“ The Natives of Ibaha, whom the Spanish call Guale.”

Archaeologists may call it the Topper Site, but we know it as proof of what we have always said we have been here since the beginning. Beneath the layers they once thought were the first, our ancestors’ tools rest in the earth, older than they imagined. We were here before the Clovis, before the stories they wrote about us. And still, we remain.

Through the hands of our mothers and grandmothers, knowledge was passed—how to listen to the land, when to plant, when to move, and when to stand firm. Our ancestors built places of ceremony aligned with the stars, raised mounds that still breathe beneath the earth, and formed vast trade networks that stretched across this land long before any new arrivals set foot here.

We have seen many come and go, and we have survived them all. Some came seeking peace, and we welcomed them. Others came seeking to take, and we endured them. We did not disappear. We did not fade. We carried on, as we always have.

The Ibaha are not a single people, but many who have always been one. It is a union of families, of lineages that have walked together since time untold.

The Guale, Abalachee Tahogaria, Tahogale, Talega, and Geechee—our families—have always known one another. We traded across the waters, spoke across the lands, and stood together when the world around us changed. We are not strangers to one another. Our mothers carried the same wisdom, our elders told the same truths, and our children grew under the same teachings.

When new people came, some joined us, becoming part of our families, speaking our words, learning our ways. Others tried to take what was not theirs, but they never truly saw us. They thought they could remove us, erase us, replace us. But how do you remove the wind? How do you erase the tide? How do you replace the roots of the land itself?

We have never been lost. We have never needed to be “found.” We are still here, as we have always been.

The story of the Ibaha is not just one of survival—it is one of love, struggle, and unwavering spirit. From the first arrival of the strangers in 1526 to the upheavals of 1726, we fought to protect our people, our ways, and our lands. Yet even as we endured war and forced migrations, another battle was waged against us—one that sought to erase who we were, to break the bond between us and our ancestors. They called us many names to take away our identity, but we were always Ibaha.

The Missions & the Struggle to Hold Our Ways (1526-1600s)

When the Spanish came, they did not just bring their soldiers; they brought their priests, their crosses, and their mission system. They called it salvation, but we knew it was control. In the mission villages, our people were taught a foreign way of life—one that demanded we kneel before another’s god, labor under another’s hand, and forget the ways of our mothers and fathers. Some Ibaha walked this path, hoping to shield their children, while others resisted, leading to the Guale Revolt of 1597—a fierce uprising where our ancestors stood against those who sought to change us.

But resistance came with a cost. The Spanish struck back, scattering our families, enslaving some, and forcing others deeper into their system. And yet, we did not break. Even within the missions, we whispered our truths, kept our tongues alive, and waited for the day when we could walk freely once more.

War, Enslavement & the Plantation System (1600s-1700s)

As the world around us changed, new enemies came, not with priests but with chains. The English arrived, and with them, the plantation system—a brutal economy built on stolen land and stolen labor. Those who had once called us Guale, Yamasee, and other names now called us Negros, Mulattos, Half-Indians—words meant to strip us of our birthright.

The slave raids of the late 1600s fell upon us like a storm. Some of our people were taken, sold into bondage in Charleston or shipped to Caribbean plantations. Others fled, joining the Yamasee, resisting the English as warriors and traders, yet always remaining Ibaha in spirit. But as the English solidified their power, race became a weapon against us. Those who did not fit their rigid ideas of “Indian” or “white” were cast aside, labeled “free people of color” or “runaways,” denied the right to exist as Ibaha on our own land.

The Yamasee War & the Beginning of Disenfranchisement (1715-1726)

By 1715, the oppression could no longer be tolerated. The Yamasee, alongside the Ibaha and others, rose in a final stand against the British. It was a war for our homes, for our dignity, and for the right to remain who we were. And though we fought fiercely, the English emerged stronger. The war left us scattered—some fled south to the Spanish, others to the Creeks, and many more disappeared into the British world, forced to abandon their identity or risk death.

After the war, the British erased what was left of our lands. Those who stayed behind were no longer called Ibaha—they were reclassified under the law as Black, Mulatto, or simply “free” without a nation. In time, many of our descendants lost the right to claim their heritage, forced to navigate a world that saw them as property or second-class subjects.

The Making of Race & the Loss of Tribal Rights

The British, and later the Americans, used race to erase us. Those with darker skin were forced into slavery or labeled Black, while those with mixed ancestry were called Mulatto and denied recognition as Indigenous. Even those who managed to keep their freedom were barred from tribal lands, excluded from treaties, and pushed into servitude or migration.

Some chose to fight within the system, enlisting in wars, owning land, or building lives in the new world forced upon them. Others migrated west, seeking refuge among the Creeks, Seminoles, or other nations still holding on to sovereignty. And still, some remained hidden in plain sight, keeping the old ways alive in secret, passing down stories, names, and traditions within families who refused to forget.

The Guale (Ibaha) in the 1800s: Resistance, Survival, and the Gullah Wars

By the 1800s, the Guale (Ibaha) had endured generations of displacement, forced assimilation, and war. The world around them had changed, and the consequences of the Yamasee War (1715-1717) had drawn a stark line between Black and White in the colonial system. Those Guale classified as Black became enemies of the state—forced into slavery, denied their tribal identity, or made to live under laws designed to erase them. Yet, through resilience, adaptation, and the strength of their mothers, the Ibaha remained, even if they had to cloak themselves in new forms of survival.

