When Faron Cole says it’s not a typical 9-5 job with the St. Regis Mohawk Tribal Police Department, it’s an understatement. 

In 1990,  the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe erupted in violence amid disagreement over the expansion of casino gambling on the reservation at Akwesasne, which straddles the St. Lawrence River along the U.S.-Canada Border. Before it was over, two people would die in a nighttime shootout.

One night in 1990 during what became known as the Mohawk Civil War, a vehicle drove up to the barricade where Cole was stationed as a young police officer. He peered through the darkness and saw two women in an approaching vehicle. The car stopped 20 feet away. The women appeared armed. Then Cole saw something even more startling: They were his own flesh and blood. His aunt was the driver. His cousin was in the passenger seat. 

When one of Cole’s fellow officers ordered the women to stop removing logs from a bridge and retreat, his aunt returned to her car and emerged with a loaded shotgun.

“She fired in the air and shouted back at us, ‘F*** you, stay back!’” Cole said.

It was an episode that highlighted many of the tensions of being a tribal police officer. In a career spanning decades with the St. Regis Mohawk Tribal Police Department, Sgt. Faron Cole has had to juggle loyalty to family with loyalty to the badge, sometimes finding them in violent opposition. 

Cole’s story can also be seen as a microcosm of community disputes that play out across America and sometimes turn violent. How Cole straddled the line between his family ties and his oath of office, and came out the other side as a respected community member in Akwesasne, might offer a lesson in how other leaders can promote reconciliation today. 

A Mohawk man raised on tribal land about 70 miles west of Plattsburgh, Cole attended the police academy on the Canadian side in 1994 and began work with the Akwesasne Mohawk Police Service. He later transitioned to the American side of law enforcement with the St. Regis Mohawk Tribal Police, attending the police academy in Plattsburgh in 2007.

Policing in Akwesasne brings challenges that go far beyond ordinary law enforcement. Officers operate within a sovereign Mohawk territory while enforcing New York State law, an overlap that can cause friction.

“For the most part, most of the community tries to understand what we do,” Cole said. “But there is a small majority who really believe that we should not be here at all as we are considered enforcing the ‘white man’s’ law.”

That belief, he said, often comes with the idea that state law should not apply to the people of the reservation.

“We sometimes get the ‘reservation mentality’ of ‘you can’t do that because this is the rez,’” Cole said. “Our hands become tied as we do enforce NYS laws. We have to.”

Those tensions erupted during the tribe’s casino disputes. In 1989, when New York State Police attempted to raid several illicit tribal casinos, a pro-gambling faction called the Mohawk Warrior Society blockaded entrances to the reservation. After two people died in a nighttime firefight in 1990, hundreds of New York State Police and Canadian police swarmed the area to restore order. 

Cole remembers those long nights in 1990, when he and his fellow officers stood behind barricades as tensions rose.

“When you are sitting by a fire in a barrel on a cool night, you find yourself staring at the flames,” Cole said.

Decades later, he polices the same territory that shaped him into the man he is today.

As a sergeant, Cole balances both the mundane and the extreme, double-checking paperwork and responding to scenes when situations escalate. Some days are spent reviewing reports and checking over files. Other days are constant movement, with calls coming in back to back. Over the years he has performed CPR on dozens of people and believes he is responsible for saving the lives of four. 

“I tell my crew that they are the bouncers and I am the cooler,”  Cole joked, referencing the 1989 film “Road House.”

“I, for the most part, show up on the more serious calls for service, like domestics, assaults, pursuits, any type of violence or where I think a supervisor would be needed,” he said.

Law enforcement is something of a family legacy for Cole. His father served as chief of Tribal Police in the 1970s.

“I have always wanted to be a police officer since the day I saw my father in his uniform,” he said. “There is a lot of pride in wearing a badge. I feel that every time I put my uniform on.”

Cole described a strict childhood that ingrained in him discipline, accountability, respect for his elders and women, and the importance of standing his ground. He cited his family as always being his center point. (He has more than 200 cousins on his mother’s side alone.)

Those strong family ties often influenced his work. In a tight-knit community, people know who you are and where you come from, and that familiarity can help diffuse situations or escalate them. 

Following the Mohawk Civil War, family gatherings became strained. Cole could never mend relations with the aunt who pulled a shotgun on him. Years later, when she died of heart failure, Cole said he attended her wake and felt “nothing.”

“Not anger, not sadness, not even indifference,” he said. “Jesus, when did I become so cold?”

The emotional weight carried far after it ended. Cole said he carried anger for years and struggled to manage these feelings. Eventually, he realized it was an unsustainable and unhealthy lifestyle, and began talking openly about what he was carrying.

“This job changes people,” he said. “You become numb to all the bad, ugly and cringey shit that you see.”

The crisis forced Cole to confront questions of loyalty, specifically with family, that he was taught from a young age. 

“My family will not be the same,” Cole said. “This tore families in two.” But Cole said he never betrayed his culture or identity. “If you really believe in what you are doing and what you stand for, then you really can’t lose your identity,” he said. 

Today Cole treats people who once stood on the opposite side of history with civility.

“Keeping things buried inside will eat you alive,” he said. “Living well is the best revenge.”