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  • Indians Wear Red: The Causes and Solutions of Aboriginal Street Gangs

    The following is the second in a series of graduate student writings to emerge from the partnership between MEDIA INDIGENA and the #UMNATV Colloquium series. Here, University of Manitoba Native Studies Masters student Joe Dipple shares his thoughts following a joint presentation by Larry Morrissette and Lawrence Deane last month.

    Morrissette and Deane
    Larry Morrissette (left) and Lawrence Deane

    Larry Morrissette and Lawrence Deane spoke at the #UMNATV Colloquium series in February 2014. Their lecture — entitled Indians Wear Red: Colonialism, Resistance, and Aboriginal Street Gangs (based on the book of the same name) — addressed the causes of Aboriginal gang prevalence. Featuring the issue of Aboriginal gangs from the position of Aboriginal gang members, they suggested a few approaches to addressing this issue.

    According to Deane and Morrissette, the men they worked with have much to teach about society, systemic racism, and colonization. Listening to these men is something not only the authors had to learn to do, but the organizations they worked with (and often tried to influence their research). Their work provides a model of empathic research and community involvement that is far more beneficial for all parties involved, as compared to an approach that goes for quick results with little community input.

    Letting interviewees direct the research allows for community decision-making and the support of local, self-determination efforts (such as in education). This approach directly addresses the issues that culminate in Aboriginal youth gangs, which emerge most often from the vacuum created by systemic violence and disenfranchisement. As Deane states, gangs emerge within the power structures of close-knit communities: “The gang was the people they grew up with, it was their cousins.”

    Throughout their research, Deane and Morrissette heard many stories of gang members being alone and living on the streets by the age of 12. Gangs were the place they could go to receive clothing, food, and shelter. This community was their way of overcoming the difficulties around them by becoming tougher than anything that could be thrown at them. These are deeply tied to the poverty created via the many layers of colonialism, as many of these men, as Aboriginal children, had very few opportunities in their lives. In turn, due to the institutionalization of oppression, these men were also often unable to give their children better then what they had inherited, so the cycle continues.

    Finally, Morrissette and Deane stated the purpose of colonization is to keep colonized people numb, through the availability of things like drugs and alcohol, so they do not realize the pain that is being inflicted upon them. Deane directly tied these two together, stating: “Do we have a gang problem or do we have an addictions problem?” Morrissette then added: “Notice that there’s less and less bars in the north end and more pharmaceutical companies.”

    In concluding, Morrissette and Deane argued that the effects of colonization have a deeply negative impact on Indigenous peoples in Canada and these can be addressed through self-determination and community-directed support. Communities, once given the opportunity to direct the support they are given, most often use resources available in effective ways. Self-determination empowers the disenfranchised to overcome many of the problems they face.

    Dipple1
    Morrissette and Deane with #UMNATV students

    Although there are many difficulties associated with gangs, they are not the cause of the “problem.” That means the “problem” cannot be solved through hardline policies and legal attacks on gangs. Through community-directed support, self-determination, and a marked decrease in colonization (attitudes, policies, and media attention to name a few realms of colonization), the causes of gang prevalence can be diminished.  Supporting the community and the people within it, whether members of gangs or not, can only help the future generations of Indigenous people, especially children, in the inner-city.

  • Innovate, Adapt, Engage: Anishinaabe in Global Context

    The following is the first in a series of graduate student writings to emerge from the partnership between MEDIA INDIGENA and the #UMNATV Colloquium series. Kicking things off, University of Manitoba Native Studies Masters student Janice Bone shares her reflections following a presentation by journalist Wab Kinew.

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    Wab Kinew (right) speaking at Migizii Agamik at U of M.

    A household name who recently defended The Orenda on CBC Radio’s Canada Reads, Wab Kinew needs no introduction. He has been everything from a hip hop artist to Director of Indigenous Inclusion to a father and he brought this all to our #UMNATV colloquium in January of this year.

