They nearly starved to death but they were, in many respects, free. White passing and land owners on empty land (they genuinely didn't have the education to know that it had been until very recently occupied) they were free to manage to live, or to not to live. There was water all around them, they could not see the water but dug one modest well to drink it. It was good.
They did not name the water. The body that their well drew from, they did not name it because the land came with a name for it already… But they could not read very easily and found the awkward consonants (these letters that attempted to translate indigenous language) just a bit too complicated to make sounds for. So, instead, they called the water 'her' and 'mother', the same way they would the matriarchs they came to respect as children or the wives they were so proud to have escaped youth with. 'She' their spousal or matriarchal companion 'mother', the water, made living real.
They, those people, they we're hungry but not starving. But, one day, in this family we're looking at, we dub them 'Robinson' (this was by now at the time of the first great depression, in this newly formed North American nation) a son came to a dark vision:
He saw a future in the time of his children's children, a nearly impossible vision… where everyone was poor, hungry and without dignity. And, fools all of them, they blamed anyone with a different stroke of mane and complexion as 'The' enemy.
This made no sense to the young man because it was very obvious that just as there is only so much water there is only so much money; if everyone is thirsty and we know how much water there is, than logically, only a very few had built a way to seize what would otherwise be wholly in the common service, like some sort of a dam, and got stupid on what to even do with so much power over water; money.