Our most precious resource

Gas sniffing.

A huge problem. No doubt about it right?

But I have to ask, what’s being done? I mean, what is really, really being done to stop First Nation kids from continuing this gruesome habit that eats away at the brain? Do we know the long-term affects of gas sniffing?

It can’t be good, to say the least.

Recently, I happened across an article on CBC online. The Pauingassi First Nation in northeastern Manitoba has taken measures to curb gas sniffing among youth in the community. And by all accounts, they have succeeded.

How did they do it? Well, let’s say they went above and beyond what was needed. “An enormous effort,” says the CBC article.

They invested in their youth by sending them to treatment and by providing cultural programs in the community. They invested, not only money, but also time and effort.

Inspiring.

If only other First Nations can do the same. Not that I’m saying other communities don’t care for their youth.

But what made this community different is band leadership stepped up to the plate to provide resources for the community to heal itself. The need for action came from WITHIN the community.

Too often, First Nation workers become bogged down in community politics. And with so many issues at hand to deal with on a daily basis, sometimes we all lose sight of our most precious resource.

Our youth.

So I ask again: What are we really doing to protect our most precious resource?

On Assignment in Moose Factory

From March 1-12, 2007, I was up in Moose Cree territory covering a few events for Wawatay News. I prepared a short photo presentation of only a few of the many photos I had taken. Enjoy!

Talking about abuse and suicide

Printed in Wawatay News (March 8, 2007)

In recent weeks I've come to write a few articles dealing with tough issues such as sexual abuse and suicide.

As a reporter, these were some of the hardest articles I’ve had to write. The severity of something such as sexual abuse is disturbing and it took a toll on me.

At one point during my writing I had to stop and call someone just to talk about something different, anything to get my mind off the subject, even if for a moment.

It affected me because of some statistics that were related to me in an interview.

I was told eight out of ten females under 18 years of age have experienced sexual abuse or sexual assault in the Nishnawbe Aski Nation (NAN) territory. For males, the numbers are six out of ten under 14 years of age.

When I heard these stats, I was floored. I couldn't comprehend it. I asked myself ‘How could so many young people come face to face with such trauma?’ It's disheartening and deeply disturbing.

But I approached my writing on the fact it is possible to overcome such drastic circumstances. I aimed to paint a picture of hope.

In my mind, talking about the problem leads to healing. I've heard it time and time again from Elders, counselors, healers, and so on.

Bringing these issues out in the open will hopefully bring victims to a path of healing. I don't know if I've helped in anyway by writing about these topics and by sharing stories of those who found healing and hope.

Only you, the reader, can determine if my words have done any good.

But a reality we are faced with in the NAN territory is that issues such as sexual abuse and suicide are rarely talked about in the communities. Sure, we have come a long way from not discussing these topics. But there are people who believe talking about such subject matter only creates more of the problem.

But let me be clear. I’m not casting blame or judgment.

It’s tough for any community to openly discuss these issues.

Personally, I’ve also grappled with whether or not talking about abuse or suicide truly helps. I’ve wondered if we only create more suicide and more abuse.

However I've come to believe that if we are cautious in how we talk about these issues, we can overcome them.

We have to talk about it in a way that lets the youth know there is hope, there is a chance to heal, and there is a better future.

The language we use is important.

For instance, the word ‘epidemic’.

Perhaps we are all a little guilty of using this word to describe the extremely high suicide rates in some of the remote communities. I know I am, especially as a reporter. But the fact is high suicide rates are only in some communities, not all.

To classify the entire region as having an epidemic is inaccurate and unfair. It’s especially unfair to communities where suicide rarely or never occurs. It may be an epidemic in one community, but not in another.

So, when we keep using this word, perhaps we are telling all youth across the region there is no hope and they are stuck to a dark path of self destruction.

So we must be cautious of the words we use. Perhaps even I should be as well.

But ultimately, I believe not talking about sexual abuse leads to more suicide and more violence.

Not dealing with the problem results in unresolved grief and anger that manifests itself into a deadly situation.

In an interview on the topic of sexual abuse I was told we are facing a trend of suicide among the youth. It results from trauma so many youth have had to face. However, the person I interviewed was fearful a new trend will occur in First Nation communities. He feared a trend of homicide.

Perhaps so.

It seems First Nations are facing increased violence and we continue to see vicious cycles of abuse, alcoholism, and denial.

Is this what we really want? Do we want our youth to continue to grow up knowing only destruction and despair?

Only you, the reader, can answer those questions.

Only you can become the change you want to see in your family and community.

Muffins for Granny

Printed in Wawatay News (Jan. 25, 2007)

"The restlessness of an ancient sadness."

When I first heard Nadia McLaren speak these words in an interview I conducted with the artist and filmmaker, the words resonated within me in ways I cannot explain.

Images of my Kokum flowed into my mind. Feelings of helplessness came rushing back as these images consumed me.

I can see Kokum sitting with her hand over her eyes, her head bowed, voice quivering. She was speaking of her time in residential school. She never said much about it. She only spoke of the loneliness. And all who witnessed those moments of weakness felt her restlessness. It told of an ancient sadness.

McLaren – writer, producer, and director of Muffins for Granny – screened her award winning film in Sioux Lookout Dec. 17.

The film is a personal and emotional story of seven Native Elders who were all part of a dark and disturbing chapter in the lives of Canada’s Aboriginal peoples – the residential school experience.

McLaren shares these emotional stories by bringing the viewer on her own personal journey. Her grandmother attended residential school. In the film she calls it “the restlessness of an ancient sadness.”

Those words again.

I can’t speak for everyone in the crowd who watched the film, but as I sat and watched each Elder share their experiences, I couldn’t help but think of my own grandmother and how much she was affected by attending residential school. I’m sure others in the audience thought of their own loved ones. Or perhaps there were others who had attended a residential school and memories of their own experiences came rushing back as a result of watching the film.

For certain, three individuals in attendance were part of the residential school experience. They were also three of the seven Elders featured in the film – Ralph Johnson, Alice Littledeer and Garnet Angeconeb. All are residents of Sioux Lookout.

In talking with Johnson after the screening, he said watching the film for the first time triggered a lot of memories and brought up a lot of buried emotions.

Johnson was first interviewed three years ago for the documentary and he has never had the opportunity to view the film. Although it may have been difficult for Johnson to watch, he said these are stories that need to be told.

“I can’t be scared to share what I went through,” Johnson said of his own memories.

Since coming to terms with what has happened to him, it has been Johnson’s mission to talk about what he had gone through calling it a “sacred responsibility.”

This is the impetus for the documentary. It’s a real look at real people talking about what they had gone through and how it has affected their lives. The stories are personal and raw.

McLaren uses her ability as an artist to provide a unique perspective in filmmaking, interweaving images of nature throughout the film. It’s her first documentary and it has already received recognition winning honourable mention at the imagineNative Film and Media Arts Festival in Toronto and best documentary at the Winnipeg Aboriginal Film and Video Festival.

Rightfully so.

For a first time filmmaker, I was impressed with McLaren’s ability to weave together such a difficult topic. She was able to capture the emotion of the storytellers. The audience, I’m sure, felt that emotion.

I know I did as I sat there afterwards filled with images of my Kokum. Throughout her life, she was always the pillar of our family. But in her later years, before she passed, we caught glimpses of her sadness.

“So lonely,” she’d often say more to herself than to anyone in particular. She often sat in the kitchen table, haunted by memories of being disconnected from the ones she loved most.

All because, for over a hundred years, the government of Canada decided it was mandatory to send Indian children to residential schools.