    Kinew’s talk, entitled “The 8th Fire: Anishinaabe in Global Context,” played to a full crowd at Migizii Agamik at the University of Manitoba. Speaking about his correspondent work with Al Jazeera America — and specifically his run-in with former Secretary of State Donald Rumsfield over those imprisoned at Guatanamo Bay — Kinew’s presentation began with, then wove in and out of, a number of Ojibway words to convey the worldview contained within Indigenous languages. He specifically discussed the phrase “Aandi Wenjiiyaan” (where am I from), elaborating on how working in different countries has made him look at himself, his identity, and his culture.

    Kinew asked: What does it mean to be Indigenous, and when does this stop and begin? How does someone maintain being Anishinaabe when you’re no longer physically in the area where you are from? For instance, if you are on a plane flying to another people’s lands, when do you stop being Indigenous and start being an immigrant? How does one experience an affinity to Indigenous people when one is in this complicated position?

    To answer some of these questions, Kinew broke down the word Anishinaabe and how it was taught to him: “Anishaa” meaning nothing, and “nabe” meaning man. “A ‘nothing’ man is a lesson of humility,” he remarked, “a reminder of our place in universe.” It’s to be continually thinking of yourself as humble and learning, always in process. Kinew then cited the ideas of Leroy Little Bear, saying “flux is the nature of Indigenous universe.”

    We can turn to language, Kinew argued, to illustrate how we are always making ourselves and our cultures. He identified how linguists utilize the suffix “–win” at the end of words to make nouns into verbs. He also identifies how movements towards pan-Indian struggles — while worthy of critique — can show how political strategies of community-building and identity formation are necessary in certain contexts. He directed the audience to look to critics like Dr. Taiaiake Alfred, who often dissects the usefulness of both perspectives.

    Kinew stated many social ills within our communities are not solely the result of legal, political, and economic oppression but also emerge out of a spiritual crisis. Turning to the gifts of our ancestors and communities can offer a way of seeing the world in a continual system of relationships, a constantly producing and re-producing spiritual family.

    1511642_508773762572199_2118729150_nHe concluded with a colourful story about how youth need to be encouraged to see beyond their immediate contexts, what he called “beyond the reserve.”

    Kinew argued that no one needs to lose an identity to participate in a global competitive market because Indigenous cultures are innovative, fluid, and adaptive.

     

  • Sihkos’ Story, Part V: Portrait of My Parents

    Jane Glennon (Woodland Cree), B.A., B.S.W., M.S.W., is a retired social worker, counsellor and teacher who currently lives in Prince Albert, SK. This is the fifth in her series of writings for MI about her time at residential school and beyond. Here, she shares recollections of her parents.

    GrannyGrampy
    Nikâwiy ekwa nohtâwiy, circa the ’80s.
    (Click to enlarge)

    I was not the first in my family to attend residential school. My mother was also a survivor, a journey that began when she was orphaned at a young age.

    Nikâwiy — the Cree word for ‘my mother’ (pronounced nih-GAH-wee) — was a woman of medium height who tended to be a little overweight. I recall one of my father’s friends saying that my mom’s fine features made her very pretty, and that she was just the right size when she was young. Although two of nikâwiy’s five daughters inherited her chiselled nose, none of us had her beautiful, soft curly hair.

    Nikâwiy may’ve only had a grade six education, but she had a passion for reading. She used to read us stories from a Readers’ Digest. Her favourite material was stories of romance: I suspect it had something to do with her being orphaned, and how that seemed to determine her fate in life as a wife and a mother.

    However, I do know that she sought more for herself. People from the reserve who admired her love of literacy used to ask her to write and interpret for them. She once thought about running as a Band Councillor. But my father — who was illiterate, and spoke only some English — was against it, and that was that. I thought that was totally unfair.

    My parents had a complicated relationship right from the start. It was not until later in life that I learned that, prior to marrying my father, my mother had a daughter with another man. But she and this man were not allowed to be together, and their baby (the sister I never met) would end up adopted by a family from another reserve. I also learned that my parents’ marriage was an arranged one, taking place not long after my mother left school. My mother breathed not a word of these early experiences to her sons and daughters.

