Cultural genocide! It makes me ashamed and embarrassed to be Canadian. The native People are STILL being oppressed today and living in squalid Third World conditions. This is a national disgrace! We live in a Fascist Police State! I HATE this country!!!!
“Imagine.
Its 30 years ago. You're sitting at the table with your family, about to eat some fresh moose meat stew with bannock. You're watching your 5 year old son across the table - innocent. Playing with his moose meat. And you start to feel the knots of anxiety in your stomach... Hes going to be 6 soon.
Then they will be here to take him away.
Should you take him into the bush and disappear? ...no.. they'd find you. They ALWAYS found you, and when they did.. the threat became a much bigger one. They might rape, torture you, murder you in front of him.. no.. you cant run. You would never get away.
What about begging? Maybe if you beg and plead and cry... they wont take him away.
But they always did.
They'd tear your hair out while ripping you away from your child. Pointing their guns in your face while your baby cries in fear. They were ruthless. They didnt give a shit about your baby or you.
You made the decision not to teach him the language, to ONLY speak English around him so that's the only world he will ever know.
If he never breathes a word of Anishnaabemowin, he won't feel the needles piercing through his tongue.
The taste of blood fills your mouth with memories of torture - of whips, and molestation, of the Sanitorium.
You cant finish eating.
You are glad you braided his long, jet black hair one last time - the braid that connected him to Mother Earth - and cut it off. You will at least have one, small part of him during those 10 years.
The days pass by and the need to vomit almost never leaves your body. You wish you could hug him - you wish you could kiss him and tell him how much you love him, and lie through your teeth saying "Everything is going to be okay".
But you dont know how to love.
The priest took that away from you.
You cant hug - because the moment your skin touches another's, and you feel that warmth; your heart starts racing, your body shaking. You want to puke and scream and run and hide forever, where they can never touch you again. The scars on your body from being burned by a branding iron; the choke marks and the lack of feeling in your tongue are all reminders of the schools and the evil they carried.
So you choke on your tears watching the sun rise and set day by day, swallowing all of the words you wish you were strong enough to say.
Then comes the day.
The day that was burned into your memory at 6. The day that every mother feared more than death itself - the day they would come to take your children away.
You knew this day was coming. And yet, you feel your heart sink into your gut as that engine pulls up. Your adrenaline begins to pump. The tears begin to fall uncontrollably, and the pounding on your door echoes in your frenzied brain. It's like death is waiting at your door. Because the moment you open it, a part of you will die inside forever.
You may never see him again. And if you do, he will be a different person forever too. You have no choice. They will arrest you if you try to fight, they might even kill you.
So you do what every native parent across Canada has been forced to do for the last 100 years.
You open the door.
**Between 1881 and 1997, it was mandatory by Canadian law and the Catholic church that all Indigenous children were taken into the residential schools to live (sometimes out of the province). There, the children were experimented on like animals, abused in every way, starved, kept away from their families, and many murdered.
***Children were more likely to be killed in residential schools than soldiers were to be killed during the second world war.
Our generation -- the children of survivors or the childrens children of survivors - has a plague of difficulties to face. Many of us dont know our language, family, or culture. Many of our youth are growing up in foster care because of the inter-generational impact of residential school trauma, being demonized when they want to learn their culture. I have many friends who cannot hug their parents or who have never once been told "I love you".
But our parents & grandparents are the ones who paid the ultimate price. I cannot imagine having my children taken away, or growing up in an institution, being called a number instead of a name for my whole life. They didnt have a choice. They were FORCED into following the ways of the Catholic church and giving up their way of life.
The difference is - we have a CHOICE in who we are going to become. That is more than our parents and grandparents EVER had. We have the choice to drown our sorrow in the safety of the bottle, or to stand up and do what we have to do to break those cycles forever. We have the choice to LEARN our languages. To sit in ceremony and pray. To smudge, to drum, to heal. The power of CHOICE is a gift that wasnt given to our people for over a hundred years.
In honour of our grandparents, great grandparents, great great grandparents, and every generation beforehand - the ones who gave their lives for our freedom - the ones who fought to keep our languages alive - the ones whose names will never be spoken or remembered - and in honour of the countless Indigenous children who never made it home..
CHOOSE to love. CHOOSE to forgive. Choose to walk a path of harmony. Choose to take the time to learn your roots, your language, your identity, your history.
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