In the expanses of Fort Simcoe Historical State Park in Washington state, a profound history whispers beneath the surface. Here, on this 196-acre property, once stood a government-run boarding school for Native children, operating from 1861 to 1920. Its story, like many such institutions, remains largely untold, its memories buried with the unmarked graves that researchers now seek using ground-penetrating radar.

The Fort Simcoe boarding school, born in the spring of 1861, harbored dreams of assimilation and education. It closed in 1920 after a fire razed the classroom building, a symbol perhaps of the end of an era. By then, the trend had shifted towards Native students attending public day schools on the Yakama Reservation. This place of learning, however, was more than just a school; it was a crucible of cultural transformation, where Native children were stripped of their heritage and molded into a new, foreign image.

The release of a groundbreaking report by the U.S. Department of the Interior in May, examining the vast network of 408 Native American boarding schools across the nation, has rekindled interest in these forgotten chapters. It’s a history that prompts more questions than it answers, leaving relatives and descendants grappling with a complex legacy.

For the researchers and community members walking the grounds of Fort Simcoe, their mission is clear: to unearth the past, piece by piece. They comb through historical records, scour distant archives, and navigate bureaucratic labyrinths to piece together the lives and fates of those who walked these grounds. Their efforts are hindered by inaccessible, incomplete, or poorly documented archives, yet they persevere.

The narrative of Fort Simcoe is punctuated by numbers that tell a tale of gradual growth and eventual decline. From the 18 students of its first class in 1861, to the 141 in 1917, each number represents a life, a story. The school’s closure in 1920 left behind abandoned buildings, now erased by time, leaving no trace of their existence or the lives that unfolded within their walls.

Today, Fort Simcoe is a state park, its history narrated through brochures that speak of a time when assimilation was the order of the day. It tells of students forbidden from embracing their culture, language, and religion, their identities reshaped by the hands of people like the Reverend James Harvey Wilbur and the infamous Robert Milroy.

The decision to close the school in 1920 was met with mixed reactions, reflecting the complex legacy of such institutions. Some Native teachers worked there, but their presence was overshadowed by the attitudes and actions of the school administrators. For some students, the experience was so unbearable that escape was the only option.

In this backdrop, United States Secretary of the Interior, Deb Haaland, spearheads an initiative to uncover these hidden histories. Simultaneously, members of the Yakama Nation conduct their research, a testament to their resilience and dedication to uncovering their past.

At the park, a team of volunteers, equipped with laptops, mapping tools, and ground-penetrating radar, diligently work to uncover potential burial sites. Guy Mansfield, co-founder of the Washington State Search and Rescue Planning Unit, oversees this operation. His team of handlers and specially-trained dogs, each movement tracked and analyzed, sifts through the layers of history.

The team’s work is meticulous and respectful, considering various factors like proximity to former dormitories and previous unmarked burials. Their findings, once fully compiled, will be presented to the Yakama Nation’s tribal council, who will decide how to honor these discoveries and the memories they represent.

As surveys continue through the following spring, a sense of anticipation and respect pervades the air. The decisions to be made by the tribal council will not only shape the narrative of Fort Simcoe but also contribute to a broader understanding of a painful yet crucial part of American history.