    Thinking back over these aspects of her life, I now realize why we never got a hug or heard an “I love you” from our mother. To the day she died, my mother was not openly affectionate with any of us. (I’m sad to say that, as a parent, I never showed overt affection toward my children, either: a truly inter-generational impact of residential school.) That said, I must admit nikâwiy did try to show her feelings in other ways, and, even though some of us were a challenge, we all knew she truly cared for her family.

    Other enduring memories of my mother include her skills as a cook, skills she never passed on to us girls. I used to marvel at how terrific her bannock was, and wonder how she learned to make such delicious rice pudding. Speaking of pudding, her Christmas version, with its scrumptious white sauce — ‘la pudgin,’ we called it — was fabulous. My mother also made the most delightful fish soup, which closely resembled clam chowder.

    Using an old-fashioned sewing machine, my mother sewed all her own dresses using colourful prints. She also made beaded moose hide moccasins for us kids. But when I brought mine to school, I was forbidden from wearing them.

    Nikâwiy neither drank nor smoked, although she secretly liked to chew snuff (my father forbid it). Devoutly religious after her conversion to Catholicism, she tried to instil such convictions in her children. Discipline consisted of verbal cautions and words of advice whenever we misbehaved. She hardly ever resorted to physical means: I remember how shocked I was the one and only time my mother hit me, whacking my lower extremities with a piece of wood after I’d gotten home very late one night.

    Nikâwiy used to tell us stories with a moral to them, often through the exploits of the Cree trickster, Wîhsakecâhk (also spelled as ‘Weesakayjac’ and ‘Weesageechak’, it’s pronounced ‘wee-SAA-gay-CHAAK’). Hoping to impress upon us the value of always being prepared, she spoke of how a careless Wîhsakecâhk set off on a journey without proper food or clothing. When he eventually got hungry and cold, he built a fire with some matches he’d packed. But not getting warm enough fast enough, he took a stone out of the flames and sat on it, with predictable results. Now scorched and starving, he went off in search of something to eat.

    Some time later, a weary Wîhsakecâhk noticed how the skin on his legs had become dry and scabrous. Desperate, he started to pick at the scabs. By this point, all the animals of the forest were closely observing this increasingly pathetic figure, laughing at his antics. They began to sing, “Wîhsakecâhk is eaaaaating his scaaaabs!!,” which made him feel ridiculous and ashamed. It was definitely one of your more amusing morality tales.

    Another of my mother’s stories motivated us girls to faithfully carry out our chores when she said any dirty dishes left overnight would entice the Devil himself to come and do them for you! When we were still quite young, my siblings and I loved to stay out late playing and wait for the northern lights. My mother used to say that they would come down and grab us up. When we whistled at those lights, we’d hear a swishing sound, imagining their approaching nearer and nearer. We sure hightailed it into the house then! You could say this was another way nikâwiy had of disciplining us.

    Our mother was just 67 when we lost her to kidney cancer, but her memory lives on through her children, and through the grandchildren she helped rear.

    * * *

    Known by his nickname Nâpew, which means ‘the man’ in Cree, my father was a handsome and hefty man who had a way with the ladies. Indeed, he always managed to have his coarse, jet black hair cut neatly by one of the local barbers. He liked to dress just as neatly, and I used to love watching him shave every morning. (Which reminds me of a funny story: back when I was a young woman and loved using make-up, nohtawiy mistook one of my face creams as an aftershave. He quickly learned it was much too oily and had a hard time washing it off!)

    Nohtâwiy (‘my father’ in Cree, pronounced noh-TAA-wee) was a good provider. With his stoutness came great strength, so, when he was young, dad worked on a large craft similar to the York boats, hauling supplies up and down the Saskatchewan River. He was later assigned a trap line around Southend, our reserve. An excellent trapper of beaver, muskrats, mink, weasels and squirrels, he was also a good hunter of moose and deer. Summer allowed my father to earn an adequate income in commercial fishing.

    However, there were lean economic times too, and with as many as eleven mouths to feed, it meant nohtâwiy occasionally faced difficulties fending for the family. Though we went hungry then, we always managed to stay warm in our cozy home.

