Under the blistering sun of Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, Jennifer Juan rummaged through a stack of documents, hoping to prove her eligibility to vote in the state primary. Her address didn’t meet traditional standards: it was described as the 53rd home near milepost 7 on Indian Route 19, nestled on the Tohono O’odham Nation reservation. Like many in her community, Juan relies on a P.O. box, complicating her efforts to provide documentation for an address that simply doesn’t exist on most maps.
The Tohono O’odham Nation, sprawling over a Connecticut-sized swath of cacti and sand, is home to around 10,000 people. Few houses have street numbers, mail is collected at community hubs, and Amazon deliveries end at a local Shell gas station. These logistical realities make voting a labyrinthine experience for many.
Despite this, Native Americans have become a pivotal group in the run-up to the November 5th presidential election. In critical swing states like Arizona, both Republican Donald Trump and Democrat Kamala Harris have intensified outreach efforts. Harris’ campaign has leveraged high-profile figures, while Trump’s team is counting on allies like Senator Markwayne Mullin of the Cherokee Nation.
A Biden administration report underscores the challenge: Native Americans have the lowest voter turnout of any demographic. Many are caught in a cycle of logistical hurdles, from the scarcity of polling places to unreliable postal services and transportation issues. In Montana’s Fort Peck Reservation, for instance, residents have to strategize around the single daily bus route to access voter registration offices miles away.
Arizona has become a legal battleground over voting rights. A 2022 law requiring documented proof of address has faced pushback, particularly from groups like the Tohono O’odham Nation. Although a judge ruled that tribal IDs could be used to register, confusion persists. For those like Jaynie Parrish of Arizona Native Vote, the mission is clear but arduous: educating voters about the process. “It’s not easy and it’s not straightforward,” she says.
Grassroots efforts are pivotal. April Ignacio, an organizer on the Tohono O’odham Nation, has worked tirelessly to inform elders about ballot measures. Events mixing culture and activism—like a “drag show for democracy” and heavy metal voter drives—are creative ways groups hope to motivate the community. Yet, skepticism remains strong. Gabriella Cázares-Kelly, Pima County’s voter registration head, understands the struggle firsthand. “Why bother?” some ask, faced with a system that feels indifferent at best and impenetrable at worst.
Juan, now actively working to register voters, captures the mood of many: a blend of hope and frustration, as they fight for a voice in a system that seems designed to overlook them.