The Gullah Wars (1739-1858) were not just uprisings of enslaved people; they were Indigenous wars of resistance, fought by those who had been stripped of their names but not their spirit. Among them were the Guale—who had, over time, been identified as part of the Gullah and Geechee peoples along the coasts of Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida. Many of these warriors formed bands of Seminoles, merging their struggle with that of other displaced Indigenous nations and African descendants who refused to submit to enslavement. Their knowledge of the land and guerrilla warfare tactics made them formidable opponents of the United States military. The Second Seminole War (1835-1842) became the most expensive war the U.S. ever fought against an Indigenous resistance, with the Guale-Seminoles playing a crucial role in resisting American expansion.

By this time, the Guale (Ibaha) were no longer composed solely of their original bloodlines. Through the trauma of slavery, migration, and war, they had interwoven with Mandinka, Edo, Yoruba, and other African peoples, as well as Europeans, Polynesians, and others caught in the tides of colonial expansion. This blending did not erase them; instead, it gave them new strengths, new survival strategies, and new family connections. Their languages shifted, incorporating African and European influences, but their core remained—the stories, traditions, and knowledge of who they were never left them.

The Ibaha mothers understood that in order for their children to survive, they had to become what the system expected them to be—on the surface. They changed names, adopted English, and, when necessary, accepted new identities as “Negro,” “Mulatto,” or “Colored” to escape harsher punishments. But behind closed doors, they passed knowledge in whispers, through songs, through food, and through the unbreakable ties of family. Their resilience ensured that even though the laws refused to recognize them as Indigenous, they knew who they were, and that knowledge lived in their blood.

With each new Negro Law that stripped them of their rights, the Ibaha adapted. They learned how to navigate the system, how to hide their true history while keeping it alive within their families. Stories of their ancestors were told as folktales, wrapped in coded language so that only those who were meant to understand would hear the truth. Some preserved their lineage through written records hidden in Bibles, while others relied on oral traditions, ensuring that even if the world called them something else, they knew they were Ibaha. Those who could “pass” into the system did so strategically, using it as a tool to protect their people from the worst of the oppression.

The Yamasee War (1715-1717) had set in motion a deliberate erasure of Indigenous identity for those who had fought against the British. Before the war, many Guale and Yamasee were recognized as Indigenous. After the war, those who had been enslaved or who lived among African peoples were reclassified as “Black” or “Negro,” cutting them off from tribal recognition. The colonial system declared that anyone of African descent could no longer be considered Indian, forcing the Guale descendants on the “Black” side of this racial divide into permanent disenfranchisement. By the time the U.S. census and tribal rolls were being created in the 1800s, most Guale (Ibaha) who had mixed with African peoples were no longer counted as Indigenous.

By the end of the 1800s, the Guale (Ibaha) descendants who had been pushed into the “Black” category were now considered enemies of the state. The government labeled them fugitives, rebels, and threats—but they were still here. Though stripped of their tribal rights, they remained connected through their families, their traditions, and their quiet resistance. The mothers made sure the stories endured, the fathers fought to protect what little was left, and the children carried their legacy forward. The world may have tried to erase them, but the Ibaha—whether as Geechee, Gullah, Seminoles, or free people of color—never disappeared. Their bloodline, their wisdom, and their spirit live on.

The Ibaha in the Present Day: Reclaiming, Uniting, and Honoring Our Legacy

For centuries, the Ibaha carried their identity in whispers, in stories passed from mother to child, in the unspoken knowing between families who had endured the same struggle. They survived wars, enslavement, displacement, and forced assimilation—but never forgot who they were. Today, we no longer have to hide. The time for silence is over. We are reclaiming our identity, uniting our families, and bringing our truth to the forefront with pride and strength.

The world once sought to erase us through race classifications, forced removals, and rewritten histories. The Yamasee War ensured that our ancestors were no longer counted as Indigenous if they had African blood, and later laws cemented that erasure by categorizing our people as Black, Negro, or Mulatto. Yet, despite these attempts, our families held onto the knowledge of who we are. We have always been here—Ibaha, Guale, Yamasee, Seminole, Gullah, Geechee—bound by shared blood, culture, and resilience.

In the present day, we are uniting across families and reconnecting the bonds that colonization tried to sever. We are bringing back our traditions, our language, and our customs—not as something lost, but as something that was always there, waiting to be lifted into the light. The knowledge that was once hidden out of necessity is now being shared openly. We are teaching, organizing, and guiding the next generations so that they never have to question their heritage.

Our mothers, grandmothers, and elders—the protectors of our lineage—are now honored for the sacrifices they made to ensure our survival. Their strength in the past allows us to stand strong today. Where they once had to teach us in secret, we now speak openly, knowing that their resilience gave us this right.

We are also embracing our full heritage—recognizing that over time, the Ibaha bloodline has absorbed influences from many peoples: Mandinka, Edo, Yoruba, European, Polynesian, and others. This admixture does not dilute us—it makes us stronger. Just as our ancestors adapted and thrived despite oppression, we continue to do the same.

Today, we walk forward with clarity and unity, no longer defined by colonial categories, but by our own truth. We are Ibaha—Guale in blood, in heart, in spirit. We honor our past, we strengthen our present, and we ensure that our future generations will never have to search for who they are, because they will always know.

The time for hiding is over. We are here.