    My parents rarely used physical forms of discipline on us children. But there were those times when someone faced some extreme convincing by my father’s strong hand. One incident I particularly remember involved a younger sister who, like most teenagers, was restless and rebellious. She had constantly been late in coming home, sometimes not even coming home at all. When things came to a head, I remember thinking my father right at the time for choosing to impart some harsh discipline.

    * * *

    Before the road to our reserve was built, the only way in was by plane. When I was growing up, there were no school or health centres; medical and other government personnel came in periodically. Then came the road, and it was like a dam had broke. Although it brought positive changes to the community, this new route also made it easier for the negative influences of alcohol (and, later, drugs) to enter.

    Big changes to the reserve seemed to precipitate equally big changes in my father. He began to drink more often. Back when Southend was still isolated, the only way to get wine was to order it in by mail, which came every two weeks by plane. In between, the older men of the reserve like my dad used to make home brew, a thirst they seemed to quench in a more or less quiet and peaceful way amongst themselves.

    But with the reserve no longer so remote, many men now obtained booze through bootleggers or else hired someone to buy it for them whenever they drove to town. Soon after, the women and youth also started to drink, which totally changed the equation for families; for some, alcohol became their main priority. Children became neglected and abused, women mistreated and beaten.

    My father appeared to be washed along by this flow of misguided family values, and his drinking habits would increase over the years. The times I was at home, I never witnessed any abuse against my mother or my siblings. But that doesn’t mean the bottle did not affect their lives. It did so well into adulthood, some even to the point of death.

    But it is not for me to sit here in judgment of my father: I do not mean to imply that he taught his children how to drink. At that time, there were no organized recreational activities for young people; at best, a few were kept occupied by seasonal employment. Then, when welfare came along, it seems to me far too many young people chose to go that route instead of bettering themselves through meaningful employment outside the reserve.

    My father later became afflicted with dementia. It got progressively worse, right until his passing at the age of eighty-seven. I was there at the hospital to share his final night, and was happy to do so. Nohtâwiy always had endearing and encouraging words for me, and I loved him dearly.

  • MEDIA INDIGENA and U of M Native Studies partner up to promote Indigenous speaker series

    To make the most of their time at university, students must go beyond the mere reading and writing of papers. They need to carefully construct arguments, to refine positions and politics, and ultimately, to stand up for what they believe in.

    Fortunately for scholars at the Department of Native Studies at the University of Manitoba (aka #UMNATV), opportunities for such interactions are in abundance. Located in the heart of North America — where the first post-Confederation treaties were signed, where Louis Riel staged the Red River Resistance, and where some of the best Indigenous writers, leaders, and thinkers continue to emerge — the Winnipeg-based #UMNATV hosts not only leaders in the field of Native Studies, but cutting edge research into Indigenous cultures, politics, and histories. The fact it offers one of the few graduate programs for Indigenous Studies in Canada is only further evidence of its innovation in this field.

    Creating outstanding scholarship on the historical and contemporary position of Indigenous peoples in this part of the world, #UMNATV students are empowered to think creatively and critically while becoming intellectual and community leaders. They gain skills in research, qualitative interviewing and fieldwork, and exposure to community and cultural teachers, emerging out of the program to make deep, lasting impacts throughout Turtle Island in an array of professions.

    As part of our dedication to bringing you Indigenous voices and perspectives, MEDIA INDIGENA is pleased to announce a new partnership with #UMNATV and their nationally renowned Colloquium series. Featuring the best the Indigenous community has to offer, speakers in this series have included thinkers like Ovide Mercredi and Kim Anderson, writers like Joseph Boyden and Katherena Vermette, and community leaders like Justice Murray Sinclair and Leslie Spillett. And so, for the next six weeks, we’ll share the responses of #UMNATV’s graduate students, as they provocatively engage and explore some of the hotter issues these visiting thinkers will bring with them to the U of M.

