TWO FACES: Liccardo disappoints, as former ally ghosts Muwekma Ohlone Tribe

By Staff Reporter

In the shadow of Silicon Valley’s gleaming towers, where innovation promises progress for all, the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe continues a centuries-long fight to affirm its federal recognition status. But one local leader who once championed their cause has turned his back since ascending to higher office: Rep. Sam Liccardo (D-CA), the former San Jose mayor whose proactive engagement with the tribe evaporated into unfulfilled promises and outright avoidance.

Liccardo’s history with the Muwekma Ohlone is one of deep familiarity and vocal support—until it wasn’t. As mayor in 2016, he expressed support for a city resolution urging the U.S. Department of the Interior to reaffirm the tribe’s federal recognition that was being considered at the time but ultimately was not voted on.

Four years later, in 2020, Liccardo proclaimed October 12 as Indigenous Peoples’ Day in San Jose, explicitly recognizing the city as lying on the “aboriginal homeland of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe.” The tribe publicly thanked him for the gesture, hailing it as a step toward honoring their sovereignty and self-determination. These weren’t empty words; Liccardo had engaged directly with tribal leaders multiple times during his tenure as a city council member and mayor, discussing their history, land rights, and the bureaucratic barriers to recognition.

Even as he campaigned for Congress in California’s 16th District—securing victory in November 2024—Liccardo positioned himself as an ally to overlooked communities, including Native nations. Tribal leaders recall his assurances of continued advocacy, promises that rang hollow after his January 2025 swearing-in.

“We reached out to Sam Liccardo. Not once, but many times,” the tribe stated in a July social media post, lamenting how their shared conversations on sovereignty gave way to silence. Today, as congressman, he “refuses to even meet with our Chairwoman,” the tribe declared just days ago, accusing him of turning away from “the very commitments he once made.” Our people have survived broken promises before,” they added, a poignant reminder of the tribe’s long history of erased treaties and denied rights.

This shift feels especially personal given Liccardo’s insider knowledge of the Muwekma’s plight. The tribe, descendants of the original inhabitants of the Bay Area, lost their federal status in a 1927 administrative error and have battled for restoration ever since. Liccardo’s office, now representing a district that includes parts of their ancestral territory, could be a powerful voice in Congress—yet it has gone quiet. Recent efforts, like Union City’s July 2025 resolution calling for Muwekma recognition, highlight Rep. Zoe Lofgren as a potential roadblock, with critics pointing to his inaction amid competing interests from established gaming tribes.

The snub extends beyond tribal elders to the next generation of advocates. A contingent of interns from Bellarmine College Preparatory—Liccardo’s own alma mater—has been working hand-in-hand with the Muwekma through the Indigenous Justice Coalition (IJC), a student-led group powered by the tribe. These young changemakers have hosted educational booths, led assemblies for thousands of students, and organized break-out sessions on the tribe’s Trail of Truth pilgrimage and environmental stewardship efforts. Hoping alumni ties would open doors, the interns requested a meeting with Liccardo to discuss federal recognition and amplify Indigenous voices in his district. Their overtures, leveraging shared Jesuit values of “men for others,” went unanswered—a refusal that stings all the more from a fellow Bellarmine grad who once invoked the tribe’s legacy in public proclamations.

Liccardo’s office has not responded to requests for comment on these allegations, but his early congressional record offers little reassurance. While he had staff met briefly with tribal representatives in June 2024, broader engagement has stalled, leaving the Muwekma to question if political expediency trumps principled allyship. As Chairwoman Charlene Nijmeh has long argued, recognition isn’t just about land or casinos—it’s about dignity and survival for a people whose history is woven into the Bay Area’s soil.

For the Muwekma Ohlone, Liccardo’s reversal isn’t abstract; it’s a fresh wound in a saga of betrayal. As one tribal post put it, “We’ve endured centuries of oppression, forced silence, and broken promises.” In a district brimming with tech billionaires and progressive ideals, will Rep. Liccardo rediscover his voice for the voiceless—or continue to ghost the tribe that once believed in him? The answer may define more than just his tenure; it could echo the unheeded cries of California’s first peoples.

Gaming Interests and Campaign Finance: A Question of Influence

Liccardo’s apparent pivot away from the Muwekma Ohlone raises questions about the role of gaming interests in shaping his priorities, particularly in a state where tribal casinos generate billions and fiercely guard their monopolies.

Public records show that Liccardo received no reported contributions from Indian gaming interests or tribes with gaming enterprises during his 2023-2024 congressional campaign, according to data from the Center for Responsive Politics. This stands in stark contrast to his opponent in the 2024 primary, Assemblymember Evan Low, who benefited from significant support, including $60,000 in radio ads funded by the Rincon Band of Luiseño Indians—a casino-owning Southern California tribe—following Low’s vote on a key gambling bill. Other tribal backers, such as the Viejas Band of Kumeyaay Indians, also poured resources into Low’s campaign through independent expenditures.

The absence of tribal gaming dollars in Liccardo’s coffers—despite raking in over $200,000 from PACs overall—may seem like a badge of independence. Yet critics argue it underscores a deeper alignment with non-tribal gaming operators, like San Jose’s own Bay 101 and Casino M8trix, which have long donated to local political causes through intermediaries such as the South Bay AFL-CIO Labor Council and the San José Silicon Valley Chamber of Commerce PAC. During his mayoral tenure, these cardrooms funneled tens of thousands—$25,000 each to labor committees in 2014 alone—into entities that bolstered pro-business candidates like Liccardo, who staunchly defended the venues against regulatory threats from tribal-backed legislation.

In a landscape where established gaming tribes like Pechanga and Graton have lobbied aggressively against recognizing wrongly unrecognized tribes like Muwekma—fearing competition for casino rights—Liccardo’s silence could signal a reluctance to rock the boat with powerful non-tribal allies.

As the Muwekma push for recognition intensifies, the lack of tribal funds in his war chest doesn’t absolve him; it may simply highlight how broader gaming rivalries continue to sideline indigenous justice in Silicon Valley politics.

Perhaps more concerning — Liccardo’s top individual and PAC donors were overwhelmingly from Silicon Valley tech firms (e.g., Google: $69,150; Apple: $58,075) and business sectors, aligning with his district’s “Big Tech” profile.