At a gathering on the ancestral lands of the Pala Band of Mission Indians, journalists and ethnic media leaders from across Southern California came together—not just to report, but to reconnect. As immigrant and Indigenous communities face mounting political and social pressures, the day was a call to solidarity, story, and strategy. Below, Immigrant Magazine Founder and Managing Editor Pamela Anchang reflects in the gathering and the memories it evoked of her own journey from her native Cameroon to the United States.
As an African immigrant, standing on the Pala Reservation stirred in me a familiar and unexpected sense of belonging. The calm of the land, the reverence for ancestors, and the spirit of community mirrored so many spaces I’ve known across the African continent. Eric Ortega shared that the reservation is rich in flora and fauna, a sanctuary where people live in harmony with all living beings. It reminded me of the hills of Bamenda or the forests outside Douala—places where life, land, and spirit are inextricably linked.
For many Black immigrants in San Diego—including those from Somalia, Eritrea, Cameroon, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Ghana, Congo, and Haiti—this gathering at Pala felt like home. We come as refugees, asylees, lawful permanent residents, and undocumented strivers. Some of us fled war, others poverty or political repression. But what we carry with us, beyond the trauma, is the memory of gathering—around fires, under trees, in village courtyards—to tell stories, to mourn, to dream, and to decide our next steps together.
The Ancestral Talking Circle was not just a ceremony—it was counsel. It reminded me of village meetings back in Cameroon, where elders guide, and everyone, even the youngest, has a voice. The singer’s voice that rose in tribute to the ancestors was a spiritual call familiar to any African ear: a lament, a memory, a blessing.
What moved me most was how every community present—from AAPI and Latino to Black and Native—brought stories of resilience. I sat beside social justice advocates, radio hosts, print journalists, and digital storytellers who have faced surveillance, displacement, and even death threats, simply for amplifying truth. I listened to white allies who now feel fear in a way they never imagined—who admitted they carry passports within U.S. borders, just in case.
We, as African immigrants, often find ourselves navigating liminal spaces—told we are welcome but treated with suspicion. This is a truth we share with Indigenous peoples, whose very presence is still contested on the land of their ancestors. And yet, in places like Pala, we are reminded that the land remembers. The land holds.
This gathering was not a networking event. It was a spiritual restoration. It affirmed the dignity of storytelling, the necessity of independent media, and the sacred responsibility we have to each other. We are not just communities in struggle. We are communities in communion.
Around that fire, for one night, the lines between immigrant and Indigenous, documented and undocumented, and journalist and subject blurred. We were just people, holding space for one another. And in that space, something ancient was restored.
That, to me, is what healing looks like. And that is why we must protect independent media—not as a brand, but as a lifeline.
Pamela Anchang is founder and managing editor of Immigrant Magazine.