    This cohort of students will contribute, critique, and engage their visitors: in the process, they’ll be joining in the work of articulating a future for Indigenous and non-Indigenous relations in Canada. Their colleagues will respond to them in class assignments and we hope you do too, so we can all stand up, speak, and dialogue together during one of the most important times in our collective future.

    This year’s theme for the series is Debwewin — “speaking truth” — and features a total of over two dozen speakers, taking place every Wednesday at 11:30-12:30 at Migizii Agamik, the Aboriginal Student Centre at the University of Manitoba. The public is always welcome at these events (arrive early to guarantee a seat at what are always packed houses).

    Check out this year’s lineup, then check back in regularly at our site for the latest student discussion, where we hope you too will continue the conversation.

  • VIDEO: “In Her Name—Relationships as Law” (Addressing Violence Through Indigenous Teachings and Tradition)

    The following is the original transcript for a talk that MEDIA INDIGENA Contributor Sarah Hunt recently gave at TEDxVictoria 2013: Emergence.

    Obviously, the video of that presentation will contain most of the text below but, according to Sarah, the transcript she provided here is “slightly different from the video because it includes the few sections I forgot.” Consider it bonus material from an already stimulating talk.

     

    Gilakas’la.

    In the Kwakwala language, Gilaksa’la is a welcome we give at the beginning of any speech or before starting important business. In this same Kwakwaka’wkaw tradition, I am supposed to introduce myself, Sarah Hunt, and tell you that my grandparents Henry and Helen Hunt were from Tsaxis or Fort Rupert on the northern part of Vancouver Island. And that my grandparents on my mom’s side are Jack and Betty Sahaydak, with ancestry from Ukraine and England. In telling you these things, my name reveals not just who I am personally, but tells you about my standing in my community, my cultural and ceremonial rights and how I might be related to you.

    But, in truth, this talk should begin with another name: Sheila Hunt.

    Sheila Hunt was a name that I saw among dozens of other names of missing and murdered women, written on a banner at a rally in Vancouver’s downtown east side. Now I have a lot of relatives — my grandma had 14 kids after all and I have more than 60 first cousins — but Sheila Hunt was not a name I had heard before.

    At the time of this rally, I was twenty years old and in my first few years of university. I had become interested in issues of violence a couple of years earlier when a cousin of mine — Malidi — had taken her own life.

    Malidi was close to my age, she was well loved and well connected to her culture. And her death left a deep impression on me. I began to think about the silence left behind after her passing — how would I know her story now that she was gone?  I began to see it as my obligation to address that silence. Even though I was only 18, I was a young woman determined on change.

    And so after taking some classes and reading books about violence, I became aware of the particular violence faced by native women in Vancouver’s downtown east side. Here, women were disappearing on a regular basis. Or they were showing up dead. And nothing was being done by police or other authorities to take it seriously.

    And so, at the age of 20 and in my third year of university, I attended my first march to remember women who had been killed or gone missing from this community.

    And it was there, standing amongst the crowd, that I spotted the name “Sheila Hunt.” Suddenly, I became aware of the depth of the silence that had begun to haunt me. Because I realized that if I had a family member living and working in the downtown east side, I would likely never hear about it. The stigma around sex work, the shame around drug use and poverty, these all create even more silence. And further distance between myself and women like Sheila.

    Sheila and Malidi have stayed in my mind in the more than 15 years since then, as I worked with communities across BC to address violence. I first started doing education and outreach with young women in Vancouver. I then became a researcher and educator in small communities and cities across the province, talking about violence, sexual exploitation, and intergenerational abuse.

    Through all of this, what struck me were the similar ways violence was being talked about. Whether I was in a small northern reserve community, or a town on Vancouver Island, or in a city like Vancouver, I heard young people tell me that violence is just a part of life. It happens and nobody talks about it. Although we know that there are lots of similar problems in wider Canadian society, Indigenous people are much more likely to experience violence, both from within and from outside native communities.

