assault on Democratic Accountability
This episode is not a simple matter of bureaucratic consolidation or cost-saving. It is a case study in how institutional actions, even when framed as administrative, can actively undermine democracy, liberty, and human dignity. The principles at stake here are foundational to a free society: transparency, accountability, the rule of law, and respect for the sovereign rights of historically marginalized communities.
First, the lack of consultation is a direct attack on tribal sovereignty and self-determination. The federal government has a legally and morally enshrined trust responsibility to Native American tribes. Announcing the closure of archives that hold the very proof of treaties, land transactions, and personal histories without first engaging those most affected is a stunning act of bad faith. It treats tribes as subjects of policy, not as partners in governance. This top-down approach is anathema to democratic principles, which require that those impacted by a decision have a voice in its making. The substitution of a “listening session” for a genuine consultation is an insult, a performative gesture designed to check a box rather than engage in dialogue. It erodes the trust that is essential for any healthy relationship between a government and its people.
Second, the potential damage and prolonged inaccessibility of these records constitute a form of historical erasure with real human costs. For communities seeking to heal from the trauma of the boarding school era—a deliberate federal policy of cultural genocide—access to records is not academic; it is therapeutic. As Fallon Carey movingly stated, “Having access to these records can be deeply healing, having access to your own histories.” To place these fragile links to the past in jeopardy through a haphazard move, and to tell elders they must wait indefinitely, is cruel. It prioritizes bureaucratic convenience over human need. A government committed to liberty and justice must facilitate the pursuit of truth and healing, not place roadblocks in its path.
Third, the economic justice dimension cannot be ignored. LaRonge’s poignant remark—“great if you work for a tribe who has funds to send people down there, but we don’t”—lays bare a systemic inequality. Access to government records, especially those that confirm identity, property rights, and historical experience, should not be contingent on a tribe’s budget. The government’s failure to prioritize digitization of these records, citing privacy, is a weak excuse in the digital age. It is a failure of imagination and commitment. The fiduciary duty LaRonge references is real; it demands proactive steps to make records available, not passive acceptance of barriers. By not making digitization a priority, NARA is effectively telling tribes that their history, their legal claims, and their healing are not a priority. This is an unacceptable message from any institution in a democracy.
Finally, the state of California’s lawsuit is a vital and commendable assertion of the rule of law. It is a mechanism of accountability, forcing the federal agency to justify its actions in court and demonstrate that it has followed proper procedure and considered the profound harms. In the absence of a forceful federal commitment to consultation and preservation, state action becomes a necessary check. It is a reminder that the defense of liberty often requires vigilant institutions pushing back against unilateral power.
Conclusion: A Call for Principle Over Process
The closure of the San Francisco and Chicago National Archives facilities, as currently planned, is more than an administrative misstep. It is a profound moral and democratic failure. It betrays a nation’s responsibility to its first peoples, jeopardizes the fragile process of historical reconciliation, and reinforces patterns of exclusion and inequality.
As a supporter of democracy, freedom, and the rule of law, I am deeply critical of actions that destroy institutions of memory and accountability. Archives are the bedrock of an informed citizenry and a just society. They hold power to account and give voice to the silenced. To treat the archives of Native American history with such cavalier disregard is to disrespect the very constitution of our national story.
The path forward is clear. NARA must immediately halt the closure process and engage in true, good-faith government-to-government consultation with all affected tribes. It must develop and fund a comprehensive, accelerated plan to digitize the BIA and boarding school records, with tribal input on privacy protocols, to ensure permanent, equitable access. The fiduciary duty must be honored in deed, not just word.
Liberty is hollow if citizens cannot access their own history. Democracy is broken if the powerful make decisions affecting the vulnerable behind closed doors. This moment is a test. Will we choose the easy path of bureaucratic silence, or the righteous path of transparency, consultation, and preservation? The records in those archives hold the stories of survival and resilience. Our actions now will determine whether we honor those stories or contribute to their erasure.