Native Sisters Vanished in 1945 — 40 Years Later Their Brother Makes a Shocking Discovery | HO!!

WHISPERING ROCK, NM — For four decades, Thomas “Tommy” Red Elk wandered the American Southwest, haunted by a yellowed newspaper clipping and three missing faces from his childhood. His search, fueled by desperation and survivor’s guilt, seemed destined to end in obscurity—until a chance encounter at a remote New Mexico church unlocked secrets buried since World War II, and exposed a hidden network of abuse cloaked in the trappings of faith.

A Childhood Stolen

Born Ashki Yaji, Tommy was just 14 when federal agents arrived at his family’s home in Cottonwood Bluffs, Navajo Country. The government’s Indian Boarding School policy, intended to “assimilate” Native children, tore Tommy and his three younger sisters—Nazi (Sarah), Alisi (Naomi), and Ailen (Eva)—from their ancestral roots. Their father was arrested for resisting land seizure; their mother had died in childbirth. The children became “wards of the state”—orphans, but in name only.

St. Gertrude Indian Boarding School was their prison. Boys and girls were separated, their names anglicized, their language forbidden. “We were told to forget everything about who we were,” Tommy recalls. “Even our names were taken.” The only time he saw his sisters was during mass—moments of fleeting eye contact, never words.

The Disappearance

In 1945, as the world celebrated the end of war, a different kind of violence unfolded at St. Gertrude. The school staged a press event to showcase its “successful assimilation.” Tommy’s sisters, chosen for their “innocent beauty,” were photographed on the chapel steps, a priest looming behind them.

The next morning, they were gone.

Tommy’s questions were met with silence and violence. Locked in a basement and beaten, he was told to forget he ever had sisters. At 18, he escaped. No missing child reports were filed. No police searched. Four Native girls disappeared, and the world moved on.

Four Decades of Searching

Tommy’s life became a long, lonely road. He drifted from town to town in a battered 1971 camper, showing the newspaper photo to anyone who would look. He found only rumors and dead ends. “I survived on odd jobs and hope,” he says. “Mostly hope.”

Eventually, hope faded. Tommy settled in Whispering Rock, a dying town where he was just another “drunk Indian” to be avoided. Only Marta Dayne, an elderly shopkeeper, treated him with dignity. When she invited him to church—offering beer in exchange—Tommy, desperate for comfort, reluctantly agreed.

A Prayer and a Glimpse

At Holy Martyrs of the Desert Parish, Tommy’s attention was drawn to a visiting order: the Handmade Sisters of St. Dyna, a reclusive Catholic group comprised mostly of Indigenous women. During the service, parishioners were invited to submit written prayers for the nuns to answer.

Tommy, skeptical but desperate, wrote: “If your God is stronger than our traditional spirits, He should tell me where my three missing sisters are.”

As he placed his prayer in the box, he noticed a limping nun with a distinctive scar on her left temple—a scar identical to one his sister Naomi bore from a childhood beating. Their eyes met; recognition flickered. Before he could speak, she vanished into a side room.

The Trail to Truth

Driven by a surge of hope, Tommy followed the Handmade Sisters’ van out of town to a remote compound. Hidden behind chain-link fencing and guarded by armed watchmen, the “monastery” resembled a detention center more than a sanctuary. Indigenous women moved silently between utilitarian buildings. Tommy sensed something was wrong.

A sympathetic watchman, recognizing Tommy’s sacred turquoise pendant, whispered a warning: “If you want answers, talk to Father Milford II in Santa Doarosa. But this isn’t a good place for an Indigenous man.”

A Sinister Discovery

At the address provided, Tommy found a modest house—its door ajar, the interior streaked with mud and blood. Following the trail, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a woman being beaten, accompanied by a priest’s voice reciting scripture. Fearing for his life, Tommy fled and reported the crime to the local police.

He was dismissed as a drunk troublemaker. The sheriff, a devout Catholic, refused to investigate. Worse, a photograph in the station revealed that Father Milford II—the local hero—was the very priest who appeared in Tommy’s decades-old newspaper clipping, standing behind his sisters in 1945.

Calling for Help

Desperate, Tommy contacted Clyde Yazzy, a researcher whose life he’d saved decades earlier. Clyde, now a respected scientist, believed Tommy’s story and contacted his cousin Joe, an officer in the Navajo Nation Police. Recognizing the jurisdictional and cultural stakes, Joe mobilized a team.

The Rescue

Returning to Father Milford’s house, Tommy and Clyde watched as two men attempted to load a bloodied, unconscious nun into a car. Tribal police arrived just in time. The woman, bearing the same scar and features as Tommy’s sister, whispered his Navajo name—Ashki Yaji—breaking a 40-year vow of silence.

Police and emergency services searched the property, discovering an underground chamber equipped for torture and “spiritual correction.” Naomi—Tommy’s sister—had been beaten, forced to drink wine, and compelled to deliver “divine messages” for wealthy donors seeking spiritual guidance. Only Indigenous nuns were subjected to this abuse; white nuns were left untouched.

The Hidden Monastery

Naomi revealed that her sisters, Sarah and Eva, were still being held at the monastery compound. The “Handmade Sisters” were a front for a cult-like operation blending Catholic and Navajo rituals to exploit the spiritual labor of Indigenous women. The order’s founder, Father Milford, and his son had trafficked Native girls for decades, aided by complicit local authorities and the silence of the church.

Within hours, police raided the monastery, freeing Sarah and Eva. The three sisters, now in their 50s and 60s, were reunited with Tommy at the hospital. Their reunion, witnessed by tribal officers and medical staff, was both joyful and heartbreaking.

Testimonies and Aftermath

In recorded statements, the sisters described years of forced silence, physical and psychological abuse, and exploitation under the guise of religious service. They were forced to perform “prayer rituals” for paying clients, their suffering hidden by the monastery’s isolation and the community’s reverence for Father Milford II.

Joe, the tribal police officer, explained why the sisters had never been found: “In 1945, Native children could disappear without a trace. Boarding schools falsified records, and local authorities didn’t care. The church’s power was absolute.”

The case has triggered a federal investigation into the monastery, the Catholic diocese, and the legacy of Indian boarding schools. Dozens of other families have come forward, suspecting their own missing relatives may have suffered similar fates.

A Family Reunited, a System Exposed

For Tommy, the reunion with his sisters is bittersweet. “We lost 40 years,” he says, “but we’re together now.” The siblings, scarred but resilient, are determined to seek justice—not just for themselves, but for all Indigenous children stolen by the system.

As the investigation widens, the story of the Red Elk siblings stands as a testament to the enduring trauma of America’s assimilation policies—and the strength required to confront the past. “God works in mysterious ways,” Naomi said in her hospital bed. “But sometimes, it takes the courage of family to force the truth into the light.”