    Traveling to northern BC, I learned that the situation in the downtown east side was not unique. In fact, more than a dozen young native girls and women had been found dead or gone missing from along a remote stretch of highway between Prince Rupert and Prince George. Families and community members here had been urging the police to do something for years about these cases. The girls here were not facing the stigma of working in the sex trade or being in an area known for drug use and poverty. They were simply living in remote reserve communities, which are out of sight, out of mind for most Canadians. It was only when a non-native girl, a treeplanter, went missing while hitchhiking into town that the media and the public, that we, paid attention.

    Of course, things have changed in the more than 15 years since I first attended the march. The police formed a task force, serial killer Robert Pickton was locked up and the public became aware of “the missing women.” National research was done to try to find out the extent of unsolved murders or disappearances of native girls and women. When the results were released in 2010 more than 600 names were on that list. An inquiry was also held to look in to why the violence in the downtown east side continued for so long before the police took action. And in northern BC, the police compiled a list of young women who have met a similar fate along what is now known as “the Highway of Tears.” The UN wants to investigate the missing women, calling it an issue of human rights. [Editor’s note: Canada has rejected such moves by bodies of the United Nations.]

    So family members should be relieved, right? Because the police and the public finally started paying attention, finally put a name to the violence that went unseen for so long.

    But….

    Despite these changes in public awareness, despite this legal action, despite the poster campaigns, the reports, and the international horror at the discovery of a serial killer… the violence continues. It’s still a part of daily life. Young women continue to go missing from rural reserves. They continue to die under suspicious circumstances. Gay native men (who we call two-spirits) — like Dolan Badger — continue to be killed without any justice. And if these stories show up in the media, they surface for a moment, very rarely to be talked about again.

    Well, a few years ago I reached a kind of turning point. These changes were just not enough. Why do we ask for help from a system that doesn’t seem to create real change? What does “justice” really mean?

    For me, this change came after I had seen case after case where violence was reported. Sometimes it got to court, and sometimes there were even convictions. But the lives of the young people I was working with did not improve. When the court case was all over, their lives went right back to how they had been before. In fact, through the court process, the victims themselves felt helpless, just waiting to hear what a judge decided.  Or, more often, they were told that there wasn’t enough evidence so nothing more could be done.

    It is such a helpless feeling, to see people go through such brutality and to know the justice systems has no solutions.

    Other responses left me frustrated too. Along the highway of tears, the government contributed money… to erect billboards saying “Friends don’t let friends hitchhike.” What good is a billboard going to do when it’s -20°C and you need to get into town for a doctors’ appointment, and there is simply no bus service to get you there?

    Getting more and more fed up with these band-aid solutions, in 2010 I went back to school to get my PhD. And in my research, I started talking to people about what is making a difference, not necessarily in the courts but in the daily lives of the communities I was working with. What might actually prevent violence or help to keep people safer?

    Because surely we can do better than billboards telling girls to stay home. Surely we can do better than a thirty-second news clip.

    I realized that communities are, in fact, doing lots of things to address violence on their own, without the help of police or the government. They‘re creating solutions that address local problems and are led by local people. And many First Nations are drawing on their own cultural teachings and traditions in these solutions.

    One program that stands out for me is the Moosehide Project, started by Paul Lacerte at the BC Association of Aboriginal Friendship Centers. In Paul’s program, boys and men within a community take a pledge not to be violent toward the girls and women in their lives.  And they also pledge to keep one another accountable. Often, communities go through traditional hunting processes to harvest the hide and integrate other local cultural practices. It draws on the strengths of the land, the animals and the men’s obligations to their ancestors. This is happening on a small scale in communities all across BC and it’s spreading fast.

    Other solutions involve restoring the cultural roles of young people, integrating traditional conflict resolution, calling on elders to settle disputes. Or creating informal safe houses, or training emergency response teams made up of local people.

    As I talked to people in native communities all across BC, my view on law started to shift. I started to see these solutions not as just local social changes, but as the operation of a different kind of law: Indigenous law.

    Now what do I mean by Indigenous law? Don’t we need the courts to uphold our laws?

