The Oceti Sakowin protest camp near Cannonball, N.D., has drawn demonstrators from around the world in opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline.

The resistance started with the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe but most of residents now come from out of state, and a large proportion of them have no tribal affiliation.

Here are some of the people who have made the camp a temporary home in recent weeks.

Alphonse LeRoy, 34, Lake Andes, S.D.

Alphonse LeRoy, a member of the Yankton Sioux Tribe, tries to focus on the spiritual side of the pipeline resistance. As a pipe carrier, he assists with ceremonies and cares for the sacred pipe used to transmit prayers to the creator.

Alphonse LeRoy of the Yankton Sioux Nation and a seventh generation pipe carrier poses for a portrait outside of one of Yankton's campsites at Oceti Sakowin near Cannon Ball, N.D. on Saturday, Nov. 12, 2016.

“Some people are here with anger on the front lines. Sometimes, I want to be angry, too, but I try to focus on the songs,” said LeRoy. “My songs are the ceremony songs, the scared songs, the healing songs.”

That focus has been difficult to maintain over the years. He began singing in Lakota at age seven, and the songs have carried him through difficult times.

His first tussle with law enforcement came at age 14, when he and a group of friends asked a Charles Mix County Sheriff’s deputy for help with a flat tire.

“We had no tire iron or spare or anything, so we went to his house for help,” LeRoy recalls. “That deputy came to the door and pointed a 12-gauge at us.”

His trips outside Oceti Sakowin to sing during the protests have called that scene to mind more than once.

Photos: Dakota Access Pipeline Protests

He’s been shot three times in the chest with rubber bullets since his arrival at camp four months ago, He’s also been hit in the leg with a bean bag projectile.

He was ready to be arrested on one of those occasions, but an elder grabbed him by the arm and told him that his voice was needed.

“She got arrested, and it hurt me, but I don’t question elders,” LeRoy said.

Since that day, he’s referred to her as “auntie.”

LeRoy sees the fight against the pipeline as a fight for families, for women and children.

On Nov. 12, he was mourning a family loss. His nephew would have turned four the day before. He’d planned to hitchhike to Standing Rock near the end of August, but the boy was run over and killed at a pow wow in Fort Thompson.

The loss was painful and nearly shook LeRoy’s resolve. After 11 days of mourning, however, he chose to give up his job and apartment to move to Standing Rock.

“During those 11 days, I wiped my tears. On the 11th day, I was here,” LeRoy said.

LeRoy’s commitment has only grown.

“If I have to die to do this, I will.”

Joe Kirby of Philadelphia, pictured on Nov. 10, 2016 at Cannonball, N.D.  

Joe Kirby, 31, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Joe Kirby of Pennsylvania was drawn to activism through Occupy Philadelphia, an outgrowth of a 2011 progressive movement that began in New York City as “Occupy Wall Street.”

In Philadelphia, he was part of an group called “Operation Vacant Lots,” turning squalid patches of urban ground into something called the “Philly Forest.”

“That set up the next couple years of my life,” Kirby said.

After Occupy ended, Kirby bounced from place to place. He'd been working in Oregon and watching the Standing Rock movement unfold on social media.

He mentioned to a friend in early November that he wanted to come to the North Dakota camp, and the next day, someone called offering a ride.

A few hours into his visit to North Dakota, he felt ready devote all his energy to the effort. It seemed like a place to make a difference he last felt in Philadelphia.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m doing and why," Kirby said.

Standing Rock differs from his last major activist experience: With Occupy, there was no end goal, very little in the way of organization or common purpose.

“The only thing people had in common was that they were mad,” Kirby said.

Kirby's personal motivation to come to Standing Rock came from multiple places: Anger over corporate greed, environmental destruction and a desire to come to terms with the damage done to Native culture.

“I feel like my ancestry really has a lot of making up to do,” Kirby.

Connor Manson, 16, plays basketball as other teenagers play hacky sack at the Oceti Sakowin campground near Cannon Ball, N.D. on Friday, Nov. 11, 2016.  

Connor Manson, 16

Connor Manson had lived at the camp for seven weeks by Nov. 11.

In between shots at a portable basketball hoop near Oceti Sakowin’s southern edge, Manson stopped to talk about his family's free-roaming lifestyle.

“I travel full time,” Manson said.

The family moves about the country in a camper fueled by used vegetable oil, teaching and volunteering through their own non-profit, Eco Womb. They focus on the environment, sustainability, genetically-modified food and renewable fuels during their tour stops.

Manson and his siblings are schooled in their traveling home.

Standing Rock was another place to help, he said.

“We came here to share what we know and help out however we can,” Manson said.

Manson’s been a lot of places with his family and attended plenty of festivals, but he says Oceti Sakowin is something different, in tone and feeling: It’s a consistently peaceful, helpful and welcoming atmosphere and remains one in spite of what’s happening with front-line demonstrators.

“The direct actions have escalated, but at the camp, it’s always peaceful,” Manson said.

Marcella LeBeau, a World War II U.S. Army nurse veteran and member of the Cheyenne River Sioux Nation, speaks about the significance of the fight against the Dakota Access Pipeline at the Oceti Sakowin campground near Cannon Ball, N.D. 

Marcella LeBeau, 97, Eagle Butte, S.D.

Marcella LeBeau served in the Army Nurse Corps in World War II, patching up soldiers in Wales, France and Belgium.

She returned home, to the Cheyenne River Indian Reservation, and continued to see her people’s struggle play out. Her family lost land to the Pick-Sloan Plan, which created a series of dams along the Missouri River and flooded out tribal communities.

She saw more friends and family stripped of their culture and abused within the same boarding school system where she was educated. She sees what’s happening at Cannonball as a way to bring forth the ugly history her people have lived with to light.

“We were supposed to be stupid, dumb, unable to learn,” LeBeau said. “We were psychologically and physically traumatized there. I look at this as a reawakening.”

LeBeau isn’t staying at Oceti Sakowin, but she’s a frequent visitor. LeBeau’s concerned about the waters of the Missouri, which supplies drinking water for communities downstream.

She struggles to understand why the pipeline opponents have met so much resistance.

"Why are we fighting for water? Water is life. Why do we have to stand up for it? Why should we have to fight?" LeBeau said. "All the people down the river should all be here. Even the Governor of South Dakota.”

The elder is proud that message has carried beyond the borders of any one community and seeped into the global consciousness. LeBeau says she’s never seen anything like it.

“I think this is a great movement. I don’t know where it’s going to lead us, but we need our water safe,” LeBeau said.