    Well before the Indian Act turned us into Indians, before Canada became Canada, we native people were Kwagiulth, Haida, and Nuu-Chah-Nulth. We were Skeetchestn, Tsimishian and Nisga’a. We can see on this map that there were, and are, many distinct language groups across BC. Each language represents a distinct Indigenous Nation, with their own set of cultural systems, social norms, ceremonial practices, and yes, laws. These laws governed our lives for thousands of years, not upheld through a court system or police, but by a network of individuals who kept each other accountable.

    Canadian law turned all these individual groups, all these distinct cultures, into one thing: Status Indians. And all of us became subject to federal law. This federal law is now supposed to help us to address violence and abuse, but clearly it is failing.

    Thinking about these networks, we can see that the laws of Canada that were plunked down on top of native communities have an entirely different geography. One big national law versus local level networks. But what is rarely seen is that those legal relationships, the identities and cultural practices remain alive and active underneath the laws of Canada.

    Right now, in many rural areas, if you call the police for help, they may not get there for a day, or two, or, I’ve heard, even a week. So you can see why local solutions, right here and now, might be more effective.

    I’ve noticed that local strategies have a different quality than those offered by criminal law. Instead of appealing to some powerful figure like the police or a judge for help, with Indigenous law, all members of a community are actively involved in upholding local laws. This activates our sense of power, our agency.

    So what is agency? We might define it as the capacity of a person to act in the world. Or the ability to make choices for yourself. This is a fundamental quality of being a person in society, of feeling like you matter, like you are in control of your own life.

    And in many Indigenous teachings, it’s not only people who have agency but also plants, animals, the land and the ocean — every living thing has agency. Each living thing has an important role in the order of the world. The teachings that emerge from our longstanding relationships upon the land and the ocean have allowed us to live with each another for thousands of years. And they have much to teach about creating healthy and strong relationships. Relationships that don’t allow violence.

    You may not know about them, but if you take the time to learn about local Indigenous communities, here on the lands we live on, you might be surprised at what we learn.

    In my Kwakwaka’wakw community, our laws tell us we are responsible for “raising one another up.” We hold up our hands in recognition of our ancestors, honoring one another and recognizing each other’s gifts. We must look to our neighbors, to ourselves, to “raise one another up.”

    We now remember the missing women. But how could we have raised up women like Sheila Hunt, before her name ended up on that banner?

    In these teachings, our relationships are what hold us to account. Our relationships become our law. If laws are rules we form to determine how we live with one another, it seems that laws formed from within these local relationships have much to offer. Not just for violence, but so many other issues too.

    You might be familiar with seeing native culture and resistance being put to work in political actions like Idle No More, but I think we also need to turn its power toward the smaller, everyday level of our relationships. And how we envision our communities.

    We see allies show up at rallies to defend our oceans, our forests, our salmon. But who shows up when we call on people to stand up with our loved ones, to stand up for our very lives?

    So what can be learned from this? It’s up to Indigenous people to revitalize our cultural practices. But I think everyone can take something from the principles of Indigenous law.

    Instead of expecting criminal law to stop violence, instead of looking for one big solution, we can look to each another. We can look to ourselves and our neighbors to change norms around violence.

    The next time we hear a news story about violence and find ourselves tuning out, we can question why that violence feels far off from our reality.

    Because it’s not. It’s happening just around the corner from us, to our neighbors.  So we can think about how to close the gaps between us, strengthening our relationships.

    And second, if we take the time to look underneath and beyond the map of Canada, underneath the cities we now live in, Indigenous knowledge has much to teach us about where we live and how we might better live together in these lands.

    Sheila Hunt? I never did find out if she was my auntie. Because the point is she should have mattered whether she was my auntie or not. And she should have mattered before she was put on that list of “the missing women.” As neighbours, as people who create community together, the laws of this land tell me Sheila should have been treated as a valuable member of society. So should Dolan Badger. So should my cousin Malidi. I’ve learned over the past 15 years of talking about violence that it won’t be stopped by a poster campaign. Or a court case. Or a news story. It will only be stopped when those who enact violence, and those who experience it, and those who witness it, are understood as being part of a network of people who are responsible to one another.

    The people who live beside us — whether we know them or not — we need to “raise one another up.” Because if we don’t, who will?

    * * *